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trippinsorrows · 2 months ago

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my all + oneshot

authors note: this is all deranged, dysfunctional, toxic, and unhealthy. i condone none of the shit ya'll are about to read. none. inspired by this ask.

words: 8.7k

song inspo: 'my all' by mariah carey. because solana is just as down bad as mariah was singing this shit about a young derek jeter.

warnings: smut, violence, some angst. age gap relationship (10 years). a bit of a daddy kink. breeding kink. blink and you'll miss it cum play. toxic relationship. rough sex. roman is dominant and possessive. solana is passive and a bit of a nympho for him.

Solana Miller knew the minute she laid eyes on Roman Reigns that he would be trouble. Without even knowing his story, his case, or the reason he was serving a 10 year sentence, she just knew he would be a problem for her.

It started with the first man that he sent to her infirmary. Badly beaten. Multiple cracked ribs. A ruptured kidney. Eyes swollen shut.

The reason for the vicious attack?

Because he could.

The man ended up needing care beyond what Solana could provide, hence being transferred to the main hospital.

And that was just one of several. Over the course of four weeks, several men who found themselves on Roman Reigns' bad side—if a good one even exists—laid on her bed. Bloody, beaten, unconscious. The more inmates she saw, the more severe the beatings. His cruelty seemed to know no limits.

And, Roman himself wasn't even the one who'd caused such mayhem. He had people working for, and inmates doing his dirty work for him. Even behind bars, he was still running shit.

It was the final inmate to need intense, urgent medical care beyond her clinic that Solana had to ask, had to inquire as to why. The how this kept happening. How Reigns hadn’t earned himself at least a good month or two of solitary confinement.

The answer?

“He’s untouchable.”

That was the only answer she received from her direct supervisor, the medical director of the prison, Dr. Trish Stratus.

And, it made sense. Because one look at Roman and one just knows he’s bad news, anyone who’s anyone knows exactly who Roman Reigns is.

The Tribal Chief.

The Head of the Table.

The Capo.

He has many names, many titles, but all lead to one thing.

Danger.

Roman Reigns is the personification of danger.

The feared, brutal leader of two of the biggest crime syndicates in the world. His stint in federal prison only occurring due to betrayal from within his inner circle and a freshly appointed DA who thought he was hot shit by bringing down “The Big Dog.”

Solana knows it’s only a matter of time before he “mysteriously” disappears. Any sign or trace of him most likely to be found in the form of scattered body parts. If anything at all is to be left.

Just like she knows it’s only a matter of time before Roman is someway, somehow released. A man as powerful as him can only be kept in chains for so long.

It'd been a little over a month since Solana first locked eyes with Roman Reigns in passing as he was being escorted to his cell. A brief, powerful, memorable thing. The faintest hint of a smirk on his handsome face as she redirected her gaze to her shoes.

Avoid.

Solana was determined to avoid him at all cost.

A difficult, almost impossible thing to do when one day she walked into work to find him sitting on the patient bed in her room, waiting for her almost, wearing a smug expression.

The reason for his presence?

“Said his chest was hurting.”

Solana had never felt so disgusted with a person before when she received that bullshit answer from the guard. The guard who not only left her alone with Reigns, door closed, left him alone, completely unshackled. No cuffs on his wrists.

It was….unnerving, to say the least.

She’d heard the gory tales of his brutality. Knew what he was capable of. And, she’d been left alone with him.

Wonderful.

Solana swallowed, doing her best to show no fear as she placed her bag on the hook behind the door. “Take your shirt off for me.” She issued her command while washing her hands, taking longer than what was necessary, already knowing she was bound to be distracted by the sight of such a man shirtless.

And, damn, was she correct.

Roman sat, still smug, shirtless, rippling muscles on full display. His tattoos, almost entirely tribal in nature, decorating half his body. A beautifully sculpted body.

Solana’s resolve had never been tested as much as it was in that awful moment.

“What’s your name, pretty girl?” It was the first thing she heard him say, the deep timbre of his baritone voice shaking her in an unsettling way.

Solana managed to avoid eye contact, drying her hands and answering. “Solana.” Throwing the used paper towels away, she added, “you can call me Nurse Miller.”

Roman shook his head, a teasing smile growing. “I like pretty girl better.” Fuck. “What’s a nice, young thing like you doing working in a place like this?”

“What are your symptoms?” She asked, somehow, someway maintaining professionalism despite the burning of her cheeks. She’d never been spoken to so boldly.

Roman’s gaze was assessing, causing Solana to suddenly regret bypassing picking up a new set of scrubs. Having gained some weight over the past few months, she found her work uniform a little too snug in all the places one wouldn’t want attention in. The same places his eyes seemed to focus on. “You’re too innocent to be here.” He spoke, proudly and easily not answering her questions. “Too pretty. Too damn fine.”

Solana cleared her throat. “Mr. Reigns—”

“Roman,” he interrupted. “Call me Roman.”

Oh, fuck.

Solana’s suddenly shaky hands moved to grab the stethoscope off the counter as she walked over to him, managing a quiet, “just relax.” The same advice she tried to tell herself in being so close to him, the scent of his cologne, strong and masculine, just as distracting as his perfect face and body. Solana assessed his vital signs, hearing nothing abnormal.

Clearing her throat, she moved to step away only for him to grab her. She froze as he tugged her in between his spread legs.

Her stomach dropped. “Mr. Rei—”

“Shhhh.” His index finger moved against her lips. “Roman.” He corrected once more, just as his eyes lowered to her chest. His tongue dipped out, licking his bottom lip. Solana utilized all sense of self-control to keep her thighs from clamping together from such an innocent act.

Eyes never leaving her, he stood up, slowly. The height difference between them enough to make her head crane back to maintain that contact. Why she would even want to maintain it? She hadn’t the slightest clue.

Solana’s mouth went dry as Roman grabbed his orange discarded shirt, laying it on his muscled forearm. She went to back away, the distance between them too suffocating, too cumbersome.

But, the minute she did, his hand was on the small of her back, holding her, keeping her near him.

Her eyes shut when he lowered his head, mouth near her ear. “I’ll see you around, pretty girl.”

A whispered promise followed by a light slap of her ass before he separated from her, walking out the door without another word.

—------

Solana would love to say that was the one and only time that happened.

But, that would be a lie.

A big, fat lie, because that man earned himself an undeserved visit to her medical bay more often than any other patient she’d ever had. And not once did he come with any medical necessity. His reason always the same.

“I wanted to see you.”

To her credit, she tried her best to maintain those boundaries. Corrected him every time he called her “pretty girl.” Ignored him whenever he made an inappropriate comment or innuendo about her body. Avoiding him seeing the blush on her cheek when he referred to indecent acts.

She truly did her best, but with each visit, her resolve crumbled. A straight face slipped into a small, shy smile. Physically assessing him with her hands, while limited to the usual, medically approved checkpoints, shifted into something else. When he grabbed her wrist and slid her palm over his heart, it rested there for longer than what was necessary.

The personal questions he asked shifted from being ignored into being answered, though some information was omitted.

And, the physical distance she did her best to keep between them minimized with each encounter. He was breaking her, and he knew it.

She thought of going to Stratus. Even briefly considered asking for a transfer. But, something about it, something about him, prevented her from doing so. Prevented her from putting an end to it all, because another part of her, a stupid, naive part liked it.

She liked the attention he gave her.

She liked him.

And almost a month into this game of cat or mouse, it all came to a head.

—----

It was the usual routine of him lying and forcing his way into her space, but the air about it was different. It felt different.

Right away, she knew he had other intentions.

Roman’s big body eclipsed her last glimpse of the door closing, the two guards outside of the room instead of one inside and one outside, as protocol dictated.

A protocol that’d been disregarded from the moment he stepped foot into her infirmary.

But, instead of sitting on the bed as usual, he remained standing. Nearing her, watching and studying her.

Nothing but lust and desire dancing in his beautiful eyes.

Solana swallowed, partially already knowing what was about to happen.

Didn’t stop her from asking.

“What—what are you doing?” A question that should have been laced with fear and concern. Roman is a monster. A cold-blooded killer whose ledger is soaked and dripping with blood.

He was also standing directly in front of her.

He said nothing at first, head tilted as he effectively backed her against the patient bed. Solana’s ass bumped into the end of said bed, preventing her from going anywhere. He had her boxed in.

“Giving you exactly what you want.”

His answer was hard enough to process, followed by his big hands reaching down and grabbing her, lifting and placing her onto the edge of said bed. Solana gasped, going to scold him, “Mr. Reigns, this is inap—”

“Shut up.”

Solana would be lying if she tried to deny she hadn’t thought of what it would be like to kiss Roman. A monster he may be, but ugly, he most certainly is not. Visually speaking, tall, strong, dark, and handsome, he checks off every single box a woman could be looking for.

Except, she didn't push him off when he smashed his lips onto hers. Didn’t shove him away and scream for help, for one of the guards to restrain him and keep him away from her.

She pulled him closer, ignoring the smirk of his full lips into their passionate kiss. A kiss she found herself not wanting to end as he shoved his tongue into her mouth the same way he’d shoved himself into her life. Without request and without protest.

Solana moaned when his hands moved down to squeeze her breast, his thumb peppering over her hardened nipples that felt brick solid, poking against the fabric of her scrubs.

Her attraction for him and enjoyment in their passionate make out couldn’t be denied even if she tried. So much so that she doesn’t bat an eye when that same hand previously groping her big breast jumped down to start tugging her pants off.

Solana moaned into the kiss, as Roman expertly rid her of her scrubs, ripping them past her sneakers, that he also removed, all items discarded onto the floor. He pried his mouth from hers, full lips swollen, pink tongue darting out and glossing over his bottom lip.

“Lay back.”

Two words. A single command. One response.

Never mind the consequences, the repercussions, the career ending outcome that could stem from such a major fuck up. A mishap or mistake were too watery of terms to use. Too downplaying of what should easily be the biggest regret of her life, because so much, all, stands to be lost with just one knock or entrance of the right—or wrong—person.

Fraternizing with the prisoners was one thing, but sexual conduct with said prisoners was entirely different.

Solana could lose her job, could lose her license, could lose everything she’s worked so hard for.

And, yet none of that prevented her from doing a damn thing to stop this man.

Solana laid back on the patient bed, sitting up and resting her weight on her elbows as she watched him drop to his knees before her. Heart rate erratic, she lifted her hips just enough when he started tugging down her underwear. As expected, they were thrown to the wayside, just as her pants and shoes were.

An inconvenient obstacle preventing him from his destination.

His warm eyes lifted to hers at the same time he grabbed her by her calves, forcing her down on the bed and right onto his waiting mouth.

“Oh, fuck!”

Solana had always enjoyed this part of sex. Tried to enjoy it, at least. Consistent good head had always been hard to come across. It’d be great at first and lackluster every time after. Or, the usual of way too much theatrics and not enough actual performance.

None of that was the case with the man before her.

Roman didn’t ease into anything. It seemed like a trait that felt applicable across several areas of his life. Including with sex. Because, he ate her pussy with a ravenous, carnal, sinful need. The sounds of him sucking and licking on her clit battling with the moans that left her mouth and the withering of her body on the bed.

The minute his thick, talented tongue circled her sensitive nub, Solana was off her elbows and on her back, head reclined from the delicacy of his exquisite mouth on her most sacred parts.

“Oh my God.”

Solana was too caught up in the bliss of it all to care when he pulled back, humming almost. “That’s it, sweetheart.” He brought his fingers to toy with her arousal, thick finger teasing her tight hole. “Fuck my face.”

It was only then Solana realized how her body moved against him, how one hand fisted in his hair, holding him right where she wanted him. To stay.

Forever.

“Shit, Roman,” she cursed when he went back to work, sucking and kissing her pussy like it was the best thing he’d ever been blessed to experience. “Don’t—don’t stop.”

He moaned against her, hands moving under her ass, tugging her even closer. Solana cried out from the euphoria of it all, continuing to grind against him, an eager, needy nympho for his fix.

And, he continued to provide it, continuing to grace and grant her with a level of delight she never knew possible. Roman ate her out within an inch of her life, Solana’s attempts to pry him off her only met with him forcing her hands away, further burying his face into her safe haven. He continued to torture her, never retracting or stopping, even as her orgasm coursed through her, practically knocking the wind out of her.

Never in her life had she come so hard.

Or so much.

She was a discombobulated mess, the only thing pulling her from that post orgasmic daze was the sight of Roman lowering his orange pants and black boxers, freeing what had to be the biggest dick—outside of porn—that she’d ever seen.

The excitement and libido was momentarily altered by an understandable amount of trepidation.

“I—” Solana wasn’t quite sure how to say it, especially as he rubbed the massive mushroom head of his equally massive sized cock against her slippery, wet folds. “It’s—it’s not going to fit.”

She knew this well. Basic science and common sense. Maybe some fear as well.

A lot of fear.

There’s no way he could get that inside of her. Not without her landing in someone’s emergency room from vaginal tearing. If not worse.

But, her apprehension didn’t extend to him. Roman smirked in response to her overt concern. “Yes, it will.” He prompted with his chin, one hand stroking that beautiful, long dick. “Lay back.”

She swallowed. “Roman.”

“Trust me.”

Her eyes widened slightly. Trust him? She shouldn’t have even be doing that with the man, let alone trusting him to fuck her without causing great bodily harm. It was crazy. All of it. One of the most dangerous men in the world, serving a ten year prison sentence, a man who had run this place like he owned it since starting his sentence. A man who’d gradually made his way past her wall, albeit weak from the get-go, standing before her, about to fuck her in the infirmary where she was supposed to be working. Like the guards outside the door who were also supposed to be working but had turned a blind eye, like almost everyone has with Reigns’ outrageous conduct.

It was fucking ludicrous.

And yet, she did exactly as he directed.

She laid back, demonstrating an undeserved and unearned amount of trust.

Her stomach doing all kinds of somersaults, also in battle with the desire that still coursed in the depths of her belly. The wonderful sensations that came from him continuing to coat his dick with her essence, their makeshift lube in absence of the actual product.

Not once did she think to ask about protection. Or anything else, really, because all she could think about and focus on was the immediate, almost painful feel of him as he started to enter her.

Her eyes clenched shut, her fingers gripping the bed underneath her. “Shit.” An almost burning sensation, something similar to what one experiences when being split or cut open.

An accurate description.

Solana felt a shift and a sort of weight on top of her, followed by Roman’s soft, full lips on hers. Nasty, tongue kissing accompanied the gradual descent of him inside her, providing a salacious and needed distraction. Inch by inch, he stretched her walls, forcing her cunt to accommodate his big dick.

Solana clutched onto his shoulders, moaning into his mouth when he spoke against her lips, “that’s it….let me in, baby girl.” Her eyes didn’t need to be open to see the haughty expression on his face. It seeped through his deep voice. “Let me ruin you.”

Concerning words that should not evoke the kind of moan it did. But, it did. The same way Solana couldn’t stop herself from realizing at some point the pain and discomfort of her taking someone of his size and girth transcended into something delicious and pleasurable. That it moved into her rocking against him, eager for more and all of him.

Something most definitely noticed by the man above her.

“Am I in there?” A possibly rhetorical question that was followed up with a more demanding question. “Where am I? Tell me, baby.”

An easy question, but one that was a struggle to verbalize as Roman had eased into a slow and steady pace. Solana hugged him closer as one hand moved under her ass, holding her up a bit while he fucked her.

“My—my stomach, oh my God.” The only answer she could provide, the one that felt the most truthful, cause God, he was so deep. If not for rolls and pudge of her belly, even more profound from the position they were in, she’s certain she could have seen his sizable dick driving into her. Balls and stomach deep.

“That’s right,” he growled. Solana’s head fell back, wincing when he kissed and bit down on her neck. Equally painful as it was delightful. “Can’t nobody fucking beat your shit up like this but me.”

Another true statement she couldn’t deny or even try to. Solana couldn’t do much of anything with the way he was pounding into her. Wild, animalistic, uncontrolled.

Fucking into her with a sense of need and urgency. “Fuck, your pussy feels amazing.” He grunted, leaning over, sucking on her neck. “Tight ass cunt….”

Her thighs locked around his waist, hungry for him, begging to feel his dick continue to dive into her. She’d never had a sexual partner hit and feel as deep as Roman was and felt in her. “Keep fucking me like that.”

Roman’s smirk was loud and proud. “This what you been wanting?” His tone cocky and knowing as he flicked her nipples through her top. “Me to stretch this pussy?”

Her response was a moan as she gripped his arms, holding him tighter and closer. “Y–yes.”

He made a sound, hiking her up further, Solana crying out from the angle of the thrust. The tip of his dick repeatedly knocking into and nudging her g-spot. “God, yes, right there.” Words in Spanish tumbled out of her mouth at the way he rocked into her, over and over again, driving her mad with delectable ectasy.

“Pretty girl just wanted me to slut her out on my dick, huh?” More bragging. Well deserved, because the way he was digging her out, pounding into her, should be studied, framed, and preserved for all eternity. “Wanted to be fucked by a real man.”

Another undisputed fact.

“Fuck.” His hissed curse drew her gaze to him, Solana biting down on her bottom lip at the sight. Eyes shut, tension evident by how he was clenching his jaw, he looked like he was enjoying it just as much as she was. And there was something empowering about that, something that got her off even more. Knowing that a man as powerful as him, in all the ways, could be brought to this level of bliss because of her.

It had to be what emboldened her to bring her hands to his face, forcing their swollen lips to lock once more as she demanded, “you like how my pussy feels, baby?” Such an uncharacteristic thing for her to say, in the middle of being fucked numb, or not. Regardless, it’s exactly what she said.

Roman’s response was to grind his hips against her, as he answered almost darkly. “Yes.” Solana nearly came right then and there from a single answer. “The Tribal Chief loves it.”

Another orgasm inducing acknowledgment that had that familiar sensation building and budding inside her. “Roman…”

“I know,” was his only response. He could feel it, too. “Not yet.” He said more to himself than her. “I’m not ready...”

Solana had a good feeling about what he was referring to, but it did nothing to slow down the autonomous response of her body. Unless he stopped fucking her like that, there was no stopping it.

A whimper left her mouth as she dug her nails into his cheek, their foreheads pressed against each other. “I can’t….”

“Yes, you can,” he encouraged, slowing down the pace of his thrusts. She couldn't tell if that helped or hurt. “Don’t come on daddy’s dick just yet, pretty girl.” The ‘pretty girl’ most definitely didn’t help. It never did. “Let me feel this good ass pussy a lil’ longer…”

She wouldn’t be opposed to feeling his good ass dick inside her a lil’ longer as well, but wants oftentimes can’t stand up against needs. And, what she needed was to come.

More than she’d ever come before.

It felt almost impossible, but Roman talked her through it. Kept her from tipping over the edge just long enough, so that he could catch up with and reach her, where they could climax together. And, they did. God, they did. Solana holding onto him, mouth ajar, connection to reality momentarily severed. Her orgasm was otherworldly. Too good and grand for her to even put into words, to be fully, physically, emotionally, and spiritually present.

All so earth and world shattering that it never even occurred to her how Roman came inside of her. Ropes of his cum, combined with her own, filling and spilling out over her used and battered pussy.

She was partially cognizant to when he eventually pulled out of her, dazed look in his eyes as he brought his finger to her vagina, pushing some of their cum back inside.

But, she was very aware when he used that same hand and brought his hand to grab her jaw, squeezing just enough to force her mouth open. That same hand, those fingers, still with their juices on it, entered her mouth. The unspoken command obvious.

Solana sucked his fingers dry.

Imagining it was that big, beautiful dick of his instead.

His look of pride at her obedience was followed by him removing said fingers. His mouth back on her, Solana shared the taste of them on her tongue and lips. An erotic, nasty exchange of sorts that had her pussy fluttering.

It was all so kinky.

Roman broke the kiss, looking down at her with something she couldn’t name, but something that had her both aroused and fearful.

And with all the conviction in the world, he laid his claim. “You’re mine now.”

—-----------

That first time was the start of something inescapable and avoidable.

Something sinful and forbidden.

An affair.

Four months deep, even if Solana wanted to get out, she couldn’t. It’s a known, open secret among several of her coworkers and colleagues. Something that once shamed her, embarrassed her. Now, she can’t seem to think or see straight beyond Roman.

Even now, as she sits in the trailer, the place intended for prisoners who have an exemplary record, who have completed the Extended Family Visits (EFV) Program, that allows prisoners to have family time with loved ones in this separate space on prison grounds. 26 hours to live as normal a life as possible.

It’s a resource Roman has now commandeered for their alone time, adding to their visits that still happen at least three times a week.

For almost four months now, this has been the routine. Short, not as long meetings in the prison followed up with the Friday into Saturday she spends with him in the trailer almost weekly.

The closest sense of normalcy she’ll ever receive in such a fucked up situation.

But, the moment Roman arrives, she knows.

Knows that something is wrong.

He’s upset with her. She can tell from the minute he walks in. Big body and tall frame almost too large for the trailer. Nicer and even bigger than the average, it’s just too small for him. Too simple. Too basic. A man like Roman demands and requires only the best of things.

A difficult task, however, given the situation he’s in.

The situation they’re in.

He heads straight to the shower, which is the norm for him. However, what’s not the norm is the way he doesn’t even ask—or tell—her to join him. That’s usually how they kick things off. In the shower. Her washing him. Him washing her, and then her legs wrapped around his waist as he pounds into her her, her on her her knees, her body propped up against the wall, then on the bathroom counter, and eventually into the bedroom.

The normal trajectory of things.

But, not tonight.

No, tonight is clearly bound to be different.

For a minute, Solana considers just leaving. It’s obvious he’s in a mood, and she doesn’t feel much better herself. It’s probably just best if she goes home. The smart thing. The right thing.

She doesn’t do it.

She remains there, sitting and waiting on the bed, wearing an old Selena shirt, a gift from her cousin back when they were in college.

And, she waits. For what, she’s not entirely sure anymore.

She just waits.

Roughly 25 minutes pass from the time he entered the trailer and the minute he walks out of the bathroom, nothing but a thick white towel wrapped around his waist. He’d clearly used another to dry his hair as best as possible given its damp, but not wet, appearance.

He stands at the end of the bed, ringlets of water dripping and traveling down his body, that sculpted, divine, fine work of the Gods. And, he looks at her. Says nothing. Just looks.

Suddenly exhausted and minimally frustrated, Solana runs her hands through her blown out hair. “Roman—

“Did you fuck him?”

And now, she’s looking at him. Of all the things he could say, of all the things he could ask, that….that was most definitely not on her list.

Confused, but maybe not, she asks, “what?”

“You should know by now I don’t like repeating myself.” His expression is hardened. The perfect match for his voice. “The same way I don’t like when people lie to me.”

Both things that she knows. Solana has treated the brutal, gruesome wounds of the men who had to learn one or both of those lessons the hard way. And yet, she remains staunch in her partial confusion. “Roman, I don’t—” She’s silenced by him grabbing her ankle, yanking her down to the end of the bed. The action causes her shirt to scrunch up, revealing her blue thong.

His favorite color.

Not that she wore it for him. No….not at all.

Roman’s gaze briefly drifts to that same thong, and she sees the flash of desire that builds only to be squashed by frustration. “Don’t test me, Solana.” A dangerously delivered warning combined with his hand loosening its hold, only for him to gradually move it upward. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

Her eyes never leave his traveling hand. “F–find out what?”

He stops only for a second. “You’re a terrible fucking liar.”

Solana says nothing, unable to disagree. She’s heard variations of the same thing over the years. Doesn’t mean she’s willing to cave.

“I know you went out last weekend with your friends.” And, there it is. Though startled, she remains unmoving. “That you went clubbing.” There’s an undeniable disdain in his delivery of that last word. A marked contrast to his hand that’s now in between her thighs, fingers hovering around the perimeter of her thong. “That you were dancing and talking to some piece of shit.”

All things she can’t and won’t deny, partially because it’s true, mostly because it’s practically impossible to focus with his hand so close to her pussy.

“So, I’m only going to ask you one more time, sweetheart.” Her eyes shut, lips parted, mouth drying as he travels his thick, long fingers past the band on her thong, collecting and playing with her arousal. “Did you fuck him?”

The him comes out at the same time he moves two fingers inside of her, evoking only a moan for a response.

It’s the wrong answer.

Solana cries out in protest when he hastily retracts his fingers, leaving her yearning and wanting more.

“Ro—”

“Shut up.” An angry silencer accompanied by his big hands moving to grab her hips, tugging her forward even more and hurriedly turning her over. Solana is hoisted up on the bed, guided on her hands and knees.

“Ro—”

Solana is once again silenced, but not by his words this time. By that same big hand coming down on her backside, the sound echoing throughout the room, her ass jiggling in the recoil.

“I said shut the fuck up,” he reiterates. There’s not going to be a third repeating. A mixture of confusion and excitement fills her at feeling and hearing him move behind her. The drop of the towel from around his waist, the way he snatches and rips her underwear clean off her body. His moan that’s followed by her own as he drags his thick dickhead up and down her folds, collecting her arousal.

It’s all so dysfunctional and wrong.

And, she loves it all.

A loud shout and moan falls out her mouth the minute he plunges his long, girthy dick inside of her. No build up. No preparation. Just the massive intrusion of his sizable member in her tight opening.

And, he’s relentless.

Solana’s body jerks back and forth from the force of his thrusts. Angry. Possessive. Jealous.

“Roman,” she moans. “Baby, please.” One hand reaching back to push him away is quickly snatched and held against her lower back as he starts fucking her harder.

“You’re mine,” he growls, leaning over, deepening the feel of the delicious dick inside of her. It hurts so good, feels so bad in all of the right, wonderful ways. “You belong to me.”

More possessive statements accompanied by his hips slamming against her big, round ass, jerking in and out of her, like each thrust is another assurance of his ownership. “Your pussy is mine.”

A decree followed up with a switching of his pace. Roman opts for slower, deeper thrusts, his hips grinding against her as one hand goes to slap her ass once more.

Solana moans, head down on the pillow, her other hand snatched and restricted behind her back. He’s got her pinned down as he continues to fuck into her like a man on a mission.

“Did you give him my pussy?” There’s an edge to his voice, like anything but the right answer could easily send him over the edge.

And, it just might.

“N–no,” she finally answers, praying the truth of her response translates despite the weariness of her voice. He always fucks her in a way that makes her feel so exhausted. “It’s—it’s your pussy, baby.”

His. All his. Every part of her. The good, the bad, the somewhere in between.

His.

“That’s right,” he grunts. Solana’s eyes burn with unshed tears. Never in her life has she been fucked like this. Fucked so good. It’s almost impossible to resist. To deny him this. To deny herself this. “Who do you belong to?”

She’s about to reply when he frees one of her hands only to fist her hair, forcing her up, head back, burning gaze on her. “I asked you a question.”

An easy answer but a difficult answer given how he’s fucking her right now. “Y—you, baby. I’m—I’m your—shit—only y–yours, Ro.”

“Damn right,” he huffs, releasing her hair. Roman moves her shirt up, exposing her big, heavy breast, gripping them, fingers playing with her nipples. “My pretty girl is mine and only mine.”

Eyes fluttering closed from being fucked numb, she can only blindly nod and agree, stuttering from the impact of his unforgiving his pace. “Y–yes, daddy.”

Head lolling back against his chest, Solana moves her hands atop his as he continues to grope and play with her titties.

His mouth near her ear, kissing and nibbling, his deep voice rumbles, “you’re gonna give me a baby.” If not for her sex fueled haze, Solana would have done a double take. Eyes wide, mouth ajar for an entirely different reason. “Gonna fill this tight, little cunt up with my seed and put a baby in you. My baby.”

Crazy.

She should call him crazy. Delusional, even. But, she can’t. She can’t, because his statement isn’t also sex fueled, the result of being caught in the throes of passion.

It comes from her.

Came from her.

Was a request straight from her mouth.

Solana had asked Roman to give her a child, to give them a child. Has done nothing to prevent said child from occurring organically given the numerous times she’s let this man come all in her without a single form of protection.

“That’s what you want, right?” He taunts, his heavy balls slapping against her from the force of his thrusts. “Me to put a baby in you? Why you let me come in you every time?”

Truthful words that should bring her to shame. But, they don’t. They just turn her on even more.

“Yes, Ro.” She moans, ass moving in tandem with him, swallowing his dick with the hunger the fills them both. “Oh, fuck, you fuck me so good, baby.”

“That’s right.” His hand squeezes her booty, jiggling and slapping it once more. “My pretty girl is a dirty cum slut for me and only me.”

Continuance of filthy truths that reveal all the ugly, tainted things about herself that only become evident when she’s with him. The secrets of her desires that could only come to the light because of him. The things she’s not sure how to get back into the box.

Or, if she even wants them to.

As he does most times, Roman puts her in any and all positions he wants to. On her hands and knees. Propped up on his dick as he watches her ride him. From the front and back. On her back. On her knees as she deepthroats him till she's on the brink of vomiting. Her knees up against her chest, juxtaposed to her ears. One leg over his shoulder, the other held up against his waist as he relentlessly pounds into her. It never stops. His sex drive is endless, his hunger and desire for her is insatiable. Always has been.

It’s only when she tells him she’s too sore, that the pleasure is completely gone, pain and discomfort the only sensations she has left inside of her is when he lets up off her. A constant thing. The minute it’s no longer pleasurable for her has always been his stopping point.

As intense and dominating he can be in the bedroom, he’s always been mindful and respectful of her consent. When she says stop, he listens.

Every single time.

When she taps out for good, he accepts it.

And, she is completely tapped out.

Roman carries her to the bathroom where he turns on the shower, bringing her under the running water as he washes her and then himself. A type of gentleness that’s a stark contrast to almost everything else about him, but a normal thing when it’s just the two of them. Both clean and cleansed from the mess they’d made of themselves, he kisses her forehead and brings her back into the bedroom. An extra blanket is laid over the bed, over the other mess that was made.

He lays her down first before climbing into bed with her, another clean blanket on top of them. Solana presses her naked, clean body against his own, head on his chest as he kisses her temple, encouraging her to rest.

And while her body enjoys the much needed respite, her mind cannot.

She can’t find a way to settle her many, racing thoughts at this. At all of it.

Madness.

This whole thing is a type of madness that makes no sense when she’s not with him and all the sense when it’s just him. That’s the power this man has over her. Solana can’t see or think straight when it’s Roman. He’s clouded her judgment, turned her into a version of herself even she can’t recognize.

She’s yet to tell if that’s a good or bad thing.

It’s all bad, according to Jade, Solana’s older cousin and confidant.

Well, prior.

Because the minute Solana made the mistake of confiding in the woman she thought she could tell anything, she learned just how wrong she was.

“Solana, have you lost your goddamn mind? You’re fucking a prisoner? A mafia boss at that?”

That was probably the nicest of the response she received. Everything else was a lot of judgment and lack of understanding. Or, trying to understand, at least.

Needless to say, the conversation didn’t go well, and every outreach attempt Solana has made in the weeks that have passed have gone without a response.

It hurts. For sure. But, Solana can understand.

Jade also works as a nurse in the local hospital and most likely doesn’t want it to get out that she knew about this illegal, forbidden affair and played any part. Distance is probably for the best.

But, the conversation and aftermath did get Solana thinking. Forced her to consider all she stands to lose should this ever reach that point, and not even her professional standing and achievements.

Her family.

What would they think of her? They’d be disappointed for sure.

The child her family never had to worry about suddenly boosted to the top of that worry list.

A dangerous thought that led her stumbling into even more dangerous territory.

Solana will never say she has a bad family. Ever. She loves her parents. Loves her siblings. Her family is good.

However, the youngest of five siblings, some of them hitting rough patches at various points in life, there were definitely moments where she just felt….there. Like, she was just another member of the family. Another Miller kid. The “good” Miller kid. The one who always had it together, for the most part, thus not needing as much attention from her parents who were already stretched thin from their other children.

And, that was pretty much the dynamic her entire life. Solana did well, did okay, and that was that. Her parents would acknowledge they were proud, but it almost always felt like a distant thing. Like, they were saying it as a pleasantry, distracted, too busy helping out DJ with his custody battle for his daughter. Occupied with finding Isabella a good therapist for her anxiety. Stressed out by Zuri and her refusal to comply.

Solana was just the child they never had to worry about which, unfortunately, translated into her being the child that often felt forgotten about.

Enter: Roman Reigns.

The attention of a man like him is one thing. The interest is something entirely different.

And, she’s managed to nab both. He should be the last person she wants to see and be intrigued by her, but that’s exactly what’s happened. Not only does Roman make her feel seen and heard, he makes her feel wanted, something she didn’t realize she lacked so deeply until him.

He makes her feel cared for.

Protected. Another, interesting, sad thing she also never realized she was missing, wanting, yearning for.

Like the guard, Knight something, who continued to pester and bother Solana, even going as far as groping her ass as she walked past him one day. An impossible, unavoidable situation as he’d been there for years compared to her six months. Something she just accepted she’d have to tolerate.

She was wrong.

Because not even 24hrs after Roman happened to catch a glimpse of the harassment she was dealing with, Knight was found dead in a prisoner’s cell. Beaten to death. Castrated. Eyes gouged out.

A gruesome ending for a man she couldn’t find herself feeling sorry for after learning he had a record of harassing nurses. And sexually assaulting female inmates at the prison he worked at before then.

Ignoring his willingness to kill or have people killed for her, which probably should disturb her more than it does, Solana could talk to Roman for hours and never tire. Because his gaze is always on her, eye contact consistent, attention devoted solely to and on her. She can’t count how many times she’d be trying to talk to her parents or siblings about something, anything, only for them to always find something more important to redirect their focus to.

“I’m sorry, Sola.”

“There’s just a lot going on, sweetie.”

“Can we talk about this some other time? We will. I promise. I’m just….”

Reasons, when she was younger.

Excuses, now, at 27.

And, she doesn’t fault them, isn’t upset with them. It’s just realizing what void that caused for her is such an experience, especially when that void has been filled—and more—by a man ten years her senior and miles beyond what and who she usually goes for.

Amenable. Introverted. Lover of the arts. All qualities she could use to describe her exes, none of which could describe Roman.

Strong. Quiet. Brutal. There’s a strength about him she admires and gravitates to that has nothing to do with his massive build and rippling muscles. A story behind those warm brown eyes she could most definitely get used to waking up to. A man beneath the thing that is Roman Reigns.

A…..a man who, in the throes of chaos and destruction, sometimes seeks the silence and calm. A space she knows she provides him.

“It’s simple with you.” He’d once said as they lay in bed together, his strong arms around her, her head on his chest. Her fingers danced across the plane of his stomach.

Something told her he wasn’t talking about the silence of the room they lay in, either.

At the very beginning, she tried to tell herself he didn’t care. That she was nothing more than a source of entertainment for a man who has nothing better to do while waiting to be released from a sentence he “shouldn't” even be serving in the first place.

That thought process helped her justify her outrageous behavior just a little.

But, it was a thought that quickly started to be debunked when things started happening.

Like her being at home, in her quaint little apartment, only to receive a knock at her door one day with a delivery. Beautiful pink roses from the local florist. A card attached that simply read.

For my pretty girl.

-R

Moving past the shock of such a thoughtful gesture, Solana chalked it up to a singular act of kindness. Underserved, in her mind. But, appreciated, nonetheless.

And, then it happened again.

More flowers.

Flowers morphed into gifts. Expensive gifts. Someone who had a few select Kate Spade bags and a Michael Kors backpack gifted during college, Solana found herself on the receiving end of designer brands so fancy she couldn’t pronounce. And, the flowers remained a weekly thing as well, something she valued slightly more than the six to seven figure gifts.

Because he’d asked her what she liked, and she’d told him flowers. She told him, and he remembered. Not only did he remember, but he’d seemingly made it a mission of his to make it a thing. To make a small act of kindness a thing of normalcy.

And while she tried her best to not make too much of it, a man in prison showing her more adoration and appreciation compared to any of her exes, who were most definitely not serving a decade long sentence, is something she can’t avoid.

Can’t not acknowledge.

Doesn’t mean she hasn’t tried, because she has.

Solana has tried to break free from the addiction that is Roman Reigns.

Tried to avoid him as much as possible. A difficult thing on so many levels. Especially when he always seems to find a way inside of her infirmary and especially inside of her.

It was why she went out last weekend. Willing to test out that age old theory regarding how the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.

It didn’t work. It was, somewhat, even as she made out with the random man whose name she can’t really remember. Melo, or something like that. But, the minute he started “stroking” her and boasting about how good it probably felt, it was a wrap.

Her thigh. He was stroking her thigh.

Solana went home alone that night, left early, needing to just be away from it all.

But, the fact that Roman knew about some of it, clearly not everything, comes at no surprise.

She knows he has people watching her. Has noticed the cars parked outside her parking complex. Seen the men that are almost always in not too far distance whenever she goes out. Even at the club that night.

He has a security detail on her.

Has had one on her for a while now.

Ever since that happened.

A fight broke out among inmates. Nothing out of the norm. A few were injured, hence several being transferred to medical. For some reason, she’s still unsure as to exactly how, a few of the prisoners weren’t properly secured. They weren’t shackled or cuffed, and it was as Solana went to disinfect a cut on one of them, he headbutted and punched her so hard that it knocked her out cold.

Solana came to hours later in the local hospital where she wasn’t released until the next morning, being treated for what she considered minor injuries. Though the nasty bruise that marred the left side of her face was far from minor.

As recommended by Dr. Stratus, she took the next few days off. It felt a bit unnecessary. Solana didn’t feel too impacted by what occurred. Having been in the nursing field a few years now, she’d seen and experienced a lot. It wasn’t necessarily the first time she’d been hurt on the job, but it also wasn’t something that kept her up. That had her feeling traumatized.

There was some level of anxiety when she returned to work a few days later, but it quickly subsided when she learned that same prisoner who attacked her was dead.

Found tortured and murdered in his cell.

That shook her a bit. But, not as much when Roman was brought to the infirmary, her room, and the first thing she noticed was the scraped skin of his knuckles. For all of the many times he finessed his way into coming to see her, never had he actually come with anything requiring any kind of medical attention.

And even then, there wasn’t much that needed to be done outside of some disinfecting.

But, he didn’t seem to give two shits about that.

He only seemed concerned with her. The minute the guards closed the door, he was before her. His big hands gently cupping her face, carefully turning her head to the side, examining the bruise that not even her most full coverage foundation could conceal.

His expression was a mixture of fury and regret. But, the fury couldn’t be felt not one bit as he pulled her into him, Solana initially confused but easily melting into comfort. She relished being in his strong embrace.

He kissed the top of her head, holding her, voice low and heavy with something unknown. “I’m sorry.”

To this day, she doesn’t know what exactly he was sorry for. She just knows that ever since that day, she’s had a security detail. It felt a little unnecessary and not even applicable, given she was injured on the job. Her “bodyguards” of sorts can’t really do anything to protect her when she’s on the clock.

But, Roman can.

It’s why she put two and two together, realizing Roman himself killed the man who hurt her. Every other life he’d claimed had been done indirectly. He’d used and ordered other people to carry out his fatal orders. But, this time….this time, he took it into his own hands.

He used his own hands to end the man’s life. Violently. Brutally. Graphically.

Why?

For her.

To send a clear message regarding what happens to anyone who dared to touch or try to hurt her.

Solana isn’t entirely certain, but she has a nagging suspicion that that was the moment it happened.

The moment she realized she was falling in love with Roman.

Roman, for all his faults, and there are many, is good to her. He protects her and gives her a sense of belonging. Makes her feel wanted, something she didn’t really realize she was craving so deeply until him.

Where she always just felt one of many with her family. With him, she’s one of one. She’s all he sees and all he wants.

The same way she feels about him.

While the sex is phenomenal and in the plenty whenever it’s just the two of them, he talks to and with her. Asks about her, about how she’s doing. He’s always been so interested and intrigued about all the things that make her her. And, he commits it all to memory. Locks it away for sake keeping and points of retrieval. If she casually mentions working on an art piece, the next time they’ll see each other, he’ll ask how it’s going.

If she mentions not feeling the best during an interaction at the prison, their EFV visit won’t be used for a “sexscapade.” They’ll talk, she’ll learn more about him, he learns about her. It’s almost entirely domestic. He won’t touch her, unless she asks, and even then, he’s intent on making sure that she’s sure it’s what she wants.

And, it’s those moments that make her realize somewhere along the way, she stopped falling in love with Roman Reigns.

She’s in love with Roman Reigns.

It’s all so fucked up. Everything about it. But, she’s too far gone, too deep into it to turn back now.

And a part of her still worries that this is all performative. That he’s saying and doing all the things he knows she wants to hear and receive just to get what he wants from her. That the moment Roman is finally released will be the moment she never hears or speak to him again. He’ll be back on his throne, and she’ll be left all alone, heartbroken, life in ruins, trying to put it all the shattered pieces back together.

Potentially with a baby in her stomach.

It’s a reality she should probably consider more than she does, if at all, but it’s a reality she refuses to acknowledge.

If that ends up being the devastating case, she’ll cross that bridge when they get there. When she gets there. Until then, she’ll enjoy this. Enjoy him. Enjoy them.

Because she’d give her all for him.

Even if just to be a distant memory.

#roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns #roman reigns x black!oc #arisnotebook

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sunniedesi · 19 days ago

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The Decay of Andy and Leyley: the bad, the ugly and the terrible

Now that it’s been a while since I finished the Decay route, I think I’m ready to finally analyse this chapter as a whole. I’ve collected my thoughts and read through a couple of people’s opinions here and there… just to be utterly disappointed. I knew casual fans generally didn’t understand much of the subtext for tcoaal, but damn are they completely lost with this one. Maybe it’s the fact that I only interact with a small echo chamber of the fandom that does get it, but after all the terrible takes I’ve had the displeasure of seeing, I think it’s time I leave my own. There is quite a lot to comment on, since this part of Decay builds upon several plot points of the story: the quarantine, the entity, lord unknown, and namely, the main duo’s upbringing and relationship. While I’d love to pick apart every nook and cranny of this episode, this analysis will only focus on Andrew and Ashley’s relationship, as that alone has plenty of things to dissect for one post. I will also comment on some of the changes done to the previous episodes and what that could mean for the next routes. (More below the cut, this will be a long one).

But before I begin anything I want to start with a disclaimer of the obvious; yes, this game is fucked up and the relationship is toxic, horribly so (wow, who would’ve thunk it?). If things weren’t messed up before then they certainly are now, so I understand why nobody would want to touch this game with a ten-foot pole. In fact, I’ve noticed many let’s players who’ve previously played it either not mentioning it or going as far as to delete every video they’ve made on it (not dropping names here but I had a couple of videos in my watch later taken down mere minutes after I saved them because of this). I often see people saying “it’s just fiction” as a defense for talking about this, which is totally valid, but my view of it is a bit different. It is fiction, yes, but also something that could very easily happen in real life and that a lot of people could (unfortunately) relate to. That’s what makes it uncomfortable and gross, and that is exactly the reason why we should talk about it. As per words of the author “although unpleasant, true [CHAOS AND MAYHEM!!!] can only be achieved by unearthing the root cause of one's issues and addressing the underlying decay.” Even if you think it’s icky and gross that doesn’t disqualify it from existing. Moreover, it calls for analysis as to why it makes you feel gross, which might I add is an impulse reaction to something much deeper than a simple “nooo they’re related,” as there are many layers to this from a moral, ethical and psychosexual perspective.

So… let’s talk about it.

The Bad: Andy and Leyley

The beginning of the episode tells us a lot about the upbringing of our characters, though most of it was writing on the wall if you paid attention during episode 2. We play as Andrew, examining his psyche and going through the motions of how to be a walking disappointment. As he cooks, cleans, excels at school and sets order in his family, he accomplishes a level of independence many don’t reach until adulthood, all before the age of 10. Yet every single mistake, as small or out of his control as it may be, is a cause for reprimanding. Renee doesn’t spare the emotional rod with him per se, expecting Andrew to go above and beyond for tasks that she should be responsible for. And whenever her live-in maid complains or dares to set an even playing field, such attempts are crushed by repressing him further into his shell. Berating, insulting, belittling him.

Nothing he does is ever enough, and it can’t be, lest giving him hope of ever meeting others’ expectations, of ever doing better. The more suppression, the less of his independence, say or personality, the easier to control. The less of Andrew the better. And as such, Andy was born: a sorry replacement for Andrew’s essence, easily malleable and capable of becoming everything you want him to be. Many believe Andy is a result of Leyley, but really

Andy was a nightmare of Renee’s own making. And speaking of nightmares, Leyley’s origins aren’t much different. Having a second child as a middle finger to your disapproving family is no good if you don’t intend to raise said child. But what’s the need when Andy is there to do it? Disciplining a kid aching for attention is far too taxing for Renee, especially one with as much attitude as Leyley. So, instead of inflicting more trauma as she’s done with Andy, she lets him pass his own over to her, creating a direct pipeline to the cycle of abuse. It should be noted that in one of the new visions available we see that Renee is an older sister herself, and was expected to also go above and beyond for her sister despite being completely disregarded by her family.

In other words, her treatment of Andy and complete neglect of Leyley are anything but surprising. It’s all she’s ever known. (Not excusing Renee, I hate her with a passion, but it’s important to know where everything is coming from).

Funnily enough, Leyley’s personality isn’t as innate as many believe. It’s easy to see her as the “difficult child,” but in reality, everything she does is a cry for help. We’re dealing with a lonely, undisciplined girl, disregarded by the world as a crybaby and a freak, left to be raised by trash TV and her clueless older brother. The result of this terrible concoction is a self-loathing, marshmallow spine of a boy and a lost, shrieky viper of a girl. Neither can like each other, because they don’t like themselves. And neither can help the other, because they refuse to see themselves for what they are. These are Andy and Leyley, the antagonists of the story.

As much as people have difficulty separating Andy and Leyley from Andrew and Ashley it must be noted that, from a narrative perspective, these are entirely different characters. Andy and Leyley are the immature, worst traits of our main duo personified: Andy is a paranoid pushover garnering resentment every time his buttons are pushed, while Leyley is nothing more than a scared little girl, terrified of abandonment and terrified of change. The more they push and pull, the more they test and bring out the worst in each other, the more they decay. But if these are Andy and Leyley, then who are Andrew and Ashley?

The Ugly: Andrew and Ashley

I believe the cliffhanger route is where we get to see the most of these two, though glimpses of them can be seen in the Shots and Such route. Andrew we know (thanks to his lengthy pov) is a crude and relentless antisocial who can’t stand anyone. He only does so out of keeping appearances, instilled by his mom, but just like her, is incapable of caring for anything. Something Ashley is very quick to point out when they were children.

We also see he’s very manipulative, sly and finds fun in (mentally) messing with people and romanticising the shit of his life, perhaps as a way to feel something other than the misery it bestows upon him. However, not playing nice can only bring trouble, so he hides behind the mask of the innocent pushover (Andy). Needless to say, this is a life full of lies and deception, utterly unsatisfactory. It will never fulfill his true desires and can only push him further into nihilism. But what are his true desires?

Well, to be seen and understood, the one thing no one’s ever bothered to do. No one except the mess of his own making. Ashley, the girl Andrew raised, is full of wit and charm. As seen in the flashbacks, she’s perceptive and quickly calls bullshit whenever she sees it. She doesn’t play nice, she doesn’t put up a front, she’s everything Andrew could be if he wasn’t afraid to show his true colors. This last bit is why I would argue Andrew is so drawn to her, that and of course all of the trauma bonding. As Andrew says himself, his attraction is pathological, i.e. unreasonable and irrational, a result of his loneliness and conditioning from childhood. And as much as I agree that it is paraphilic in nature, I do believe there is a logical side to his attraction; Ashley is loud, obnoxious and annoying. Carefree and unbothered, the flip-side to his Andy facade. In fact, she hates having to keep up appearances and how everyone around her is a phony. For Andrew, the man that has endured years of suppression and self-loathing, it is a relief, it is liberating to have someone just as bad as him. Someone who wouldn’t be afraid of him. Someone who could meet him at the same level; an equal.

Continuing with Ashley, one of her most emblematic traits is that she’s self-assured and doesn’t care about anything or anyone except for Andrew. This is quite the contrast to Leyley, who is incredibly insecure, selfish and does not care for Andy, only the reassurance he brings. And how do we know Ashley cares about Andrew if Leyley does not? Well…

This flashback is the single most important piece of information we get from the whole chapter. So let’s analyze it from the start. Julia takes Andrew to visit Nina’s grave, bringing back a slew of emotional turmoil he’s still haunted by. He immediately goes home to unpack it with Ashley.

(because god knows he was thinking about her the whole time he was talking to Julia). Ashley shows her first signs of maturity in the conversation that ensues, accurately pointing out the impending doom of Andrew and Julia’s relationship, and being a little more… introspective.

It’s clear that Leyley’s view of relationships is skewed, to say the least. She barely distinguishes romance from platonic love and has a very childish take of sex being "gross and all men want.” I’ve seen many people, before and after this chapter release, theorize that Ashley is asexual, something that’s always bothered me to no end. It’s one thing to just headcanon a character having “x” sexuality for the sake of it, but here people were using a headcanon to explain a critical part of her characterization, one of her Leyley traits. It is reductive and misguided, not to mention a terrible example of what asexuality would actually look like. Because this isn’t an innate characteristic from Ashley, it is a sign of immaturity, and to a certain degree, also insecurity.

Leyley has been conditioned her entire existence to believe she’s loathsome and undesirable, so anyone sticking around would never be out of their own volition. It would have to be a transaction, give and take. If Andy and Leyley marry it would have to be this way, a selfish exchange on both ends. But as she says: “different is fine, sometimes.” This is Ashley talking, taking into consideration Andrew’s needs for once and for all, which is the reason she made a move after he woke up. She understands his needs and is willing to put out for him, thinking maybe it could be good for her too.

But boy does he fumble hard. Which I don’t blame him for, dude wasn’t in the right headspace at the time. Though this is the moment that set Ashley’s development far, far behind square one. She didn’t take the rejection well. For once she was doing what he wanted, and he pushed her away (mixed signals much). He began being very cold to her afterwards (albeit in a fruitless attempt to repress his feelings, which as we see through the puzzle sequences, the more he crushed his feelings on the outside, the further they spread on the inside). The moment Andrew reached out for her again, a year later might I add, he did it because of Ashley, or rather Leyley, needing to be reprimanded and set on the right track (with the massage parlor job).

This sealed the deal for Ashley that the only way to secure Andrew’s attention was the way that Leyley used to do with Andy: bitch and moan until he pays attention. In other words, it’s Andrew’s fault that Ashley is the way she is… though he’s not entirely aware of it, as seen in parts of his pov. And to a certain extent, Ashley also plays a part into why he’s so apprehensive to the idea of liking her. Her childish nature and refusal to grow up is proof to Andrew that if she were to indulge his desires, it would be to keep him around, but it wouldn’t be reciprocal (which is ultimately what he desires the most).

This is my main takeaway from the cliffhanger route. I won’t be theorising much on what the outcomes for this route could be (more on why later), though I will be referencing this heavily for the analysis of Shots and Such.

Also the symbolism in this scene is quite strong (couldn’t fit it into the previous paragraphs but wanted to bring it up anyway).

Her painted nails are trashy, and Julia's nails are painted. Andrew stares in silence as Julia rings away...

Also:

This is after you destroy the Leyley plushie on the wedding cake scene, to retrieve Ashley's choker (which can later be used to create Andrew's partner... which also grants you a star). Originally, the plushies were watching cartoons, but now that Leyley is gone... something else surfaces. Interestingly enough, if you refuse to destroy it when prompted, the narrator will say "what are you, some Andy?" And if you try again after that, it won't allow to you to tear it apart, saying "you've made your choice." Very strong symbolism there. Let's move onto Shots and Such now.

The Absolutely Terrible: the Decay of Andy and Leyley

A terrible, disgusting, horrifying and necessary ending. Necessary to really discern the differences between Andy/Leyley and Andrew/Ashley, plus why the former will ALWAYS be a pointless, troublesome pairing. They hurt, abuse and tear each other down in the most sadistic and depressive ways possible. Long gone are the days of their playful banter, they are now replaced with just plain ol’ spousal abuse. Even when they try reviving their spark with their quick banter about the vacuums, it is soulless and dry, the damage done to their dynamic far too damming to ignore.

They are never honest with each other, and they’re always afraid and resentful of the other. The only thing keeping them together is codependency and lame sex that sometimes distracts them from how miserable they feel. The one sex scene in this chapter reads like a dagger to the heart, because it is everything neither of them wanted to happen. Andrew yearned for something reciprocal, for him to be seen. And as much as he begs and pleads for Ashley to understand, Leyley’s fear of abandonment overtakes her, diminishing the little trust she had for him and respect she had for herself. As a result, they both hated the encounter, and the only two solutions are ending themselves or committing to a life of such misery.

In the splat ending, we indulge Andy’s desires of ending it all, and Leyley reluctantly follows, scared and unsatisfied until the bitter end, but unwilling to let go of her Andy. In the Shots and Such ending, we indulge Leyley’s fantasies of a forever union, which turn out to be anything but the ideals she had for Andy and Leyley’s marriage. It is more of the same old horrific abuse, dishonesty and bickering over nothing, with maybe one glimpse of honesty forced out by the alcohol every once in a blue moon.

No matter the end, they’re both together forever as Andy and Leyley, dragging each other down into the lowest of levels. It’s pointless and bleak, and it certainly sent the fandom into a frenzy. You think the people defending Andrew “I’m normal” Graves or the people saying Ashley “did nothing wrong” were bad? Well, just as this route brought the worst out of the Graves, it also brought out the worst of these fans.

Every time I look into the comments section of a video or discussions for this chapter, it’s a constant shit-flinging contest of who had the worst upbringing, who has the worst personality, who is the most abusive, (which most people seem to be pointing fingers at Ashley for that one). It’s all blah blah blah who’s the woest of the woe. And worst of all, plenty of men (they’re almost always men) saying “Andrew should beat Ashley up some more.” I understand that Ashley’s worst traits as Leyley were amplified in this chapter, but honestly, men who had that takeaway from this chapter disturb me more than the game itself. Heck, even mother-of-the-year Renee calls bullshit on this:

(context: this is a rhetorical question, the answer being no, obviously.)

Let’s get one thing straight: no character here is worse than the other. They’re both awful, they both beat each other, they both abuse each other and they're both victims of each others’ abuse. The tragedy here is that they are as much victims as they are perpetrators, with no end in sight, because the more one hurts the other, the more retaliation ensues. Characterizing one as the worst is, again, completely reductive and overlooking the point of the ending: nothing gets better because neither got better. We only saw Andy and Leyley in this route, with brief glimpses of Andrew and Ashley, that are quickly crushed by their inability to disengage from their toxic habits.

I think it’s clear to see how Ashley is regressing more into her fears (Leyley), given the threat of being murdered by the only person she has left forced her into that state. She doesn’t want to die, she’s terrified of death, and wants the security she believes Andy will bring her back. Except Andy is the one harboring resentment, as Andrew is the one trying to work past it. And to the people who think we’re playing as Andrew and Leyley in this route because “we chose Andrew,” no we’re not. There’s a reason the beginning of both the Andy and Andrew (shots and such) routes look the same in terms of the area we explore in the demon realm.

There’s a reason why he keeps devolving further and further into resentment for Leyley. The “Andrew” choice means nothing if Ashley refuses to stop being Leyley. And her regression is reinstated by the selfish decision to kill Andrew in the bullets ending (and yes, I’m calling it selfish, since it is once again denying Andrew of his need to be rid of the Andy and Leyley dynamic). This reinforces Andrew’s belief that Leyley doesn’t want him, that his love is one-sided, and that she doesn’t care for his needs. The moment this choice (shooting Andrew) is set in stone it’s game over for both, because one can’t heal without the other. Again, nothing gets better because neither can get better.

The only difference between both routes is that when we pick Andy, Andrew surrenders. He’s hurt, battered and confused, but Andy’s instinctual need to please Leyley reigns above all. He knows it won’t get better, he doesn’t know how to make it better, so to hell with it. If we choose to be Andrew, Andrew never surrenders, insisting there must be a way to fix this, but can’t due to Leyley’s insistence. This leads to Andrew's decay, as he devolves into a mixture of Andy’s resentment boiling over and Andrew’s sadism. The logical part of him (which is Andrew’s lingering care for Ashley) tells him to disengage from the fighting. But his resentment (Andy’s decay) is overpowering his love for her. It gets to the point where both Andy and Andrew become undistinguishable, as they have melded to become his most deranged self. Surprisingly, something similar happens with Ashley, who also struggles to surrender in this route. There are two moments of honesty in the Shots and Such route, the only moments we get to see Andrew and Ashley completely. First is Andrew comforting Ashley’s sobs:

Here, Ashley was actually honest with him for once, which allows both of them to open up. This exchange is much more lighthearted compared to the rest of the route because both are meeting each other at the same level, talking through things together, addressing their happiness and where they want to go. Ashley shines through, taking genuine interest in Andrew’s happiness, but before things can settle…

Ashley must face her fears of freeing Andrew, trusting him. And she doesn’t, because let’s remember, we chose Leyley in this route and let Ashley decay. So once again, things go back to how they were, pointless resentment. There was also a time where Andrew opened up, and that’s when he was drunk out of his mind.

He put his front down, enough to indulge in his paraphilia but not enough to fully express his love. The mixed signals are strong with this one, which further confuses Leyley. However, when they go to sleep that night, Andrew opens up about his needs, about needing Ashley to see him for the mess of a man that he is and still accept him. Ashley takes the stage, reassuring him that she knows all his secrets and loves him regardless. Andrew is honest about why he pushes her away, because it’s the last thread of normalcy he has left. However, things quickly go back to normal, when Leyley refuses to give him a kiss due to all the times he pushed her away. At the end of both of these scenes, we hear a sad music box tune, a sad reminder of how crucial these scenes are. How easily things could be fixed with the care and honesty they warrant, and how easily they fall apart out of simple reluctance and conformity.

This is a constant thread we see in their relationship, throughout flashbacks and present time, as well as symbolisms throughout Burial and Decay. The choice to not only trust, but to be honest with one another despite their fears could’ve been the fix they needed all along, the one thing they needed to mature. Their bond is so fragile, so easily twisted, that the only way to salvage any semblance of tenderness is to address their underlying decay. I find it funny how there are still people (few but still some) who were disappointed to see that Decay wouldn’t be the "normal" route. I read a few comments of people wanting their relationship to be fixed and be a normal sibling dynamic. To which I just have to say, that is way more delusional than the people who expected any routes of this game to be all fluff and rainbows.

The relationship was already screwed from the get-go, but here’s the hard pill to swallow: having a normal relationship is not the fix they need nor want. The paraphilia has consumed Andrew so thoroughly that his only solution is to completely wipe his brain or fully indulge in it (possibly the two routes of episode 4), while Ashley has to let go of her selfish, childish desires to recognize the Andrew she wanted has been there all along if she cares to meet him there. Is it an unsavory solution? Yeah. It’s gross, morally and ethically reprehensible. But that’s just who they are as people. And accepting themselves for who they are is ultimately the last ditch effort they could ever take to salvage this volatile, fragile relationship. I mean, this optional dialogue really puts it best:

(This is the single line of dialogue that actually made me tear up btw, not even the splat/shots and such ending tore into me so much as this line).

The Coffin of Andy and Leyley is, at its core, a cautionary tale of generational trauma and the cycle of abuse. How far will people go if pushed to their limits? Is it ever possible to remedy yourself once you’re at the point of no return? And is that remedy worse than the sickness itself? Can the doomed ever be redeemed? And if so, what are the necessary steps to take in order to redeem yourself, before it all goes dark? Andrew and Ashley can keep longing for one another all they want, but until Andy and Leyley are ripped and torn to shreds, neither will improve, and are fated to decay in the coffin of a different apartment, one built out of their own hangups and fears. We’ll see what episode 4 has in store, I trust the author will give us a satisfying conclusion. And speaking of the author…

The Meh: Changes to Episode 2

This new update brought about a couple of changes to the previous episodes as well. Namely, the wording for the decisions that split the story into Burial and Decay, as well as revamping the Burial route. I’ll be honest… I’m not a big fan of some of these.

For starters, this new update made me realize the author, as offline as she appears to be, is keenly aware of people’s opinions of the game and takes quite the contrarian attitude to people who miss the point of the story (something I can’t blame her for entirely, and seems to be the reason why things escalated so much in this chapter). Take for example the Grave Mistakes vision, Andrew explaining why they’re not addressing the Toxisoda thing anymore, and going as far as to add a bloody sprite for Ashley in the Burial route (something a few people were complaining about back in the day). Also, there is an optional dialogue in the highschool flashback that feels like a clapback to the Renee mod:

I’m glad the author is aware of people’s criticisms and takes the time to sort through them, but part of me wishes she didn’t try to over-explain some plot points. The thing that I originally loved about the game was the subtle storytelling, how it takes you a couple of playthroughs to fully understand everything lying beneath the surface. It plays tricks with you and makes you think about the characters’ true intentions, goals and desires, all the way until they spiral out of control and pretenses can’t be kept anymore. I liked that Ashley has a little back and forth between wanting to trust Andrew, being unable to because of her insecurities, and falling back on the trinket. But now…

The choice kinda spells it out for you already. For one, the choice of dialogue feels a bit clunky and also redundant given the next couple of lines confirm this already. The change in the olive branch choice, with it now being reflect/decline, doesn’t bother me as much, but this feels a little too in your face. Same thing with the changes to the Burial vision. I like that you have to put the green plushie back in the cage at the end, as it’s something you also did earlier in the puzzle, so it feels less contradictory. But the change to this line…

It’s honestly giving too much away. People go through the Burial route because they want the siblings to trust each other, and they select the left door for the questionable outcome because they want to make the questionable choice. However that route turns out, whether good or bad, is for us to find out as we play. And mind you, I already know it’s not ending so well given the hex Andrew gets in Burial is the same as in the Decay Andy route. That just cannot be any good. Plus, the fact that Burial is all about burying things under the rug. I suspect that while Decay is more about Andrew due to its reflective nature, Burial will be all about Ashley due to her nature of compartmentalizing. I imagine both Burial and Decay will have their own good and bad routes, but I’d rather not jump the gun into assuming what each will pan out to look like, as chances are I’ll be completely mistaken.

And I say this as a good portion of the fanbase was proven wrong with this new update, in terms of what Decay and Burial are about. The general consensus used to be Burial = romance, Decay = hate. Some fans even came up with the bizarre defense that the game is not so bad because the incest is totally optional! It's on the player to pick it. All the while you have Andrew grabbing Ashley's belt loops and cuddling her on the couch in both routes...

I can appreciate asking people to look at what's beneath the surface and analyze things a little more critically, but that was just plain wrong lol. In the back of my mind, I always hoped that Decay would address some of Andrew's feelings to completely shut down all the "optional" nonsense. Welp, that it did... way more than I anticipated.

Anyway, my point with this last bit of the rant was that I hope these changes don’t become a trend of the author trying to make things clearer for normies or paying any mind to them, as that would only cheapen the storytelling. Those who get the story get it, and if not, they can read people’s shizo analyses online. But I don’t need my hand held throughout the game; I like figuring things out on my own. To wrap things up, I’ll just say I’m very happy with the outcomes we got. They were terrible, but necessary for the reasons explained above. I was originally very scared of the Decay route, as I didn’t know exactly what to expect and angry Andrew scares me. But this has quickly become my favorite episode of all and I can only hope the next ones do it justice. Keep cooking Nemlei, you’re doing good.

#tcoaal #the coffin of andy and leyley #visual novel #andrew graves #ashley graves #hyperanalyzing the shit out of pixels

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glitteryinknotes · 1 year ago

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There is a level of deep, bitterly poetic and cruel irony in Astarion's death and his eventual fate as a vampire spawn. Laughable, even. Lamentable.

Where do I even begin. I once posted here my thoughts on who Astarion was before Cazador took him; and all my thoughts were based on what we can assume to be canon from scraps on information in - game and interviews with Neil. That Astarion Ancunin who was laid into the ground at Baldur's Gate cementary was a corrupt magistrate, a shining example of power abuse, indulgence, hedony, existence in privilege without any service to the world around.

We also know for a fact that Astarion is not a good person in a moral sense. Again, Neil Newbon himself talked about it. He has capability to grow, mature, open himself up, soak in the positive influence and feel for others, but he never will be the default upstanding type. That is simply not at his core.

This is why (I am aware we're talking a fictional character, headcanon is free to all in whichever way they think it suits and pleases them) I cannot for the world believe in all the fanfiction based on the notion of the tragic, tortured soul unjustly attacked and turned into a vampire, because to me - it misses the entire depth and essence of Astarion's personality and arc. He was not a "worthy" persona before Cazador; in fact, the beating he got from the Gur was well - deserved and the near - death experience... Probably so as well. Maybe if anything, this would open his eyes and force him to reflect at least a bit on his choices in the position he was occupying. (But given that he mentions begging Cazador to turn him to be able to take revenge, I highly doubt that.) So yeah... The man got what was coming to him. He deserved it.

But what he got in the end once Cazador allowed him to drink his blood and had him in his hold? Two hundred years of misery and abuse beyond description, being completely stripped of any identity and personhood? No one deserves that. Such fate should not be thrust upon anyone. Ever.

It is the cruellest, most wicked twist of fate that it took that kind of ordeal to change a corrupt little elf's view of the world and force him to even acknowledge the existence of evil deeds and abuse of power - something I am quite sure he never gave any thought to before. It took being transformed into an utterly helpless victim to make him truly see that there is good and bad and perpetuating the bad leads to pain and misery for the innocents (and you can never be sure if not for you as well), and only then, at his most pathetic, most vulnerable, after centuries of torment, it took meeting, trusting, admiring, being grateful to, befriending / loving and being influenced by a genuinely good and kind person (probably the exact opposite of who he was before) to shake and cause some shift in his inner moral compass, or rather the way he was choosing to use it. The full circle, a poignant, unwilling journey from the one abusing power, to the enslaved puppet of someone with considerably more power abusing it in the most inhuman ways possible, and this time to his own woe, to the one person able to break the abusive cycle given the right influence.

Isn't that simply poetic in the most sickly sense? A tragicomedy, if you will.

Forget about Astarion Ancunin. The grave was good for lovemaking and sharing an important moment, but whoever was laid there was not anyone worthy of your time (just like "Ascended Astarion" )The one who stands by your side now is. Your Astarion. The new Astarion, the same "lovable rogue" with a taste for theatrics, drama, debauchery, beauty, murder mayhem and loose morality, but - a better person all the same.

[follow up post here

https://www.tumblr.com/glitteryinknotes/733162725841289216/a-little-follow-up-to-my-previous-post?source=share]

#astarion #baldur's gate astarion #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 astarion #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion bg3 #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #astarion analysis #astarion ancunin

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cutiepieloves131 · 7 months ago

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Rohini Nakshatra 10°00′ - 23°20′

Rohini translates to “The Red One”, “The Growing One”, “A Star”, “Cow”, and “Ascending” which signifies beauty, charm, abundance, and sensuality of this nakshatra.

˚⋆୨🍭୧⋆˚ The symbol of this nakshatra is an Ox Cart or a Chariot meaning movement, the people born in the Rohini therefore love to travel. Anybody born in the 4th constellation will get name, fame, and all the luxuries in their lives.

˚⋆୨🍭୧⋆˚ Rohini was known as the favorite wife and the most beautiful, but because of the favoritism jealousy was brought upon her. This is why Rohini individuals deal with a lot of envy and jealousy from others it could be their beauty, the things they own, wealth, success, etc.

˚⋆୨🍭୧⋆˚ People born in Rohini birth star are attractive, charming, tantalizing, have strong family values, charismatic, popular, nature-loving, receptive, respected by others, nurturing, smooth talkers, and magnetic.

˚⋆୨🍭୧⋆˚ Rohinis are very beautiful and captivating, they naturally attract attention from the masses. Their energy is so alluring, seductive, and enticing, also they tend to be the centre of magnetism and the favorites.

˚⋆୨🍭୧⋆˚ Rohini is inclined towards relationships and materialistic pleasures. They're fond of luxury and beauteous things within the world, since this is an earthy nakshatra everything gravitates to them.

˚⋆୨🍭୧⋆˚ I noticed that Rohinis have star quality, it all makes sense because it's called "A Star" and has correlations to the royal star "Aldebaran" which grants intelligence, fame, wealth, eloquence, honor, steadfastness, recognition, and leadership. However on the on the negative side it can bring violence and destruction.

˚⋆୨🍭୧⋆˚ Not only that but they can be incredibly gifted in the arts, fashion, makeup, and have a career in the entertainment industry, they're natural creators putting anything together and beautifying things, many of these individuals have an amazing sense of style and can make it anything with their beauty, talents, and charisma.

˚⋆୨🍭୧⋆˚ Another thing is Rohinis has a tendency of being “The Arouser” stirring up extreme reactions, feelings, and obsession in people knowingly or unknowingly, it even goes far to stalking, possessiveness, and mayhem. Love triangles are very prominent in this nakshatra, along with attracting unwanted attention and secret admirers.

˚⋆୨🍭୧⋆˚ The yoni animal of Rohini is the male cobra natives are hypnotic, desirable, and enthralling. They possess compelling and hypnotizing eyes capable of putting anyone into a trance, to put it in a simple way they have the power of attraction. You cannot resist their charm, you're immediately hooked.

˚⋆୨🍭୧⋆˚ Flowers are associated with Rohini you'll always see flower imagery, print, and gardens used or worned by celebrities birthed into this nakshatra. Food, sweets, and desserts are also connected to Rohini, this is the nakshatra of indulgence so treat themselves to the world's tastiest treats and finest foods, but too much of something can cause harm to the body.

˚⋆୨🍭୧⋆˚ Rohini is ruled by Moon and Venus, the Moon rules mind, emotions, instincts, and intuition, while Venus rules love, beauty, art, aesthetics, and pleasure with this combination it makes a person drop-dead gorgeous, romantic, creative, tenderhearted, irresistible, nurturing, graceful, and have a magnetic personality.

#rohini nakshatra #vedic beauty #vedic astrology #vedic astro notes #vedic astro observations #rohini

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simpingforbots · 4 months ago

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Transforers Animated.

Optimus Prime

Already having to deal with his team, Prime was not looking forward to taking care of another human. He already had to deal with his team – Bumblebee who acted more like a sparkling, avoididng his responsibilities to have fun and cause mischief, then there is Prowl, who even if was well behaved, his “mysterious aura” did not help him at all to be part of the team, Bulkhead, bless his soft spark, was a bit clumsy time to time and had no control over his strength, which far to often angered Ratchet, their only medick, who loved to grumble about every thing. So he was not looking forward to any more humans to keep optic on. Though you proved to be more capable and responsible then Sari, who of course was a child compared to you, but in retrospect, all humans were like children compared to him, so young and small. You were soft, kind and respectful, a shoulder to vent when ever he felt overwhelmed, reassure him that he was a good leader and that he knew what he was doing. For that Prime was very thankful, feeling a bit more support now. He strated looking forward to your scare visits as you were an “earth adult” with your own responsibilities and rocks on your shoulders. Which was not to bad, but Optimus wanted for you to visit a bit more often and when Sari moved in due to her circumstances an idea popped in Optimus processor - what if you moved in here, there was enough space in the base after all, half of it being used for storage while the other part was left empty. With this in processor, Prime strated arranging things and learning about humans and what kind of habitats they preferred, like warm environment to function and rest in, colder to have a good recharge, preferring different types of colours and styles to decorate the living space, just like any other bot. The room that Prime “chose” for you was by his quarters, so that he can check on you time to time, to make sure you will be okay and safe, knowing how clumsy time to time you were. It was a bit difficult to do this in secret, but explaining all this paint buckets, equipment and other stuff as for Sari’s room, which was not half of a lie, some of it was, Prime was lucky you were so trusting. Though not as lucky as decepticons suddenly attacked your street, causing mayhem and over all damadge. Prime did use this moment as to guide one of the attacks to actually damage your building, putting blame on the decepticons, which you bought quite quickly and Prime was on cloud nine when you accepted the GREATFULL offer of moving in. After this Prime team noticed how “attentive” Optimus become towards you, acting a bit worried for them. He was always around you, checking, making sure you were alright, helping you get to work, of you were hurt he would attend to you, basiclay treating you like some kind of sparkling, even if you were an adult. Ratchet did grumble about it time to time, though he was happy that with you Prime got less in to trouble. When you started dating someone, Optimus was very against it, pulling all kind of strings to make sure that they woud not last, like checking their background, what they did and would go as far as stalk them, even scaring them of time to time. Basiclay being a protective dad-bot over you, so get used to disapproving looks when ever you try to date someone new and them suddenly ghost you.

Bumblebee

Bee did every thing in his power to have fun on this new planet – races, trouble, playing with Sari, videogames, Tv, just anything but work. It was so boring to patrol the city for decepticon’s. What he, a small bot, would do against someone as nut loos as Blitzwing Or Starscream. He just wanted to have fun. He ran in to you in front of the videogame store, staring at the new game called Doom, captivated by the action shown on the TV with wide optics until someone tapped on his peds, making him look down, you were standing there, extending a copy of the game he was staring at, with a smile on your face. It took a while to register what was going on, gently reaching out towards the copy and grabbing it. You thanked him for that one time when he saved you during one of the attacks, and seeing how bot constantly was spotted around here, staring at the display of different game, you decided to buy one for him. Bee was hapy that he got a new game and thanks you from the bottom of his spark. And just like this you two started hanging out more often. You met Sari as well and three of you just hangout, having fun playing games and getting in all sort of trouble. Though as you were an more mature, despite your young age, you also acted as a mother of the group, managing to keep tabs on them and surprised that out of all those alien bot’s the yellow one was the youngest, acting like a teenager, too bored to be cooped up inside and do missions. Bee was also kind of happy that you were there and would get a upset when both you and Sari would have to go attend your human life, like school and work, leaving him all alone. And because of this Bee become more clingy, especialy towards you, wrapping his servos around you when ever you were here, which looked very funny when a bot bigger then a human clung to a small adult like some kind of child, not wanting to be left alone. He did started following you around as well, and the only human he would actually listen to as you did sort of used carrot and the stick method with him. It did help that you used to baby sit your siblings so you knew how to deal with him, even if he was an alien teenage robot. Clingy one.

Bulkhead

This soft giant loved painting - a completely different hobby to what he supposed to be. Of course it was a better choice as he can avoid causing trouble at the base, like breaking Ratchet’s equipment and breaking things. He joined a small club of other artist, joining them in the park to paint scenary in peace and quite, enjoying this peaceful time without much worry. One of this outing you joined in, a new friend to make in this small circle of “people who were familiar with each other” and joined for the class. Bulkhead could see that you were not as good at this, probably trying out something new, and quickly regretting as you looked around, scared. Bulkhead decided to step up, moving a bit closer and showing his canvas, making you calm down a bit as you saw his painting, with him reassuring that you do not have to be perfect to enjoy something, even if you are not good at it. You did calm down a bit, no longer feeling ashamed of your art and quietly chatting with the bot, asking about him. Soon they started meeting up alone, enjoy the compony of each other, sort of ditching the art class to enjoy their own progress and compony. Though with decepticons your life was in danger at one of the attacks, with Bulkhead having to keep you safe and show his destructive ability, fighting a bigger con – Lugnut. They were measuring in strength, with Bulkhead doing his best to keep the fight away from you and telling you t hide. After this experience big bot avoided you for some time, scared that you will be terrified of him, but to his surprised you were actually seeking him out, worried for the big guy and bringing him more art equipment. So sort of this fight brought you two even closer.

Ratchet

Ratchet was not a big fan of humans and it will take a miracle for him to become friends with one. Or one being a mechanic or engineer. Ratchet would stumble upon you when you were helping Bee out after this reckless idiot got one of his limbs hurt again, leaking oil to quickly and Ratchet could not make it there in time, screaming instruction in to intercom on what to do to prolong his activity. Once he arrived there, medic bot was shocked to see human welding the cuts and stopping the dangerous oil leak on Bee’s body, helping to stabilize young bot’s system. Shocked, Ratchet rushed in, though was pleasantly shocked to see how good the job was done. Grumbling, he moved human away, mumbling a thankyou as he attended back to young bot. The next time he sees this human again was after the battlefield with decepticons, attending to Bulkhead this time, who had a huge hole in his chest. Ratchet, this time, decided to watch how human will manage to fix, ready to shove them out of the way any moment they do anything wrong, kneeling beside them. You just greeted them, too focused on stooping leaking oil and trying to wire things back correctly. It was a good thing as your small hands were of better advantage, quickly fixing up what ever small damadge there was before attending to big one. Ratchet watched you, adding commentary as you worked, which you followed immideatly and soon enough you found your self under his wing, learning how to fix big alien bots for free. You did not complain, preferring to know how to help those huge alien bot’s who were the best line defence against big bad alien bots known as decepticons and their evil plans. Ratchet had you train on small machinery, helping them fix a few things here and there, taking you back to the ship they were on and help fix it up a bit, as much as both of you could, progressing quite well with your small help, able to fit in small spaces and fix issue. And even after that he still kept you under his wing, making sure YOU were alright as well. Any harm fall upon you from decepticon will send him in to rage and he will wreck havoc upon them. Any human will get a scare of their life and if you managed to somehow harm your self – you are not allowed to LEAVE HIS SIDE FOR DAYS!!! It’s not to long after you are officially his subordinate and a new human friend to grumble and fight with autobots when they break something, learning a few colourful words from each other.

Prowl

Prowl would love Earth for the live it had on it, fascinated on how the circle of life functioned here. Thing must die for a new life to thrive, with new life coming from joining of two others and how beautiful it is in all. He would hundred percent would love visiting shrines to feel tranquillity and joing meditation with humans, birdwatching, walking in a park and in general practise tranquillity. Though one day this tranquillity was disturbed as he heard a yelp, opening his eyes and scaning around. A human, hanging of the tree, holding for their dear life, all while the branch was snapping loudly, clearly not able to hold their weight, forcing Prowl to act immideatly, jumping in between trees to get momentum and as the branch finally snap, he managed to get you, landing carefully on to the ground with you in arms, while you held something else. After some time it something made chirping noice and he looked down, shocked to see a baby chicks, snuggled in your arms, chirping for their mother. Looking up Prowl noticed one of the their creatures of Earth – snake, slithering away from the nest. He can guess why you had a chicks now, you were trying to safe them. Checking on the human, he was pleased to see you well and when he asked what it is you were doing up the tree, you only confirmed his though, though you did add that the chick belong to endangered species, with their mother passing away to keep them safe. Also that you can take them in as you worked in sanctuary. A new place for Prowl to visit and he did, checking on chicks and you as well, learning more about you in return. He found that you were very caring veterinarian, eager to help any living being, though terrified of spider to extend of climbing Prowl when ever the was one in sight, pleading for him to take care of it. It was sort of fun. After some months that Prowl spend in sanctuary helping taking care of chicks it was time to set the free in to the wild, with bends to help track and identify them in case anything goes wrong. Both of you watched them fly away as soon as the cage was opened, up and away. With that you thoug Prowl will no longer visit the sanctuary you worked on, though you were pleasantly surprised to find him there the next day. And the next. Honestly his compony was noce, both caring for life and Prowl did even thought you a few moves to self defend just in case anything goes wrong. And with time you grew on each other, enjoying the presence of your new co-worker, a big alien robot ninja.

#transformers x reader #transformers x human #transformers #transformers animated #tfa #writitng #tf prowl #prowl #bulkhead #tf bulkhead #Ratchet #tf ratchet #bumblebee #tf bumblebee #tf optimus prime #optimus prime

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missriggie · 4 months ago

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If Inquisitor Lavellan is Hope, Elf!Rook is Freedom

Forgive my rambling but I just wanted to share this, see if it inspires discussion/theories/new friends to reach out, and maybe cement myself in this fandom.

SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

I've given a sparing thought to some theories and headcanons I've seen circulating with the confirmation of elves once being spirits in Veilguard and all the clues sprinkled throughout Inquisition. One has popped up that I find intriguing and I agree with. Inquisitor Lavellan is a Spirit of Hope.

I think there is a very strong case for that, especially for those Solasmancers out there who love to pair them up as Wisdom and Hope. It's a very beautiful thought as they are without a doubt soulmates, at least in the cases where those two end up together.

Hope defines the Inquisitor's journey. They become the Herald of Andraste, a symbol to look to after a period of ruthless war, then into the ass-end of a demon apocalypse trying to mend a broken world. Deed after great deed they prove their capabilities, and become a formidable player in Thedas's history, keeping people looking up. They are the Dawn That Comes.

Now that Veilguard has since confirmed that Elves were spirits made flesh, I've started to wonder at what possible spirit Rook could be, should they be of Elven lineage. I've decided, either through evidence or delusion or trying to piece together the fanfic I've got brewing, that Rook could be a spirit of Freedom.

Every faction could have some way of a purpose toward liberation. A Veil Jumper would want to free their history and their people from ignorance. A Grey Warden would want to free Thedas from the Calling and the Blight. The strongest background, and most the likely canon faction for Rook would be a Shadow Dragon, putting pressure on the Imperium to abolish slavery.

Rook has a knack for freedom. We free Lucanis from the Ossuary, the Dalish Elves from the Venatori, the Kal Sharok dwarves from the Titan's anger, young griffons from the Gloomhowler. We even free ourselves from a prison of regret built specifically to lock up gods.

My first go round, I played a Lord of Fortune Spellsword, and it coincided very nicely with this theory. An ex-galley slave turned marauding treasure hunter with no masters to hold them back. She lived and breathed freedom so it made sense, at least for my Rook.

We also see the potential to corrupt that spirit of freedom. Into what you ask? CHAOS. Which also ties into the other thing that connects them to Solas; The Tower.

The big teaser for Rook as the protagonist back when it was still called Dreadwolf was the Tower/rook chess piece and floating head of a wolf. Solas's Arcana at the end of Inquisition is the Tower. This Major Arcana represents calamity, disruption, upheaval, unavoidable change, chaos.

Too much freedom leads to lawlessness, and Rook is never one to follow rules as far as we witness. In all backgrounds, no matter the faction, Rook's actions cause unrest, turmoil, disruption, often a total breakdown of authority, much like the spirit they are mistaken for when delving into Solas's memories in the Crossroads.

Rook cannot be caged or told what to do. But also, Freedom cannot go unchecked, to do so on either end of the spectrum just leads to untold mayhem. It needs a guiding hand. It needs Wisdom.

With this in mind, it just makes their dynamic with Solas so much more fascinating. Everything he has done is in the name of Freedom, and if he were to have a living embodiment of it move against him it would be so confronting. It would make him question his entire angle. Why is he really doing this, if not for freedom? But his pride would keep him in imprisoned in denial and regret. This denial is then reflected back to Rook in regards to the fate of Varric.

The case for each spirit, both Hope and Freedom, only intensifies if one chooses the Atonement ending.

Lavellan sees the Wisdom in Solas and tries to appeal to him through that. She gives him Hope, and joins him in the dream, forever protected from his fear of dying alone.

Rook holds a mirror to his Pride, his mistakes, his trauma and makes him confront it. They gather all the pieces needed to unravel his fear, allow him to let go and make his own choice to atone and return to his true self, opening a path to true Freedom to finally come home to the Fade. WHICH IS TWIN-FLAMEY AS FUCK

So yeah, I love this game. EDIT: I've expanded on this with a second part regarding Elgar'nan and will in the future take a look at Rook/Freedom in relation to Mythal as Benevolence and Retribution.

#dragon age #dragon age rook #dragon age the veilguard #lord of fortune rook #riggie rambles #dragon age inquisition #dragon age spoilers #dragon age theory #inquisitor lavellan #solas x inquisitor #dragon age inquistor #solas x rook #solas dragon age #solavellan #solrook #dreadrook

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astroboots · 2 years ago

Text

Every You Every Me Issue #3

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: You are determined to meet your Spider-benefactor face to face and you go to ever increasing extreme lengths to do so. Problem is, Miguel O'hara is very uncooperative to your plans.

Word count: 5,500 words.

Content: Slowest of the burn, so slow you wonder if it's even burning. Near death experiences, the state of the economy and how expensive it is to live in a big city, the emotional whiplash of Miguel O'Hara.

Astroboot’s Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist

[Previous issue] [Next Issue]

You saw them in the window display of a bakery in Greenwich Village. Round sugar cookies with red frosting and white eyes, decorated as a tribute to everyone's favorite neighborhood Spiderman.

Before you had time to properly think things over (would he even like the cookies? Is he on a strict superhero diet and workout plan? What if he's gluten intolerant?) you were already standing in front of the cash register having a dozen of them wrapped up in fancy crinkly paper and were $72 dollars poorer.

Charging six dollars per cookie is practically highway robbery, but that's par for the course with New York bakeries. You wouldn’t be surprised if every bakery in New York was already a part of Wilson Fisk’s criminal empire.

As you push open the door, box in hand, you wonder wryly to yourself why Spiderman’s ruder alter ego isn't there to save you from that.

You wonder, for Superheroes, what classifies as an event worth intervening in and what everyday citizens need to be saved from?

Financial ailment doesn't quite seem to qualify from what you've been able to glean so far.

Tony Stark, for all the wealth he’s amassed (a large enough treasure hoard that he would be capable of buying the whole planet of Mars according to Forbes) isn't massively involved with charities. He only donates to the one: his own. And the Stark Foundation is really just Tony Stark paying reparations for the damage he and his buddies caused in the first place.

Thor is an actual deity, and you still remember that write-up in Esquire magazine, where local waiters in New Mexico had called him a terrible tipper and a habitual smasher of glassware.

Assault and battery is up in the air. There are accounts of Superheroes intervening; that Tiktok videos of She-Hulk breaking up a bar fight that went viral a few weeks back. But then equally, there are memes of Doctor Strange peeking out the window of Sanctum Sanctorum watching a street fight unfold,, utterly uninterested in getting involved. The internet labeled it as "mood".

As for murder and mayhem, there's a longstanding public debate as to whether Superheroes cause more than they prevent. Case in point: that Moon Knight guy that paints the streets of London red.

There is no rule book written to explain how Superheroes decides who is worth saving and who is not.

Does one have to be important and have a material effect on the state of the world?

If so, you fall pitifully short. The most world-changing decision you made as of late was deciding to opt out of utensils on your last GrubHub order to help save the environment.

So it makes you wonder: Why on earth has this non-costume accurate Spiderman saved you, not once, not twice, but 13 times to date?

That’s just the first of many questions you’d like to ask him. What does he know that you don’t? Does he know why the universe seems to be out to get you lately? Or why death itself is following you everywhere you go, nipping at your heels?

You haven’t had the chance to ask him anything, because despite all of your encounters, you haven't met him face to face since that very first time.

Inconveniently, you don't exactly have a way of contacting him. Superheroes aren't listed in the phone book.

With no other way to reach out, you go at it the old fashioned way. You write him a note from a page you've ripped out of your notebook:

‘Thank you for saving me. Can we meet? I have questions.’

You place the note on the window sill. Setting the plate with $72 dollars worth of Spiderman cookies on top of the left corner of the paper to make sure it doesn't get blown away in the wind. Then you leave the window open for the first time since you've moved into this apartment before heading to bed.

There's nothing else to do but to wait.

You wake to the spit and splatter of rain against your window. It's gray outside, and the cookies you set out the night before remain untouched. You frown at the sight, but you can't say you're surprised.

There was never any real indication that he was lurking around you. Superheroes are bound to have more interesting things on their schedule than stalking a random insurance employee.

You don't know why you thought this would work in the first place.

Getting out of bed, you walk up to your window to inspect the scene. The note is where you have left it, ink a little smeared from the rain, where the plate has kept it in place on the right corner.

That seems odd, now that you think about it. You stare at the note, eye drawn to the watermarks. Why are there water stains bleeding into the paper if your window was closed? As crappy as your rundown apartment can be, water damage is the one thing you haven't had issues with.

You draw your eyes to the closed window being smattered with the rain outside. Didn't you leave the window open last night? You're pretty sure you did, hoping that the open window would be seen as a gesture of invitation. You had left it open… right?

You did.

You're sure you did.

He must’ve been here.

Rude, not-costume-accurate Spiderman was here.

Right?

Your eyes flicker back to the window.

Or maybe you did close the window?

You close your eyes trying to recall your evening, packing the length of your apartment as you replay the memory. Suddenly, you're not so sure anymore. You always close your window, and even though you had every intention of keeping it open last night, who is to say you didn't close it out of sheer habit?

It's strange. Because if he was here, he would've spotted the note. But it's in the same spot you left it yesterday right under the plate on the left side of it...

You eye the undisturbed note tucked under the right corner of the plate.

Wait, wait. Didn't you put the note under the left side of the plate?

You did.

Yes, you definitely did.

Which means, he was here... Right?

You feel like you are going insane.

Are you seeing things that are not there? Was he actually here and if so why did he go to such lengths to pretend otherwise. Why would he passive-aggressively gaslight you into thinking he was never here?

You decide on a redo.

Because if you can't trust yourself and your questionable memory, you can trust a recording.

A teddy bear nanny cam sets you back $50. Not cheap, but not as outrageous as your stale-cardboard-tasting Spiderman cookies.

You set it up on your dresser opposite your window and link it to your phone as per the instructions.

As for the bait. After having tasted those brick cookies for yourself, putting it out for a second night for a man who has saved your life repeatedly didn't seem right. You decide to bake them yourself this time.

The added bonus is that you get to mix blue food coloring into the frosting for the decoration that goes on top. In retrospect, the red Spiderman cookies from last time might’ve implied that you’re calling him a knock-off Spiderman.

Besides, even with the cost of living crisis: a bag of flour, baking powder, unsalted butter, sugar and eggs cost a lot less than $72 dollars.

This time, you don't write him a sloppily put together note. You decide to write him a proper letter.

If he did visit your apartment, (and you're not just going insane) the fact that he moved the note meant that he must've read it.

This note didn’t work.

It must not have been compelling enough, you were kind of in a hurry…

You’ll have to write something better this time. Longer. More emotionally compelling. Surely if you take the time to really explain your plight, you can make him understand why it’s so important he talks to you!

The problem is that it’s hard to sound serious when it’s written on lined paper from your ruled notebook.

That won’t do. You go to the nearest stationery store in your neighborhood, a chain outlet of Paper Source to get yourself some decent looking stationary paper with a matching colored envelope to boot.

You immediately regret this part of your plan, because it ends up setting you back another $26 dollars. Why is 6 pieces of paper so damn expensive anyhow? Surely there’s a few trees left in the world to chop down?!

$102 dollars down in your bank balance, you sit down at your dining table that night, pen in hand and begin writing. You pour your heart onto the pages, setting out in as precise words as you can manage the effect your near death incidents have had on you.

How scared you are, how confused you are, but also how grateful you are that he's saved you, again and again and again. That you believe if you and him can just meet in person and talk, if you could ask questions and figure out why this is happening, then maybe you can find a way to stop it from happening again.

Then you fold the letter and tuck it neatly into the matching envelope and slide it under the left side of the cookie plate and go to sleep.

When you wake the next morning, nothing seems out of the ordinary.

The cookies are still neatly arranged on your plate. The letter snugly tucked underneath it.

On the left side this time, you note.

It doesn’t look like he came.

The only thing is that you swear that the envelope is now several inches further to the left than where you left it last night.

Again, maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

You pull up your phone, opening the app linked to the nanny cam and press play.

There is nothing but the still frame of your studio apartment, your bed to the right and your window square in the camera-view. You speed up the video, but the only thing that takes you by surprise is that you apparently toss a lot more in your sleep than you thought.

The camera footage goes well into 3am, and you’re resigning yourself to the fact that this was all down to your imagination.

He didn't come last night. Probably didn't come the night before. Most likely you woke up from the rain, closed the window and were too sleepy to remember.

You sigh, setting down your phone on the table, prepared to let this whole endeavor go.

On your screen, a smudged shadow appears in the corner of the window. You jump to your feet from your seat, knocking your chair over in the process with a raucous thud. The dark figure grows larger on your screen, dark navy blue and lines of stark red that perches itself onto your window sill.

YES! yes-yes-yes! You knew it. You fucking goddamn knew it!

You were right.

Adrenaline buzzes victoriously in your veins, and you grip your phone harder. Your heart is pounding so fast and hard in your chest you can hear the drumming beat of it in your ears.

He was here!

(You're not cuckoo for cocoa puffs).

You watch as his large figure sits on your window sill. He's still wearing his mask, and while you can't make out the expressions underneath, the outline where his eyes would have been, painted in dark blue, now narrow into a slit on your screen.

There's a hostility emanating from that glare that you are able to sense all the way from the opposite side of the screen. He stares down at the plate of cookies suspiciously. Then he just stays there, unmoving, having a staring competition with the cookies you baked in his image.

In the privacy of your living room, you have the luxury of taking the time to get a proper look at him without interruption. It's hard to ignore the fact of just how tightly fitted to his skin that suit is. The dark blue fabric clings to every line of muscles on his body and it makes your cheek prickle with heat when you look. It feels voyeuristic somehow, but you can't help but think that the more modest alternative would be if he had worn nothing at all.

He's absurdly ripped. Muscular doesn't even begin to describe it. Broad shoulders and a narrow tapered waist segueing into obscenely thick and defined thighs that have your eyes linger for far too long. You shake your head to snap yourself out of it, Jesus you are acting like a creep. This isn’t OnlyFans, though lord knows you paid for this privilege! $102 for a cam video!

On the footage, there is finally movement. He reaches for a cookie, bringing it to his mouth. The blue fabric dematerializes on his lower face until it reveals his tanned skin and that ridiculously cut jaw of his.

His mouth parts. Fangs protrude where his canine teeth are supposed to be and the sight makes you nearly drop your phone in shock.

Is this Spiderman a vampire? Or is he like a tarantula Spiderman with fangs to match?

You watch in suspended horror as he bites into the cookie, those sharp fangs of his are in plain view as he chews.

He leans over to reach for a second cookie and all your trepidation is forgotten for a second, because if he’s reaching for a second one, it must mean he likes them. You grin at your screen, culinary pride beating out any caution or fear you may have had.

Then he lifts up the plate, picking up the letter. The anticipation is too much. You press your face closer to the screen to try to get closer, because your screen is too small to pick up any possible nuances in his expression.

He's carefully opening the envelope as he starts to read. It's impossible to tell what he's thinking. There's no visible change of facial expressions in the outline of his masked eyes. His mouth, which is bared to you, doesn't so much as twitch.

It doesn’t take long for him to read it. When he's done, he tucks the letter back under the plate. Then he bends down over the plate of cookies, and for a moment you think he’s going in for a third. Instead his hand lingers on the plate, before he starts to slide the remaining cookies around the plate to your confusion. You watch in confusion as he picks up the cookies one by one to space them out more evenly. You don't quite understand what he's trying to do, wait… is Vampire spider man re-arranging the cookies to make it less obvious he’s eaten them?!

The bastard really was trying to gaslight you into thinking he was never here.

Once he’s seemingly satisfied with his work, he straightens up, turning until his back is against the camera preparing to leave.

To your surprise his face turns around to take one last look inside. The direction of his gaze settles on your bed where you're sleeping. His eyes lingers there for a handful of moments, inscrutable over the mask.

Is he sad? Angry? You can't tell.

He finally looks away and then he leaps off the window.

Politely asking him in writing is clearly not working out for you.

You decide the only recourse you have left is to try and physically catch him.

Such a simple sentiment that had sounded so easy in your head, but you quickly run into logistical issues when you try to put it into practice.

The man is built like a tank. Can leap off of skyscrapers (and the window of your sixth floor) without breaking a sweat. Potentially also a vampire.

You're not exactly sure how you're supposed to catch someone like that.

Your google research is off to a shaky start. Somehow you end up down a rabbit hole of tutorials for non-lethal mouse traps. It's not very useful inspiration. Because you can't exactly build a 7 foot large cage trap to catch him the next time he comes around to help himself to cookies.

But the concept of having a lure trap set with bait seemed transferable and so you decide to go for a classic spring trap that you’ll modify. No cage, instead you set up a DIY contraption with a sturdy string attached to a bell meant to quickly alert you to his presence next time he comes around.

The game plan is to wake up and corner him before he has a chance to abscond.

As for bait, you google things that vampires might like in a half-thought of plan it might be applicable. Unfortunately, there are no young virgin maidens you know of as far as the eye can see in New York (yourself included) so that was a no go.

So you default back to cookies (because hey, at least it worked last time).

Amazon has your whole set up shipped and delivered by the next day and you implement phase 3 of your rapidly escalating attempts to reach out to him.

Unfortunately, it doesn't work. For one he doesn’t show up that night. Or the night after. It takes him four whole days to show up again and when he does, he spots your trap a mile away. When you review the footage on the cam the next day, he avoids the rope and the whole mechanism effortlessly.

There's no sound on the nanny cam so you can't be sure of it. But you think from the way the line of his shoulders shake as he steps over the rope that he might be laughing at you. He’s definitely seen through few supervillain traps in his days so in hindsight the probability of success here was low.

He does however eat three of your cookies this time.

You get a little bit more desperate after that.

You decide that if a trigger trap to wake you won't work, then obviously, the next best thing is for you to simply stay awake.

The problem is that he doesn't show up every night. His visits are entirely random without an obvious pattern. Sometimes he shows up two nights in a row, sometimes he goes several days without making a guest appearance on your nanny cam footage.

It means you end up downing a whole carafe of coffee, and several energy drinks, every night for a week straight. Entirely unable to predict what night he's going to appear, you keep dooming your already tiny bladder to a dozen visits to the bathroom before the clock has even struck nine.

The saddest part of it is that despite being wired on enough coffee to power a nuclear power station by yourself, you never end up staying awake the whole night through.

More often than not you end up falling asleep sitting upright by the dining table waiting up for him. Then the next morning you wake with a wry neck, a sore back and your face pressing up uncomfortably against the wooden surface.

But you're nothing if not tenacious. Tonight makes it the sixth night in a row that you’re doing this. You stare down the can of red bull on your dining table as you pick it up and lift it to your mouth. You’re going to keep going, hardness of the wooden table be damned.

You're surprised to find yourself waking up feeling well rested without any aches. Surrounded by the softness of your quilt and your even softer memory foam pillow.

The luxurious comfort of it all is such a relief that you don't even question it at first. Don't question why you're in bed when the last thing you remember was nodding off against the palm of your hand and the hard discomfort of your dining chair.

In the sanctuary of your bed, you just dig your face deeper into your pillow and snooze for as long as you can. Ignoring the bright sun pouring in from your windows until it sears unforgivingly against your skin and you decide that it’s finally time to start your day.

By habit, the first thing you do as you get up from bed is to pull up the nanny cam app on your phone and press play on last night's recording.

There's nothing of interest. Seeing yourself read a book by the dining table and chugging down a series of Red Bull is hardly riveting television.

Yesterday you barely even make it until midnight because you can see yourself nod off at the table, head sliding off your palm and plonking down on the dining table. You flinch at the impact, vaguely impressed that the collision didn't wake you.

Your (maybe vampire) Spiderman turns up at 3 am.

Much like the times before, he perches himself on your window sill, peering inside (presumably to check for any new traps you might have laid out for him).

His broad frame stiffens, and then, with a smooth leap, he's inside your apartment.

Excitement rushes to your head, because this is the furthest he’s gone and the first time he's come all the way inside instead of just lurking on the window sill.

He goes over to your bed, flinging the quilt to the side. He seems stressed, the dark shape of his eyes wide as he stands over the empty bed when it dawns on you what’s happening on screen right now.

Oh, he's worried.

He looks over at you, hunched over the dining table, sound asleep and oh god, is that drool on your cheek?

The line of his shoulder relaxes. The broadness of his chest rises then dips with a heavy exhale. Something warm trickles in your stomach at his obvious concern for you.

The mystery is confounding. You don't know him. You've never met him, but for some unfathomable reason he cares enough about you to genuinely care about your safety and you want to know why.

He makes his way over to the table where you are. The mask slowly ebbs away, uncovering his familiar chin, cheeks and then finally his eyes. An other-worldly shade of crimson that has you spellbound and transfixed on the screen.

You find yourself raising your phone closer to your face, trying to get a better look at him. Cursing the crappy quality of the video. You don't know what to make of the way he's looking at you. It's intensely focused, almost sad, and… and… And you don't know what, but it makes your heart leap up into your throat, chest clenching tight.

He bends over, wrapping his broad arms under your knees. He’s careful in his movements, cupping your head as it lolls to the side until you’re comfortably resting against his shoulders. It’s a practiced movement, as if he’s done this a hundred times before as he picks you up and carries you bridal style to your bed. Gingerly tucking you under the quilt with something that looks a lot like tenderness.

It leaves you with more questions than ever.

Ever since you started your caffeine chugging marathon, work has become a new kind of hell.

You're already half-asleep and nodding off at your desk by 10.30. Eyes sore and strained as you stare at the bright screen and try to make sense of the endless columns that are all different and also all the same until your brain refuses to try to make sense of any of it anymore.

You need to go for a walk. Clear your head.

Maybe pop out for a coffee... smoothie. Definitely smoothie.

Outside, the heat is oppressive, far too hot for only being May. Definitely too hot when there are this many tourists around. The street is so crowded you can barely make an inch of headway, trapped behind a family with a stroller in front, trapped in front of a pushy businessman who keeps stepping on your heels every two steps, and trapped next to a guy who is really into his airpods.

With the excess of caffeine still trying to make its way out of your system and the unforgiving heat of the sun beating against your back, it all has the effect of making you feel like you’re hung over. Your breakfast is roiling in your stomach. Sweat plastered against every inch of clothing. You don't know why you do this to yourself.

Every morning you tell yourself never again, and yet every night, there you were, spending half of your disposable income on energy drinks.

Starting from today, you're going cold turkey on the stuff. You've finally given up on trying to stay awake long enough to catch your super-stalker in his cookie burglar routine. Endlessly chugging down caffeine every night is not working out for you. Neither are the DIY mouse traps.

You're running low on ideas of how to trap him. You have nothing else to go on anymore. No idea on how to summon the man. The only time you know he'll be there is the moment before each near-death when he's there to save you.

What are you supposed to do with that? Purposely throw yourself off another building to lure him out?

That's crazy!

…Right?

But maybe... No! Definitely crazy.

Someone screams, and you snap out of your thoughts. There's yelling and terrified shrieks all around you. You're caught in the throng of people, panicked bodies pushing and pressing up against you, all of them trying to run the other way.

You dig in your heels, bracing yourself against the stampede of people. They’re pushing in from every direction until it’s impossible to move an inch. It’s hard to turn your body, when second after second, someone is pummeling into your side, knocking into your bruising shoulder. You barely manage to crane your neck back far enough when you finally spot it.

A red-green truck with a gigantic taco on its roof is careening towards you across the pavement, no driver behind the wheel. The sea of bodies parts around the out-of-control vehicle, people running left, right and forward to escape being crushed under the wheels.

There’s no time to react. It’s too close. Too fast.

A hand clutches at your wrist and pulls you backwards, your vision obscured as your face is pressed up against a familiar solid warmth.

"Hold onto me," he tells you, and you do.

You're held firm against him as the ground underneath your feet disappears, and everything feels weightless. Then all you hear is a loud thunderous crash.

Your feet touch back down on the ground, and the strong protective hold on you unravels.

When you open your eyes he's already gone. You're left on the corner of Lexington Avenue, still trying to catch your breath. The mob of people is still there all around you, but the panic has passed now, everyone is standing still. Everyone is observing the wreckage of the run amok truck that is now flipped onto its side, rendered harmless.

Miraculously, somehow, nobody around you seems visibly injured.

From a distance, you can hear sirens approaching with a deafening wail.

But your mind is elsewhere, on the shade of the familiar dark blue and red as you were being saved seconds ago. On his gentle voice in your ear that still thrums pleasantly in your chest.

You want to see him again.

It's Friday, and you break half an hour early for your designated 40 minutes of lunch, taking the elevator directly to the 72nd floor, which is under construction to renovate it into an open observation deck for the public next year.

The thing with commercial skyscrapers is that nowadays most of them have safety glass panels on all outside spaces of the upper floors to ensure that it is impossible to climb up the buildings and jump.

It's a safety feature that became standard after the financial crisis of 2008.

Turns out that imposing an 80 hour work week on your employees, where they don't get to see their family or friends or have a life outside of work, and then stripping them of their financial security makes a lot of people miserable and suicidal (who knew?)

The elevator pings open, and you exit into the construction zone, carefully avoiding the various tools scattered across the half-finished deck. On Fridays, the construction workers on the site leave by lunchtime, and the space is empty of people.

Step by step, you walk up towards the edge of the terrasse, until you stand before the temporary safety rail, looking out over the sprawling city below you. Cars look like tiny moving pebbles and the people, a hive of ants scurrying from street to street.

It’s a dizzying view. Both beautiful and grotesque in its grandeur. The 72nd floor will be 28 more floors to fall from than the 44th was.

The air around you seems to thin, and your stomach wants to crawl down to your feet and hold on to steady ground.

Taking a deep breath, you lift the hem of your shirt, running your hand over the safety harness strapped around your waist, reassuring yourself it's still there. Then you feel along the attached cord, using the carabiner at the end to clip it around the rod of the safety rail.

Being impulsive and daring in your quest is one thing. Reckless and stupid is another.

It’s not a real climbing rope and harness. Turns out professional safety gear is shockingly expensive, but you found a knock-off resistance training set, complete with harness and stretchy bungee cord rope, on Amazon for a very reasonable $15. You’ve already spent $72 on cookies, $50 dollars for a nanny cam set, and an extortionate $26 for stationary paper in your never-ending quest to lure out Fake Spiderman. You figure a rope is a rope, and you're not paying $100 more to get ripped off by the big climbing corporations. But you’re also not willing to go without.

After all, you've already fallen from the Chrysler building once, and you're not angling for a repeat.

As intent as you are on seeing your Spider-benefactor eye to eye, you're not quite prepared to die for the privilege. Your plan is just to make it look like you are going to jump.

Any superhero worth his dime wouldn't actually let you fall before they would be willing to save you.

That would be a real dick move.

You give your impromptu safety rig one last tug to make sure it's secure, then straighten your posture. Grabbing a hold of the metal rail, you hoist yourself up. You clamber onto it, gripping tight with shaking hands as you swing a leg over, straddling the bar.

Left leg then the right, until all of you are on the other side of the railing.

Then you stay there.

One second. Then two. You close your eyes and try not to look down at the many, many floors below, and how one gust of strong wind could probably knock you over and have you falling down the building again. You count the seconds that pass you by.

Five. Six. Seven.

A strong gust of wind blows through your side, and your legs buckle at the strong resistance, hand gripping down on the metal railing to hold yourself steady so you don't fall off.

Eightnineten! Ok. Fuck. No. You're good. Fuck this! He's not going to come.

If he didn’t come when you climbed over, he's not going to turn up now.

You briefly let go of the railing with one hand, adjusting your grip so you can climb back to safety. The sun beating down on your back disappears and is eaten up by a large and looming shadow. Every hair on the back of your neck prickles in warning.

Your reaction is too slow, you don't even have time to turn around to see what caused it. Then all you hear is an angry booming voice right next to your ear.

"Have you lost your goddamned mind?!"

You panic, flinging out your hand to catch the bar, but the hard metal of the railings isn't there anymore.

There is a sharp metallic snap. The safety rope around your waist splits from the hasp.

He’s calling your name.

The world tilts and everything goes upside down along with it. Your stomach sinks with a sickening plummet, legs dropping through into zero gravity as you find yourself staring up at the blue and endless New York sky.

Then you're falling from the Chrysler building.

Again.

Fuck!

~ Next Issue

Dedication & Credits: To my dearest @thirstworldproblemss who has to constantly listen to me jabber on about this day and night endlessly and forever. She is in every sense of the word a collaborator on this project. She brainstorms, she pitches in, she edits and she beta-reads. This and so many of my works would not exist without her, please send her all the love if you enjoyed this story.

I don’t have a tag list but please follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!

#miguel o'hara fic #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara fanfic #spiderverse #across the spiderverse #oscar isaac #spider man: across the spider verse #marvel #miguel ohara x reader #spiderverse fanfiction #across the spiderverse fanfiction #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x you

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cod-dump · 9 months ago

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Open Door (teen!Ghost au)

———

This wasn’t the conversation he was imagining when Kate called him to talk about the kids. John expected it to be just a talk between friends, not business.

“Boys been doing well?”

“Been doing very well. And Farah has settled nicely.”

“She’s been looking at universities, hasn’t she?”

It started off normal. They were sipping tea in the back garden, enjoying the breeze in the shade. The boys were off at Johnny’s, no doubt causing mayhem. Not that the MacTavishes weren’t experts in chaos, John wasn’t worried about getting a phone call about his boys’ behavior from Mrs. Muriel MacTavish.

“I’ve been talking with the Shadow’s CO.”

John bristled at the mention of the mercenary. He looked at Kate, questioning why she would even bring him up when they were talking about their families.

“As you know, he’s become Gary’s full time guardian.”

“But?”

“But… he’s not quite… ready to handle a kid. Especially not one as young as Gary, or as traumatized.”

He didn’t like where this was going.

“He accepted being the kid’s guardian without being ready to take care of him when the need arises?”

“John, he didn’t expect to lose men coming here. With our operation, and, hell, even Nik’s, not it’s not a dangerous place.”

John could hear the unspoken words on the tip of her tongue.

“It’s- This isn’t my area of expertise-“

“Kate, just say it.”

Kate swallows, “Can you take in Gary? At least help care for him until Phillip can take him?”

John lets out a deep breath, there it was. He sets down his cup of tea and leans back, covering his eyes. Kate continued talking.

“After Simon’s transformation I have no higher recommendation for Gary’s care.”

“I have a dog, a cat, a fucking pigeon, three kids, and a Nik in my house.”

“You have the room. Plus Phillip will pay you for all of Gary’s needs and then some. He wants to come over as often as possible, too, to help in any way he can with him.”

John takes a breath before his uncovers his eyes and looks at Kate.

“You really can’t take him?”

“Annie is already doing twelve hour shifts and I’m running the office and helping Alex with his physical therapy and running him to his extracurricular activities. Like I said, after Simon? I no one else more capable that I trust to do this.”

“Oh fuck me- Fine! How much is he willing to pay?”

“£5’000 a month.”

John chokes as he sits up, “You’re joking-“

“No, sir. From my understanding, Phillip Graves is a very wealthy man and he doesn’t half ass anything.”

“Fuck… lead with the money, damn.”

Kate snorted, "Didn't take you as a greedy man, John."

John rolls his eyes, was he really agreeing to this? He wasn't doing as many 'jobs' as of late, mostly running to the office every month and doing surveillance of the town. Compared to how his life was years ago before Simon, he has a lot of free time. But he wasn't sure he was prepared to possible have another Simon in the home.

The hours that went into loving him and helping him get on his feet was worth it but... John wasn't sure he had another decade of that left.

"I'll send you Phillip's contact information so you two can start coming up with an agreement."

"I'm really doing this..."

"I'm not forcing you."

John glared and Kate rolled her eyes before continuing.

"I'm not forcing, just heavily persuading you."

"Forcing."

"Fine, forcing. This could give us a good in with Shadow CO. Besides, I forced you to care for Simon. Of course I dropped Kyle off at your door a few years after that. Do you regret that?

John didn't even have to think about it, "Never."

"Then give the poor kid a chance. I know you'll love him."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

The door opened and Annie called out.

"We're home! Hide the bank blueprints!"

John couldn't help but snort as Kate grinned and stood. She left into the kitchen to greet her wife and kid, giving John an opportunity to escape before he agrees to something else he's not entirely sure about. As he walked into the hall, he caught a glimpse of Alex darting down the hall to his room. Annie was having her coat taken from her by Kate, the woman having that same smitten look she had the day she met her.

Annie spotted John and grinned, "Hey, stranger. Feel like you've been avoiding me."

"You? Never. Her? I try."

Kate gave him a playful glare, "Leaving?"

"If I stay out too long Nik starts getting anxious. And with my boys it's infectious."

Annie gives an understanding nods, "Better not keep him waiting then. Oh! And before you go-"

Annie stepped away from Kate to grab a book from the shelf nearby. She handed it over and John immediately recognized it as a science workbook, "Kyle left this here the other day. I was going to have Alex give it to him at school Monday but he won't be there."

John fought the amused grin that tried to show itself. There was something so inherently sweet about Alex and Kyle's budding relationship.

"I'll make sure he gets it."

John managed to make it outside to his car before Kate stopped him.

"John-"

"I'm going to talk to Nik about it tonight, and you know he can't turn away a stray."

"You won't be able to back out then."

"Exactly why I have to tell him."

Kate smiled, "Tell him if you take in another kid that he has to stop trying to catch one of the neighborhood raccoons."

John laughed out loudly, "Oh, you know that won't happen."

They said tonight and John pulled out of the driveway, preparing himself for what was ahead of him. He thought back to when Simon was first brought home. He wasn't supposed to stay long but three weeks in John was ready to fight the world for him. Simon coming into his life was a blessing, Nik came along and apparently they were a package deal, and them being in his life opened the door to Kyle and then Farah.

He wasn't going to turn away Gary, and he wasn't going to turn away the man who was seemingly determined to do right by the kid. It was the right thing to do, reaching out for help, and John could overlook the fact that the man was a foreign mercenary for the sake of the child. John was hoping, even praying, that this wouldn't lead to anything. But considering what taking in Simon lead him to, he was too curious, maybe even eager, to see what else was brought into his life.

#teen!ghost au #john price #kate laswell #gary roach sanderson #pricenik #dad john price #dad price #ficlet #drabble #guess who has access to a computer again finally :)))#adopted au

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im-ignoring-canon · 2 months ago

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You can bet that once Percy and Annabeth finally got along, the whoooole camp regretted it. Forget being the heroes who saved Olympus, the camp feared them for the pure CHAOS they caused on a daily basis. Flooding the dining hall? That was them. Constructing a house of cards taller than the Big House only for it to fall on Chiron? Them. Somehow tunneling from Half Blood Hill to the shoreline and installing secret entrances just for funsies? You guessed it! It was those little shits. Nobody in camp was safe from the mayhem these twelve year olds were capable of causing.

#it's not even pranks in the same way it is for the stoll brothers #they just get crazy ideas and have to execute them #using their combined genius #this is such an adhd mood tho #pjo #pjo hoo toa #annabeth chase #percy jackson #percabeth #chb #camp half blood #percy jackon and the olympians

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inkspiredwriting · 11 months ago

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Baby Mayhem

Five Hargreeves x Fem!reader

Warnings: none

Five Hargreeves and his wife have had many adventures, but the greatest adventure was babysitting Diego and Lila’s baby, Elena. Diego and Lila needed a break, and since Five and Y/N were the most capable (and arguably most sane) of the siblings, they reluctantly agreed.

Elena, a cherubic little girl with big brown eyes and a mischievous smile, seemed innocent enough. But she had inherited her parents’ superpowers. Diego’s uncanny knife-throwing accuracy and Lila’s power to mimic anyone’s abilities combined in a way that resulted in sheer chaos.

It started innocently. Five and Y/N welcomed Diego and Lila at the door, exchanging the usual pleasantries. Diego handed over a diaper bag, looking more nervous than he ever did during a fight.

“Thanks for doing this,” Diego said. “Just… be careful.”

“Careful? She’s a baby,” Five scoffed. “How hard can it be?”

Lila smirked. “You’ll see.”

With that ominous warning, they left, and Five and Y/N were alone with Elena. Y/N lifted her gently, cooing softly. “Aren’t you the cutest thing? We’re going to have so much fun today.”

Five stood by, arms crossed, trying to appear nonchalant. “We’ve faced worse, Y/N. Piece of cake.”

The first sign of trouble came during feeding time. Y/N had prepared a bottle, and as she tried to feed Elena, the baby’s eyes locked onto Five’s coffee mug on the table. With a flick of her tiny wrist, the mug flew across the room, narrowly missing Five’s head.

“Whoa!” Five ducked, eyes wide. “Did she just—”

Y/N laughed nervously. “It’s okay, sweetie. Let’s try this again.”

Elena giggled, clearly enjoying the mayhem she was causing. Over the next hour, the baby demonstrated an impressive range of abilities. She mimicked Five’s time-jumping power, blinking in and out of sight and reappearing in random spots around the apartment. Each time, Five and Y/N had to scramble to find her.

“Where did she go now?” Five groaned, looking under the couch.

Y/N pointed to the bookshelf, where Elena was giggling. “How are we supposed to get her down?”

Five sighed, rubbing his temples. “This is going to be a long day.”

Things escalated during diaper change time. As soon as Y/N removed Elena’s diaper, the baby started teleporting around the room, giggling uncontrollably. Five chased after her, slipping on baby wipes and narrowly avoiding colliding with furniture.

“Elena, stay still!” Five called out, exasperated.

Y/N, trying to stifle her laughter, managed to catch Elena mid-teleport and secure the diaper. “Gotcha! You’re a slippery little one, aren’t you?”

The afternoon passed in a blur of chaos. Elena used Diego’s power to throw toys with alarming precision, knocking over lamps and picture frames. She mimicked Allison’s persuasion ability, causing Five to sing ridiculous nursery rhymes and Y/N to dance around the living room. Despite the madness, there were moments of pure joy and laughter.

Finally, as evening approached, Elena began to tire out. Y/N managed to get her into pajamas, and Five read her a story. Elena’s eyelids drooped, and she eventually fell asleep in Y/N’s arms.

Five and Y/N collapsed onto the couch, exhausted but relieved. “We survived,” Five said, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Y/N chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Barely. But she’s adorable, isn’t she?”

Five nodded, a soft smile forming on his lips. “Yeah, she is. But next time, we’re setting some ground rules with Diego and Lila.”

As if on cue, the doorbell rang, and Diego and Lila returned, looking refreshed and grateful. “How did it go?” Lila asked, taking a sleepy Elena from Y/N’s arms.

“Piece of cake,” Five replied with a smirk, exchanging a knowing glance with Y/N.

Diego raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

Y/N laughed. “Let’s just say she’s a handful, but we managed.”

As they said their goodbyes, Five and Y/N closed the door and turned to each other. “Next time, let’s just have a normal, quiet day,” Five suggested.

Y/N nodded in agreement, leaning into him. “Absolutely. But I have to admit, it was kind of fun.”

Five sighed, pulling her close. “Yeah, it was. But let’s not make a habit of it.”

They shared a laugh, grateful for their quiet home and each other, ready to face whatever craziness the next day might bring—hopefully without any super-powered babies.

#five hargreeves imagines #five hargreeves x reader #five hargreeves x you #number five imagine #number five x reader #the umbrella academy #number five #number five one shot

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something-wild-calls · 5 months ago

Note

What is Pari in this universe?

Pari is an imp.

A creature of legend said to be dangerous pests, often with kill-on-sight orders.

Legends say that they are capable of injecting a venom that allows them to control people's minds, and it's said that they use this to cause mayhem or even steal away people as their prey or playthings. Because of the fear this brings to people, they are to be killed as soon as possible, making them an incredibly rare species to see in present day...

There's more to them, but I'll stop it here for now. :>

#Ask #Creature Lore #Lore

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crzyzombii · 3 months ago

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𝐌𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 “𝐇𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐦𝐞𝐧!”!

(First designs lol)

Milo!

The firstborn! Milo is the photographer and photojournalist of the team, capturing ever moment of chaos, glamour, and villainy that surrounds Vivid Vice. Unlike his colorful siblings, Milo is the only one who doesn’t speak despite having a voice box. Still, he expresses himself through his work, letting his photos tell the stories he can’t.

Milo is loyal to a fault, and follows Vice everywhere like a lost puppy. Secretly, hes Vices favorite, a fact she keeps under wraps to avoid stirring drama among the others (shhh, don’t tell)…

Vee!

The second born and the teams tech genius. As the broadcast technician and engineer, He’s a natural problem-solver, endlessly tinkering with equipment, fixing glitches, and building gadgets from scraps. If it buzzes, blinks, or beeps, Vee probably made it or took it apart to see how it worked.

Despite his brilliance, Vee has a tendency to overwork himself, pulling all-nighters as he dives headfirst into every tech project. His siblings often have to remind him to take a break. He’s curious about everything, sometimes a little too much for his own good. But deep down, he’s proud to use her skills to support Vice’s vision, even if it means putting up with the chaos that comes with it.

zzıℲ

[R̵̠̠͛̀͗̄͑̄͒͠ͅẼ̸͕̻͒̒D̶͓͓̲̿͐͜À̵͖͎͕͕̜̺͜ͅC̴̡̢̛̱͔͔̒̔̈́̈́T̵͍̦͖̽̅̒̈͛͌̈̒͜E̵͓͉̞̥̖̅͊̄̅̃̎̾ͅD̷̨̩̜́̐]

Dazzle!

The Fourth born Thirdborn and the groups social butterfly! Dazzle is the social media manager, ensuring Vivid Vice’s online presence is as dazzling as her name suggests. Whether it’s tweeting villain updates, posting behind the scenes chaos, or uploading dramatic selfies, Dazzle is always online and always fabulous. He can’t go five minutes without checking his phone, and he refuses to apologize for it.

Sassy, stylish, and a bit vain, Dazzle has a sarcastic personality that often leads to playful clashes with his siblings. He has a sharp wit and isn’t afraid to throw out a snarky comment, but he’s also fiercely protective of his family. Underneath the attitude is a bear who genuinely loves his work, always striving to make Vice’s brand bigger, better, and bolder.

Ryder and Evergreen!

The Twins! Born from the same batch of creativity, but with totally different vibes. Ryder, is an adventurous go getter with big dreams and a natural leadership vibe. He’s confident, sometimes to a fault, and thrives on taking charge. Evergreen, is the opposite—quiet, introspective, and always lost in thought. While Ryder is coming up with wild ideas, Evergreen is there to balance him out with careful planning. Together, they’re the producers, writers and editors of Vice’s show, turning her chaotic ideas into something almost coherent (she never follows their scripts though).

Trix!

The youngest of the crew and the wild card of the family. Trix is the camera operator, though “operator” might be a generous term. She’s mischievous, unpredictable, and full of energy, always looking for her next prank or adventure. Vice gave her the camera job partly to keep her occupied, but Trix has surprisingly grown to love it, even if she spends just as much time filming her siblings’ misfortunes as she does the actual news.

Trix is fiercely independent and doesn’t take orders well, which can lead to some interesting results on set. She’s the type to make up her own rules as she goes along, much to the frustration of her older siblings. But beneath her chaotic exterior is a bear who just wants to prove she’s capable of handling the job—and maybe cause a little harmless mayhem along the way.

A few little facts about all of them:

Vivid Vice made them all with the same mixture, but with different technique hence why they’re all so different personality-wise.

There is no coherent reason as to why the mixture actually works, but Vivid Vice suggests it’s all in the plush heart she made for each and every one of them.

For some reason, they can’t die out of loss or limb or having barely any stuffing, but they can die if their heart gets damaged in any way. Even if you try to repair it, the bear won’t come back to life the same way they used to be. Vivid learned it the hard way.

None of them have to eat, drink or sleep to survive.

They have a “sleep mode” button, Vivid is the one who has to tuck them in at night and click it.

None of them have a gender, but they do like to switch it up sometimes

They all refer to Vivid Vice as their “Mom”

Vivid Vice created them as a tribute to the Care Bears, the first show that she became hyperfixated on.

#despicable me oc #oc art #my art #despicable me #despicableme #oc artwork #minions

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gutsby · 2 years ago

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Easy Street

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Summary: You steal a cop car and almost run Daryl over en route to the Sanctuary. You can’t decide if you want to fight him, fuck him, or bring him back to Negan. Lucky for you, Daryl is game for all three.

Warnings: NSFW. Attempted vehicular manslaughter. Enemies to lovers to enemies again. Hatefucking, facefucking, and a fair share of overstimulation. Age gap. Loss of virginity. Dirty talk so foul it may set feminism back several centuries. 7.5k words + this fucking song.

“You are one sick son of a bitch.”

Gripping the steering wheel in one hand and the Collapsable Hearts Club cassette case in the other, you shook your head, disturbed. Even in the sunlight, the miniature music cartridge looked sinister. You flung it to the side.

How Negan could force-feed this shit to his prisoners was beyond you.

You were barely two verses into the song and ready to swerve your Crown Vic into a ditch—it was that bad. In spite of the fiercely upbeat tempo and catchy melody, each spoken word was like nails on a chalkboard. The lyrics almost taunting in how unfit they were for the cacophony of this tune:

We’re on easy street. And it feels so sweet. ‘Cause the world is but a treat—

“—when you’re on easy street,” you finished, reflexively.

Shit. You had to turn this off. You’d drive yourself insane if you listened another minute, you were sure. Your eyes darted to the dashboard and searched for the radio dial in a frantic look. Spotting it almost immediately, you clenched your hand in a fist and struck the button. Hard. Just wanting—needing—the music to stop.

But, to your horror, your careless right hook did just the opposite: instead of shutting off the song, it simply knocked the age-old button off the stereo system. You watched with eyes the size of dinner plates as the metal knob glanced off the gearshift and disappeared into the carpet below, taking with it all your hopes and dreams of escaping this musical torment.

You let loose a string of expletives and scrambled across the seat, almost forgetting you were driving. The tires of the police cruiser you’d hijacked just hours before went veering to the left. You managed to right the car mere seconds before it went flying off the road, but not before you tried retrieving the missing dial.

And we’re breakin’ out the good champagne…

The car swung wide to the side.

We’re sittin’ pretty on the gravy train…

“Where the fuck did it go?!”

And when we sing, every sweet refrain repeats…

“SHUT UP!”

Right here on easy street.

Before you could throw another punch at the dashboard, your whole body lurched forward and your face bashed the center of the steering wheel. Your cop car, freshly dented with the impact of a body you’d just struck, went spinning for a moment before coming to a screeching halt some yards down the road. Fickle bastards that happened to be your airbags didn’t bother to deploy.

You lifted your head from the shattered Ford logo in front of you and groaned.

Catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror to see the bruised and bloodied mayhem that had taken the place of your face, you barely flinched. You weren’t sure why, or how, it had happened, but from start to finish you remained fully conscious. And fucking infuriated.

With a strength you hardly thought yourself capable of, you hoisted your body out of the car. Blinked hard against the rays of sunlight now searing your eyes, and made a circuit—half-limped, half-staggered in a zigzag sort of fashion—around the back of the car. You wavered on numb, unsteady feet before reaching clumsily into your back pocket.

A smile that resembled something more of a grimace made its way to your face as your fingers closed around the base of your Browning Hi-Power. Whatever dipshit walker that had crossed paths with your vehicle and caused you to wreck was about to get its head pumped full of lead, if it wasn’t dead already.

But just as you started to turn the corner and raise your gun, a strangled voice broke out:

“Hey, hey, stop! STOP!”

You stalled in your tracks and almost dropped your weapon. Either your vision had gone to shit or your mind was playing tricks, but you could’ve sworn you saw a man waving his arms in a panic. Then he stopped.

You readjusted your grip on your pistol and kept it aimed at his head.

“Who the hell are you?”

The man paused a beat to eye you up and down, incredulous.

“You kiddin’?” he retorted.

When it looked as though he was moving closer to you, you fired a shot over his shoulder. The man jumped like a cat on hot bricks and slapped a hand over his ear, yelling,

“’Fuck was that for?!”

“I said, ‘Who are you?’” Your voice steadied with the recognition of your clear advantage.

The man, on the other hand, looked redder than ever. Though he didn’t budge an inch from his place and kept his hands held up in surrender, you could sense from the look on his face he was seething.

“Daryl,” he spat.

“Daryl who?”

“Daryl the-guy-you-just-hit-with-your-car, asshole.”

This time, you were the one to give him a skeptical once-over. Scanning his body for any signs of harm, only to make out a scrape on his cheek the size of your pinky. You wiped the back of your hand over a nose that was presently spurting blood like the Trevi Fountain and frowned.

“Y’don’t exactly look like roadkill to me,” you said flatly.

For the first time, Daryl’s mouth betrayed a hint of a smirk, and he tipped his chin in the direction behind you.

You turned, following his gaze, and eventually lowered your eyes to a lump in the road down yonder. You squinted.

“Is that a—” you started.

“Deer? Yeah.” Daryl finished.

When you angled back to face him, you saw the sour look had returned.

“Was s’posed’a be my dinner ‘til yer goddamn cop car chewed it up,” he said with a scowl.

So it was the deer he’d been carrying that you’d hit and sent your car to shit, and this man was bitching over a lost meal and a busted cheek? You almost couldn’t believe what you were hearing, your jaw starting to clench at the sight of him.

The man carried on, oblivious, “If ye hadn’t been blastin’ yer music so loud maybe you’d’a seen me standin’ in the road with a fuckin’ carcass on my back.”

“Well I wasn’t—”

“Payin’ attention? I figured,” Daryl bit back before you could finish.

Then, after a beat, “Who are ye anyway?”

This part was bound to be fun. The stranger looking you up and down like you were nuts didn’t have a clue who you were, but you had a feeling he knew a thing or two about your people. The Saviors had a way of making their presence known among neighboring communities. You figured by the looks of this guy, he was just another boneheaded denizen of The Kingdom—or worse yet, Alexandria.

You flashed a smile and supplied, “I’m Negan.”

You’d been a Savior all of three weeks and hadn’t yet made the proclamation to anyone outside your camp before, so this felt like a particularly momentous occasion. You were eager to see how Daryl would respond. If it instilled even a fraction of the fear in him as it did in others—you know, when Negan Negan was swinging his beloved, barbed wire bat and saying those things—you’d be happy. If he showed so much as a morsel of deference to you, this would have all been worth it.

Instead, Daryl laughed.

Not a polite laugh, either. A sidesplitting, wide grinning sort of laugh that sent shockwaves through his body and had him doubling over in hysterics. Your cheeks flushed.

“No shit?” he wheezed, “Negan’s got a—a goddamn Barbie doll doing his bidding now?”

“Fuck you.”

“Sorry, G.I. Jane.”

You’d heard enough of this. Had enough of him. You rubbed your blood-streaked face for the last time and turned on your heels. Stalking off in the other direction, the sounds of his laughter hardly seemed to subside, but it was apparent he wasn’t quite finished.

“I’m sorry,” he called after you, likely biting back a smile, “’m bein’ a prick, I know.”

You kept walking and pretended not to hear when footsteps bounded after you. You weren’t sure where you were going, or how you’d be getting there without a car, but you had a hunch that anywhere without Daryl was a place you’d like to be. When you felt a hand on your shoulder, you shrugged it off and told him to shove it.

“Hey— I’m tryin’ to be nice here,” he protested.

When you turned to tell him it generally wasn’t a nice person’s prerogative to remind others they were nice, you stopped. Glanced down at Daryl’s outstretched arm and saw black fabric in his hand. And, just above it, his bare chest.

He’d torn off his sleeveless shirt and was holding it out to you.

“Here,” he grumbled, “For yer nose.”

You eyed the top with mild distrust and hesitated to take it. Daryl rolled his eyes.

You felt your whole body tense when a hand reached out to grab you. Gruff and graceless as ever, Daryl tugged you closer to him.

“Don’t move.”

You couldn’t help but wince when he dragged the material over your face. Certainly wasn’t gentle with it but seemed to make quick work of the dried blood nonetheless. You watched him closely as he continued to dab the makeshift medicinal rag over your lips and nose, and for a moment, he almost looked serene.

“So you’re part of Negan’s harem, huh?”

And the moment was gone. You glared at Daryl.

“I don’t fuck old guys,” you snorted.

As soon as your words hit the air, you cringed inwardly. Why did you say it like that?

It was true, Negan called you his wife—though you hardly considered him your husband—and the two of you had yet to consummate your marriage. You imagined that day would come eventually, but if you were honest with yourself, you really didn’t want to think what that night might entail. You’d barely made it to second base with your last boyfriend.

Presently, Daryl placed a hand over his heart in mock offense.

“Ouch.”

No doubt the man before you had you beat in years, too. By a landslide. He might’ve been a couple years younger than Negan, but he certainly didn’t look it. Had a hint of a youthful aura, if there was such a thing. An eternally cool fifty-something with the attitude of a man more than two decades his junior. You wondered for one brief, fleeting second if he might have the stamina of one too. You quickly regained your senses and felt the urge to barf in your mouth.

This man could be my father, you thought.

This man could be my “father,” your dirtier subconscious suggested.

“Ew,” you said aloud.

Daryl looked up from his current occupation and raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry, I just—” You scrambled for a semi-plausible explanation for your outburst, “—just really hate the sight of blood.”

Daryl chuckled.

“Bullshit. I bet you’ve got some freaky kink for it,” he returned teasingly.

You were just then starting to suspect you might have a fetish for something else. You swallowed.

The taut, toned muscles in Daryl’s arms looked impossibly larger now that they were coated in sweat. With every forceful wipe of his hand, you saw some new bead of moisture fall from his skin or else dribble down his front, forming clusters of tiny rivulets that went trickling off his body. Like a tanned, trim stream of water you just wanted to lick—

“Clean!” Daryl announced, taking a step back to admire his work.

You suspected you still looked like shit, but you didn’t really care. You were too busy ogling Daryl’s body with a look of wanton lust to know, or care, or see much else, including the smirk that had begun to creep onto Daryl’s face.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he sneered, chucking his shirt at you.

You barely managed to catch it as you felt a blush rise to your cheeks.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you replied, a little too defensively for your liking.

You swallowed your embarrassment with a scowl and started off in the other direction.

“Where ya headed?” Daryl shouted after you.

“Sanctuary.”

“Can I come?”

“No.”

“Can I please come?”

“Not unless you’re looking to have your head on a pike outside of it.”

Daryl grinned, “The thought might’ve crossed my mind.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Just when you came across a man with all the appearances of a perfectly aged fine wine and a killer body to boot, you find out he’s just as juvenile and dense as the rest of them. He continued to trot alongside you.

“You scared your husband’s gonna give you a whoopin’ or sumn’?” Daryl quipped.

“He’s not my husband,” you lied.

“Oh yeah?” he pressed.

“Yeah.”

“Then prove it.”

You slowed your pace to shoot him a look. He slowed a little too.

“I don’t have to prove anything,” you snapped.

Daryl raised his hands in defense, smiling just slightly.

“Never said you had to.”

You started to resume your trek again, only to halt a moment later when Daryl cut in:

“Yer a virgin, aren’t ya?”

This time the two of you came to a complete stop in the middle of the road. You saw the smug look on his face and wanted nothing more than to knock him on his ass.

“What did you just say?” Giving him a chance to fix his mistake.

Daryl did no such thing, only smiling even wider and crossing his arms.

“Just seems like you’ve never been fucked before,” he shrugged.

That was it. Without thinking twice, you shoved him hard in the chest and pushed him back a couple paces. Balled your hands into fists and nearly started pummeling his front, were it not for Daryl’s quick reflexes and frustrating ability to snag your two hands into one of his. He easily held your wrists captive above your head and squeezed them together—barely making an effort to restrain them and somehow doing it softly.

“You done?” he asked, unbothered.

You kicked him in the shin. This time he yelped, loosening his grip on you and leaving you space enough to break free. You contemplated another kick or shove for good measure, but seeing the enraged look on his face, you sensed it was in your best interest to flee. So you took off down the road.

You tore down the tarmac like a bat out of hell and chanced a quick look over your shoulder, only to see Daryl sprinting after you. Your stomach all but fell out your ass, and you kicked it into high gear as fast as you could.

“COME HERE!” Daryl bellowed behind you.

Your years outrunning walkers might finally have come in handy now. You sucked in a breath and took off like a shot, racing up the street with Daryl hot on your heels. With every second that passed, you sensed he was lagging further back. If you hadn’t been so scared he might beat you to a bloody pulp, you would’ve flipped him the bird or turned around to stick your tongue out.

The distance between you was even greater now. Your lungs were tight but breathing fine, and behind you, Daryl was audibly panting like a dog. You smirked to yourself.

Perhaps pushing your luck, you slowed down just a bit. Tried to stave off the oncoming wave of lactic acid soon to be stinging your muscles and keep the stomach cramps at bay. With your breaths growing more ragged and shallow by the second, you knew you couldn’t keep at this for too much longer. One of you would have to surrender at some point, and you knew it wouldn’t be you.

You were just then starting to regain speed when you felt something snag your waist. Before you could spare a look to the source of it, Daryl’s arm had already looped fully round your midsection and locked firmly in place. From there, his frame did the rest of the work as he took you both to the ground.

Daryl fell first. Got the wind knocked out of him and ate a face full of asphalt just in time for you to hit his body before you struck the concrete below. He let out a groan beneath you.

Together, you made a heaving, shaking mess in the middle of the road. Your body splayed over his, his arm still hooked around your hips, and the pair of you moaning and swearing and trying like hell to untangle yourselves from one another. You struggled to get upright, but your palms slipped on Daryl’s sweat-slick chest and sent you headfirst into his face. Daryl had just started to sit up when you knocked him flat on his back.

Nose-to-nose and practically panting into each other’s mouths, you shared a single, silent look—and simultaneously conjured up one of the worst ideas either of you had had to date.

“Wanna—” Daryl started.

“Yes.”

You and the man you’d just wanted to beat the living shit out of went shedding clothes like leaves off a tree. Daryl tearing the shirt off your body—so fast he damn near took your head off with it—and you fumbling at the buckle of his belt and whining at the feeling of a growing mound beneath you.

You freed belt, button, zipper, and boxers in a matter of seconds. Shocking even yourself, you started tugging his jeans down his legs, but Daryl stopped you.

“Leave it,” he grunted.

Before you knew it, he was hoisting himself off the ground with you still straddling his waist. Arms securing themselves under you and eyes searching wildly for the nearest car to fuck you on, Daryl groaned when your lips attached themselves to his neck. At length he settled on a long-abandoned Honda Civic perched on the edge of the road and dropped you onto the hood of it.

“Yer a shit driver, y’know that?” he said, yanking your shorts down your body.

You kicked them off at your ankles and inched yourself a little higher on the hood.

“Ever thought I meant to hit you?”

Daryl chuckled at that. Then he started lowering himself between your legs.

You’d been playing it unbelievably cool up until that point. Quick, witty, and nonchalant to a fault, as though you’d done this all a million times before. But inside you were panicked, fighting hard to keep your breaths in check and your stomach from twisting itself into knots. What was he planning to do with you? You’d only seen this stuff in movies, maybe once or twice in an incognito browser you’d opened years ago. You never thought you’d be doing any of it yourself—much less with a man twice your age and little more than a stranger to you—and suddenly, stupidly, you started to worry you might disappoint him.

You hadn’t even noticed Daryl had slipped down the length of your torso toward your heat. You tensed.

The next thing you felt was his hot breath fanning across your thighs, and you couldn’t help but try clamping them together, catching his head between the two of them.

“Ain’t even touched you yet,” he teased, glancing up at you.

You sincerely hoped neither your eyes nor your trembling thighs would give you away, but the look on Daryl’s face revealed just as much. Gaze still locked with yours, he offered a lopsided grin and started to bring his head even lower. Then, gently, he pressed a kiss over your panties. Then another. Then another.

You felt shivers the size of seismic waves pass over your body and he hadn’t so much as dipped a finger inside you. Slowly, you lifted your hips at Daryl’s behest and felt the fabric of your underwear disappear somewhere down your legs.

“We ain’t gotta do this if you’re—”

“Shut up,” you said, exasperated.

“Yes ma’am.”

Daryl imparted one last kiss to your aching core—this time unclothed—and groaned when he felt how wet you were before him. Almost immediately, his tongue darted out and licked a stripe up your slit. You moaned, squeezing your thighs even tighter.

Daryl didn’t mind. Just the opposite, in fact, as he delved deeper and flattened his tongue over your heat. Lapped up your juices and smirked when he felt you squirm above him.

“Dar—oh,” you began, only to break off in a semi-shriek when he found your clit with the tip of his tongue.

“Wha’s’at?” Daryl’s voice came out muffled between your legs. Then lifting his head to be heard a little clearer, “You say sumn’, sugar?”

Your hands acted with a mind of their own as they hurriedly shoved his head back down.

“Don’t stop,” you hissed. You hardly knew what had come over you.

You heard one more muted, ‘Yes ma’am,’ and Daryl went dutifully back to his occupation of tongue-fucking you senseless. Coordinating a lethal combination of kissing, licking, sucking, and occasionally curling a finger inside you, he all but had you convulsing on the car with little to no hope of not cumming in his mouth. You threaded your fingers through his hair and yanked hard as the knot in your stomach started to tighten. One or two more suctioned kisses and a single lick between your folds and you’d be gone.

However, not long after that, Daryl did the cruelest thing you could’ve expected. He stopped.

Straightening up and taking a step back to marvel at the mess he’d made, he felt himself getting harder. All while you cussed and whined about how unfair he was being, he was concocting the filthiest thoughts imaginable. He grabbed both your ankles and jerked you closer. Then, crawling over you with pupils blown wide in lust, he seized hold of your throat in one hand and yanked you up hard to greet him.

You gagged, dragged your fingers helplessly over the single hand that was holding you up, and nearly started seeing stars when Daryl brought his face even closer to yours.

“You don’t cum ‘til I tell you to,” he said through gritted teeth, before letting go of your neck as quickly as he’d caught it and watching you fall back on your ass.

Sprawled out on the hood of the Honda, you cursed your deep-rooted daddy issues for finding that act of aggression arousing. You feigned an angry look and pouted up at him.

Before you could mouth off just to make him even angrier, you felt yourself manhandled once more: this time, plucked off the car and into Daryl’s arms. He promptly shifted your weight to one side and freed one of his hands to start fooling with something you couldn’t see beneath you. When you heard the rustle of fabric and felt him start to strain a little, you got the picture.

Daryl returned you to the car—this time, straddling him on the hood of it.

When he’d made himself comfortable and lifted you over his hips, he said, “You didn’t answer me earlier.”

“About what?” you huffed, already antsy with impatience.

“’bout this.” Daryl slipped a hand between your bodies and grazed your cunt with his knuckle. You pursed your lips tight to suppress the moan that followed.

“What about it?” you whined, trying, and failing, to steady your voice.

The corners of Daryl’s mouth twitched at the sight of you growing flustered. Quietly, he extended one finger and dragged it up your slit. Pretended not to hear when you whimpered his name.

“Have y’ever been fucked there?” he asked casually.

You had long since lost the tolerance for games. You shook your head and told him, “No.”

“What about here?”

Daryl beckoned you with the fingers of his free hand, and when you leaned in, brought them up to your lips. He cupped your chin and tapped your mouth, as if to accentuate his question.

“Nuh-uh,” you said, quietly.

If it were possible for Daryl to get any harder, he would have. You weren’t just a virgin, but an absolute, unadulterated novice to the world of depravity that infiltrated his every desire. Something about the artlessness and innocence in an amateur like yourself sent the blood pumping straight to his cock as he imagined all the things he could teach you. He couldn’t keep from staring at your lips, imagining his member pumping back and forth between them, or at your eyes, wondering how they’d lock with his the moment he pushed inside you. All thoughts of a rough and ruthless piledriver fuck escaped his brain as he sat back and simply relished the idea of being your first. It was all he could think about.

You, on the other hand, weren’t quite picking up what he was putting down and found yourself shifting uncertainly above him. Wondering if you had done something to upset him as he continued to watch you with a thousand-yard stare and didn’t say a word.

“Is that...okay?” you asked, your voice now barely above a whisper.

Daryl’s gaze flitted to yours, and he almost groaned at the wide-eyed expression of naïveté on your face.

Instead of answering, he took your hips in his hands and dragged your lower half over his. Letting you feel, for the first time, just how swollen and erect he was beneath you. Your breath hitched a little in your throat, but you couldn’t deny the sensation was incredible. As before, your body just sort of acted of its own accord and started rubbing against him, while you hoped, implacably, that whatever you were doing was normal. Judging by the sound he let out moments later you deduced that it was.

You hardly realized it yourself, but your heat was dripping with arousal. Coating Daryl’s cock with every gyration of your body while the man below you had only to grit his teeth and hiss at the sensation. When he glanced down to watch you, he almost groaned with pleasure.

“I need to fuck you,” he blurted out, half-declaration, half-plea.

That drove the point home well enough.

You watched with some amusement as Daryl continued to clench his jaw and fight with every fiber of his being not to buck his hips up into you. You almost felt tempted to giggle when all of a sudden Daryl took your face in his hands. Then he kissed you, deeply.

You were taken aback by the gesture but kissed him back all the same, surprised neither of you had made an attempt to do it before. With no great difficulty at all, your mouths melded into one another as he gripped the sides of your face and pulled you even closer. He slipped his tongue between your lips, and you tasted a tang of yourself still lingering on it. You opened your mouth a little wider in the hopes Daryl would afford you more of it.

But then, as quickly as he’d started, he stopped. He pulled away, looked you up and down, and swallowed.

“You sure y’want to?” he murmured.

Presently, and impatient as you were, you decided to take a page from Daryl’s book and gratify his question with a wordless answer. You rolled your hips over his and pushed the head of his cock against your wet, aching hole, peering into his eyes with the purest ‘fuck-me’ look you could muster.

Daryl was already gripping the base of his cock and angling it toward your entrance. Hoping you wanted this as badly as he did, pondering with some apprehension how he might fit you and whether it’d feel good for you at first or take some getting used to—all while needing you on him, around him, filled to the brim with every inch and pleading for more. Unlike himself, he found it near impossible to make that first push inside you, still plagued with the thought he might break you in two.

Sensing this, you did something uncharacteristic of yourself too, and made the first move to ease down on his length.

Your body welcomed him with surprising ease, though the inches came slow and the stretch was something you hadn’t expected. Your eyes flickered to Daryl’s as the sting turned to a burn, and you almost couldn’t bring yourself down to the base of him without the sound of a few strangled whimpers escaping your lips. Daryl’s hands quickly worked their way around you and started rubbing up and down your back, as if to distract you from the feeling while his eyes searched yours for any signs of serious discomfort.

“Hey, you’re good,” he assured you quietly, swallowing a moan of his own as your warmth engulfed him completely, “You’re good, honey, you’re good.”

When you looked to him as if to say, ‘Holy shit, are you sure?’ he just smiled and nodded.

“Takin’ me so good,” he murmured, eyes glued on you, “Doin’ so fuckin’ well.”

His soft consolations rang clear in your ears and encouraged you to keep going. You lifted yourself in his lap and brought your body back down again, this time gratified with Daryl’s first moan. He snaked an arm around your waist and helped you gently buck your hips to his and rock them back and forth. Together, you watched your bodies grind against each other in a hot and sweaty mess, making sounds as sticky and obscene as you’d ever heard before, and right then, you swore you could have cum at the sight of that alone. The initial burn gave way with each passing moment to a sweeter sort of feeling deep within your belly. You picked up your speed just a bit and braced yourself hard against Daryl’s chest.

“My baby feelin’ good?” he said, breaths coming out in shallow puffs now as you rode him.

You bit your lip and nodded, practically bouncing in his lap with your hands still anchored on him and your eyes beginning to close.

“That good, huh?” Daryl hummed.

When you nodded again, he dropped a hand to the spot where your bodies connected and rubbed a light, lazy circle between your folds. Your eyes squeezed tighter at the jolt of pleasure, and your body moved even faster.

“Fuck, Daryl,” you whined. “I-I–”

“What?” Daryl smirked.

You ventured a look back down at him, eyes all glossy and soft. You were still writhing, still rolling up and down his shaft with a fucked-out look as his hips started to snap up into you. In a moment, you surprised the both of you as you gripped his shoulder and said:

“I want you to fuck me from behind.”

Daryl was still rutting into you and somehow unable to comprehend how a thing as lithe and naive as you looked could ever say something so coarse. When he didn’t respond for some seconds, you sighed, disgruntled.

“C’mon, Dar,” you whined, “have I gotta bend myself over this car and—”

Daryl didn’t let you finish. Flipped you over beneath him and did exactly as you hoped he would, stomach flat on the hood of the car and ass up in the air.

He didn’t waste another moment waiting for your assent as he had before. He just thrusted himself in one, sloppy drive and made you moan as he bottomed out inside you. Snatched a fistful of hair in one hand and yanked your head back to meet his gaze.

“Anyone ever taught you manners?” he growled, likely displacing dozens of strands of hair from your scalp with the way he was pulling it, “Ever heard of please, and thank you, daddy?”

Your knees buckled at the last. Stretched and stuffed with his cock, you swear you couldn’t have felt any filthier than the instant he’d uttered that final word in your ear. You watched him, mouth hanging open, and hardly knew what to say.

“You know,” Daryl started, breaking your heart when he withdrew himself from your hole, “I don’t think you deserved to be fucked like this at all.”

Heaving breath after desperate breath over the hood of the car, you turned yourself fully to face him. He wasn’t smiling, or watching you with those careful, kind eyes anymore.

“I do,” you cried, “I want you to fuck me like that, Daryl, I do.”

“I bet you do,” he snapped, retreating another step, “I said you don’t deserve it.”

You would’ve fallen to your knees if you had a fraction less sense than you did. Pleading him with wild, frenzied eyes and legs that were liable to collapse with the weight of your desire, you didn’t blink when Daryl’s hand found the back of your head again—yanking it down this time around.

“Something tells me that mouth needs fucking if it wants a lesson in etiquette,” he griped, shoving you to the ground in front of him.

You cowered on your knees as your face hovered inches from his stiff, expecting member. The problem was, you didn’t know what he was expecting, or how he wanted it done. Were you supposed to take him in both hands and rub him up and down, pepper kisses down every throbbing vein and lick him ‘til he came, tease him with your tongue like he had with you, or else swallow him whole? You didn’t know, couldn’t start, would’ve like to wait another minute or two contemplating your latest charge when all of a sudden, Daryl’s hand pushed you straight on his cock.

Not an easy couple inches or a light, gentle thrust to get you used to his size in your mouth. A full-forced thrust to the back of your throat, causing your mouth to convulse, contract, and gag around him in response. Your eyes welled with tears and ventured a look to the man with his fingers still threaded through your hair. The scowl hadn’t ebbed from his features, and the eyes were hardly more sympathetic. He dragged you back up his length so there was just enough space for you to speak, and uttered, almost mockingly:

“What do we say when we want something, sugar?”

Your mind was buzzing, but the answers came quicker than you thought.

“Please,” you spluttered, drool leaking down your chin, “I say please.”

“Wrong,” Daryl declared.

Without another word, he shoved your face down the length of his cock and pulled it back even faster. You were still reeling with the force of your gag reflex and sucking in a breath when he began again.

“Please what?” he pressed, tilting your head up to face him.

“P-Please, daddy. Please, daddy,” you supplied in an instant.

A marginally gentler touch massaged the back of your head with his fingertips, and for a second, you thought you were clear. Then Daryl went pushing your mouth back onto him, albeit slightly less harsh, and you readily closed your lips around him and bobbed on his cock. You sucked happily and with more enthusiasm than you thought yourself able, just wanting to make Daryl happy and keep him guiding you over his length with a more tender grasp.

And he did just that. Seemingly appeased by your obedience and more than pleased to watch you slide up and down him as you were, he ran a more considerate touch over your head and let you do most of the work.

You flattened your tongue on the bottom and curled your lips around your teeth to keep the friction minimal. Almost amazed how natural it felt to be servicing his cock and wanting, more than anything, to know you were making him proud. When a long, protracted moan graced your ears the moment you reached the base of him, you held him there as long as you could and hummed a quiet, muffled whimper of your own.

When Daryl pulled you off a second later, you were disheartened, to say the least. You parted your lips and leaned in to take him in your mouth again, only to feel yourself being gathered back up in Daryl’s arms and brought to your feet.

“Go on,” he murmured, pacing forward and nudging you gently to the point the backs of your knees hit the grill of the car behind you, “Tha’s my good girl.”

You fell back and watched Daryl’s body trail close behind. By the time you were flat on your back, he was wedged between your thighs with a hand planted on either side of your head.

If wanted him any more, you’d probably be blue in the face, unable to breathe, and on the brink of seeing stars. Your chest rose and fell with the shortest, shallow breaths, and it seemed each passing moment brought you nearer to your fear that they might stop altogether if Daryl didn’t touch you soon. You gladly parted your legs further to accommodate his frame, and when you felt him above you, poised inches from your aching heat, you wrapped your legs around him. Tight.

“Tell me how ye want it,” Daryl grunted.

“Want you deep inside me, daddy, please,” you answered, taking care not to neglect your “manners.” Then, more softly, “Want you to fuck me ‘til I can’t walk, daddy, pretty pretty please.”

Daryl moaned at the sounds of your excitement, feeling you dig your heels in his ass and tug him even closer. His cock twitched at your entrance.

“Tha’ what you want?” he hummed, grazing his lips along your cheek, “Tha’s what my baby needs?”

You nodded frantically. Daryl nodded too, as if commiserating with you, but then felt unable to suppress the smirk that was threatening to grow on his face. He reveled in your pleasure and your pleas all the same and wanted to make this good for you. He couldn’t make you wait.

Pressing a kiss to your lips, he sank his cock between your folds and gratified you both with a familiar, filling stretch. You clenched around him and earned another low, guttural moan as Daryl pushed deeper inside you. It didn’t take long for the pace of his thrusts to pick up, impatience and desperation practically tangible in the air between you. You let your head loll back and felt Daryl’s own fall into the crook of your neck, breaths hot on your skin as he continued to pound you into the metal surface below.

“’s a shame ya don’t— fuck older guys,” Daryl whispered, punctuating his words with another thrust. Ridiculing you for your comments earlier and making you squirm as he did.

If you weren’t so close to climax you would’ve told him to fuck off—probably made yourself look a little stupid as a man twice your age was currently balls deep inside you, giving you dick like no other on the front-end of a Honda Civic. Instead, you swallowed your pride and smiled.

“Glad you could get it up when I did, daddy,” you managed quietly, cloyingly. Almost wanting to slip a sly Cialis joke at the end but thinking better of it.

Daryl took one of your legs over his shoulder then, pounding you at a vicious speed.

“Anything for my favorite Savior,” he returned, just as caustic and cruel as he relished the squelching sounds between you.

Your head fell back with the new, nearly unbearable sensation radiating from your core, and Daryl quickly cradled you between his arms. Hunched over you now and fucking you faster than ever, he wanted—no, needed—to see you cum, and he’d stop at nothing to see it happen.

He hauled your other leg to rest flat on his shoulder and thrusted even deeper. With both ankles above your head and your eyes practically rolled back in pleasure, it took him all of ten seconds to find your clit and make you scream. Not a moan or a shriek or a half-hearted whimper, but a scream that went echoing down the road and through the woods and likely in the ears of every walker within a five mile radius. Neither of you cared.

Your eyes locked on Daryl’s and glazed over with desire, all you needed was release.

“I-I’m close,” you managed, breath hitching with every snap of Daryl’s hips.

“Fuckin’ show me then,” Daryl bit back, “Show daddy how good his cock’s makin’ ya feel.”

What little you could show him came in the form of a strangled moan and a sigh, and Daryl didn’t seem satisfied with this in the slightest. Rather than take you at your word, he grasped your face in one hand and jerked your head toward him. Heart racing and chest shaking with every breath, he drove himself a little deeper and felt you clench him around him even tighter when he hit your sensitive spot.

“Wanna cum for daddy, is tha’ what y’want?” he prodded. Pretending not to hear when you squealed his name and writhed with every graze against your g-spot.

“Yes, daddy, please let me cum— a-all over your cock,” you stammered.

Daryl smoothed the hair out of your face and caught a glimpse of the cockdrunk expression painted on it, and almost shot his load on the spot. But he wouldn’t, couldn’t cum ‘til he had your own release spilling down his member, that much he knew. You were being so good for him, taking him so well, and on top of it all, calling him daddy left and right like your life depended on it. Daryl was smitten.

Sensing your orgasm was fast approaching, he dropped a hand between your legs and took care to keep it gentle. Watched your lips form an “o” and a hand reach for his, hurriedly, while an old, familiar feeling just then started to twist in your stomach.

“Daryl,” you shrilled, squeezing his hand as tight as you could.

“Right here, honey,” Daryl murmured, eyes steady on yours, “I’m right here, you can cum for me.”

He clutched your fingers right back and felt them tighten as a new wave of pleasure broke over you. Your moans came quick and took a higher pitch, your legs wrapped around him like a vice, and the best, albeit maddening, part for Daryl came when your muscles started to pulse around him, nearly sending him over the edge himself. You dropped your head back into his hands and simply felt him—in you, and on you, and at your ear with the gentlest words of encouragement. You breathed out a sigh when the pleasure started to subside.

Daryl didn’t stop. His eyes stayed locked on yours, and the soft, earnest grunts stayed constant as he continued to rut into you and circled a thumb over your clit.

You whined with your sharply heightened sensitivity and pressed your hands to his chest, bewildered by this feeling and why the hell Daryl had kept going.

“Dar—”

“One more, darlin’,” Daryl urged, as delicate as he was adamant.

Your eyes widened, every nerve ending in your body on the fritz. Your fingernails carved bright red crescents in his skin with the force of every thrust, and for a time, it seemed you were riding out the longest orgasm of your life. You clung to Daryl and let your pleasure overtake you. You scarcely understood the sensation more than you did Daryl’s intentions, but the longer he fucked you, the more intense the feeling grew, and within a matter of seconds you were coming undone again, the swell of your second climax washing over you with a mind-numbing fury.

Eager as he was to fuck you into your third, Daryl just couldn’t resist the sights and sounds and unbearable sensations beneath him any longer, and he felt his own orgasm tearing through his body moments later. You felt a spurt of warmth within you and a set of lips finding yours in a frantic, clumsy kiss, and you relished the noises Daryl made as he rode out his high.

You were still kissing in between delirious gasps for air and all but shaking on the sweat-soaked hood of the car. Daryl’s hips slowed before coming to rest comfortably between your thighs, still inside you.

Wide-eyed and smiling, Daryl raised a hand to your head and was just then brushing some hair from your face to plant a couple more kisses, when a voice broke out across the way:

“Ho-ly shit!”

You and Daryl jumped at the intrusion and glanced behind you. Your blood ran cold.

You spotted a familiar salt-and-pepper speckled head of hair and a set of eyes glinting with amusement. Standing off to the side with his attention fastened to the two of you and a head shaking back and forth, slowly, as if in disbelief.

“Daryl Dixon, you dirty, dirty dog!” he chided, “How’s it feel to pop my wife’s cherry before me, brother?”

At the last, Negan tightened his grip on Lucille and smiled.

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