#like i was feeling like i wanted to avoid her and not speak to her or be cold but i also knew i didnt want to treat her that way

[bootycallin]

ACTUALLY PLEASE DO A PART TWO?? I NEED TO KNOW WHAT I DOES TO READERS CLIT ❤️

OOH—BETTER THAN ME?

꩜ .ᐟ basically; vi made a proposal. imagine what i can do, she said. not that you could've ever even imagined, imagined, anyways.

cw: wlw. porn with slight plot this time!! not a direct continuation but sort of. vi catches u jorkin it. implied perv!vi (lol). masturbation. mutual masturbation. bsfwb? fingering. bushvi (!!). reader’s briefly described as smaller than her. scissoring. swearing. vi's a sweetie pie. begging. overstim. aftercare? v fluffy ending. not proofread.

a/n: dinner is fucking served

NSFW UTC

now, the real question is, how’d she get you so addicted?

damn, it’s not like you’ve never had sex before. quite the opposite, you have sex pretty often.

but she was different.

maybe cause she showed something you could never really do. maybe because it was one time and you’re best friends and you’re overthinking. or maybe the dick was just really good. god knows. one way or the other, you can’t stop thinking about it.

you don’t know it, but vi can’t either. so when she hears you whimpering from your room, she can’t fucking help herself.

what kind of fucking black magic does she have? there’s no way your fingers are just short. you’re trying, you really are—legs wide, lips spread so you can press two of your fingers inside your saturated hole. it’s not enough. you’ve been neglecting your clit, as well—because supposedly, you should be able to do it.

it’s not enough. your clit’s twitching, breath shaky, curling your fingers—not enough. thrusting them in? not enough. just briefly smacking the tip of your clit with your palm? not. enough.

you’ve been trying to avoid it, but you need her.

“fuck, vi…” and what is it they say? about speaking of the devil?

‘cause she’s right there. say her name three times to summon, or some bullshit? because you could’ve fucking sworn you were alone—as you are most times when you’re masturbating.

(well, that’s what you think. vi’s conscience is a little heavy because of that. can you blame her? she’s just a woman!)

you barely have enough time to realize it. pulling your fingers out, grabbing the nearest blanket there was to cover your body as if she hadn’t already seen enough of it to know exactly what you look like. shit.

“vi—“ again. broken record, much?

“‘s fine,” she mentally scolds herself for how her voice sounds. shaky, unprepared, even—she’s been behind that door for a hot second and she’s already aching. she can’t deny it, damn it, she needs you. now.

“can’t…?”

“no.”

whether that’s you asking her to stop or confirming her thoughts, god knows. she does, too, apparently, as she hums slightly. there’s a smirk on her face, but she’s just as needy, just as nervous as you. fuck, she needs you so bad.

and at the opportunity, she’s rushing into bed with you, lips crashing against yours. she’s missed this so much. the feeling of your lips against hers—she really could get used to this. like, really get used to it. dare she say, she wants it. she grasps at the covers you used to shield your body, pulling them down so she can see your bare skin. she’s been imagining this for so long.

her teeth nip at your bottom lip, looking up at you to find your half-lidded eyes that widen when she spreads your legs open, settling comfortably between them.

“this okay..?”

“yes.”

what kind of question even was that? you knew damn well she could see how you were practically buzzing at the idea of having sex with her again. is this normal? yeah, no. but it’s happening and you’re definitely not thinking twice about it.

you stop her midway through kissing down your neck, hands softly grasping at her hair, making her gasp. your eyes are flitting down to her lips, but most importantly, the damned tank top. not that it didn’t look good on her.

just that it would look better off.

“vi-“ there’s barely enough time for you to even speak, as you grab at her shoulder straps and pull, leading her to nearly rip the shirt off altogether.

and there she is. between your legs, bare in all her glory. damn, you knew she was muscular, but fuck…

she can practically feel you eye-fucking her. trailing up and down, on her sculpted and. you could swear they used to make greek statues based off of her. oh, and when your eyes catch that little bit of red poking out from the hem of her boxers—

“y’alright?”

“yeah…” you mumbled, dreamily. your hands reach for her so you can run your hands over her body, over the mark of her collarbones, the curve of her breasts, the dips of her abs. fuuuck. you can barely hear how vi gasps, her eyes laser-focused on the way your smaller hands run over her skin. she’s been dreaming of this.

“baby,” she whispers, breath shaky. her own hands find yours, guiding one down to run down her body, fingers briefly making contact with the hairs of her happy trail. that’s enough to drive her insane.

she let’s go of your hand to grab at the hem of her shorts, nearly ripping her goddamn boxers off. it’s the first time you’ve really, really seen vi’s body. her pussy’s fucking throbbing just by the way you look at her. damn.

there’s really no words not to be said. you don’t want to talk. you want her, and that’s it. you grab at her shoulders, making her gasp at the sudden eagerness. your lips crash against hers, she nips at your bottom lip. it’s messy. eager and messy and so fucking hot to both of you. your tongue meets hers, spit mingling and all—

she can’t take it.

she pulls away, making you whine and in turn making her smirk. cute.

(she’s acting like she’s not just as giddy. if not more. if you were to press your palm against her chest, you’d probably be a little concerned she’d have a heart attack. you’re just so pretty).

her hands run down your body, over the length of your thighs, spreading them open carefully. she can see how your eyes narrow a little at the stretch, but fall half lidded again when she ends up resting your legs atop of hers. she’s now sitting comfortably between your legs, your thighs sitting above her muscular ones.

“you want me to help you again, baby?” fuck, if that doesn’t make your face burn. she knows damn well what you want. if she didn’t, you wouldn’t be naked in front of each other like this.

“please…” even you are surprised at how whiny your voice sounds. you’re just frustrated. again.

“i-i can’t—“

“‘s fine.” she leaned forward to press a kiss to the crown of your head, something almost a little too heartwarming for the ‘best friends’ situation you two had. not that you were complaining. her lips were soft. vi was soft. for someone like her, you’d think she’s a little more… well, jagged. but, nope.

she’s soft through and through. principally when it comes to you.

her lips trail down your forehead to your nose, then to her cheeks, one of her hands—namely her right one—following the same pace, except down your body. over your belly, down to your lower navel, down until…

she swallows the moan you let out when her fingers just barely brush over your clit. she can’t help wondering if you’re really that sensitive or she just has the power to do that to you—which would definitely be an ego boost. gods, she hopes that’s what it is. you whine when she starts drawing slow little circles over your hood, your thighs tensing on instinct, breath catching.

“you want me to help you, yeah?” she asked, trailing her fingers further below—not before briefly smacking the nub of your clit with her middle fingers, an almost embarrassingly large gush of pre leaving your already sopping pussy. her mouth’s watering just thinking of it.

“violet,” not the usual vi. you sounded like you were trying to sound demeaning, but it really just came out as whiny. vi raised an eyebrow like you had insulted her.

but she herself was way too needy to give a damn. even if you did. her hand trailed down, fingers parting your lips and eyes laser-focused on your wet cunt. her index briefly prods at your hole, ripping an audible whimper from you which she just loves. but she doesn’t slip her finger in yet—not like she couldn’t. you’re wet enough that it would be like butter.

“wha…?”

“i just,” she looks up at you, free hand rubbing your thigh, “just had a thought.”

before explaining, she grabs one your hand, pulling it down so it hovered right over your pussy the same way it was when she first walked in the room.

“just…” her breath was slightly heavy, as she cupped the back of your hand. she spread her fingers so they matched yours, and you could only watch as she moved your finger to prod at your hole, tip just barely sliding in.

there’s not a lot of resistance. after all, you had already been doing it before she even got to this point. she’s watching your reaction carefully to see if there’s any discomfort, looking like it’s the most attention she’s ever given something. Her eyes are surprisingly wide. not scared. rather, it’s almost puppy eyes—she just needs to see it. needs to see you let go. needs to see you break again. needs to see you whine and scream her name again, like it’s the one word you know.

her hand guided your movements, one finger pushing your knuckle so your finger moved in and out, not a lot of movement, but enough to feel it. you let out a few pleasured sighs and slightly whimpers, but not compared to the whines and screams she managed to rip from you that time. both of them were good, though—she could deal with it. she was patient. unfortunately, you were not.

“i don’t feel it.”

“that’s fine,” she muttered, continuing to hide your movements. she watched your face, your body as it squirmed slightly. not necessarily from any great reaction, but rather because you just needed more. and because she was here. watching. she could watch you masturbate for hours. not that she hasn’t—well, imagine it… she’s overthinking. either way, it’s fine if you don’t feel it. that’s what she’s there for, isn’t it?

“do this.” she takes your hand away from yours for a second to show you how, finger doing the usual come-hither motion. you tilted your head back, a groan escaping from the back of your throat. obviously, you didn't take that all too seriously.

“it doesn’t work,” you’ve tried it already. never really did anything for you. you weren’t lying when you said you only did manage to cum when you played with your clit… well, not until vi, but that’s besides the point.

“trust me,” she mutters, staring at you, her gaze subtly speaking: you should. you know what she can do, don’t you? if there’s anyone you should be trusting, it’s probably her.you pouted and whined a little more, just to show her you didn’t like that whole idea. if you kept doing that, she might just have to wreck you—well, not that she wasn’t going to in the first place; she’s been holding back from jumping your bones since that last time.

a second of silence, and you end up doing as asked. it really makes no difference for you. people tried to make it sound better than it really was. you guess, because it really just didn’t work like that for you. never had that pornographic sensitivity to immediately squirt whenever you tried to reach your g spot, you don’t think you’ve ever even found it yourself.

it does feel a little different, but you’re guessing it’s just because vi is right there. between your legs. watching. you don’t know why she makes you feel like this. every little touch. it’s you’re a sleeper agent and she’s your goddamn activation. one little sexual touch or comment, and you already wanna fuck.

she has to hold back a groan when you do as she says. “yeah. like that,” she murmured, voice low and dangerous, “good girl…”

vi’s not even thinking when she says that. her brain isn’t really working, honestly. she’s way too preoccupied with watching as your face twists, the blood that rushes up your cheeks, flushing it a pretty pink she just wants to kiss so bad. her words had an obvious effect.

she shifts up slightly and you can only watch as her other hand, previously on your thigh, moves up to your lower belly, pressing down with the pads of her fingers right over your bladder.

you immediately stop when she does that. after all, it was just… a weird sensation. that same one from last time, but it still caught you off guard. a curse leaves from between your lips in a hiss, teeth catching your bottom lip briefly.

“‘s fine.” she reassured. “just do it.”

if she kept using that honeyed voice, you’d probably do anything she told you to. her free hand slides down to move another digit of yours inside, “just do as i told you.”

and of fucking course you do. because who the fuck are you to disobey her? it would be embarrassing if you didn’t like it so much, but god knows you do. you move your fingers in that ‘come here’ motion, wincing and whimpering at the feeling as the pads of your fingers press against the top walls of your pussy. you can nearly feel them, pressing up against that spongy spot, vi’s hand pressing down right on top of your bladder just making that all the more real.

“yeah.” she groaned, “like that… good girl. keep going.”

vi sounded like she was trying to encourage you. you made a mess on her once, she’s not gonna freak out if you do it again. i mean, she was expecting that for a while, but of course she always has to make the first goddamn move.

“vi, i—“ vi hushed you just with a sharp little glare that told you don’t test me. if she kept looking at you like that you’re sure you would discombobulate.

and of fucking course you do it. because if she tells you to, you’re more than likely doing it. at least here. you continue moving, her eyes locked in on you. on your body, your reactions. watching your face twist slightly and the little shakes of your thighs.

“vi…”

“fuck.” she groaned, moving to press her face against the crook of her neck. she kissed at the skin, just barely biting down, canines pricking. she herself was getting impatient. her pussy was fucking aching to just feel you and she couldn’t really think straight. the only part that managed to stop her from completely letting go is that she’s focused on your own pleasure.

but when she looks down, looks at your slick covered fingers—that sweet clit she wanted to touch—she couldn’t help it.

she lowered herself, lips latching to the nub. she made a point to ignore your surprised noise, how your hips jerked away. you seemed to relax soon enough. she looked up at you, noticing your fingers had halted.

“continue.” she muttered against the hood of your clit, pressing a soft kiss to the sensitive skin there. you whined but obeyed, fingers moving in that same motion she just showed you. it’s definitely affecting you more when she’s kissing and licking your clit.

vi’s a messy eater. she’s always been messy, but it comes down even to that. she flicks, sucks, nips, laps. likes licking up from your hole to your clit, lapping up whatever comes like a needy dog. she feels like one right now. she’s practically humping the mattress in a desperate need to get some friction while pleasuring you. it always came first in her head.

“vi, fuuuck,” you gasp. she’s still lapping up at your clit, flicking the bean with her tongue in quick movements, better than any fucking vibrator you’ve ever fucking used. you’re sensitive, bit almost hurts a little, but it’s good. hurts so good you don’t want to stop her. you find that your fingers get quicker before you can even think about it, curling up over and over again ‘til you’re soaking.

“fuck.” she pulls away before you can get your high, though. before you can ask, she’s stopping your fingers, pulling your hand away from your heat. you whined, but shut up when she switched your fingers with hers.

“ah-!” a sharp gasp comes from your throat. vi’s fingers were thicker, bigger than yours. you like to think that’s why you can’t make yourself cum, but when she starts moving, you start realizing the problem really is that you just can’t finger correctly.

“shiiiit…” you drawled out, head tilted back and everything. you’re embarrassingly wet. not that vi really cares, anyways; you should know that.

“been waiting… f’so fucking long,” she drawled out, panting, shifting so she’s upright. “so fucking long to play with this pussy.”

“vi…”

your hand reached out to grab her wrist, but it’s worthless, as her thumb manages to poke through to tap at your clit briefly. that alone sends you over the edge in probably the quickest orgasm you’ve ever had. your vision blur and you can swear you see stars.

for vi, all she can see is how you wet her fingers, little liquidy gushes spraying from you the most she curls and rams her fingers into your g-spot, until you’re practically shaking. your whining doesn’t stop until she removes her fingers, pussy clenching around nothing, hips bucking into air. it’s truly a sight for her sore eyes.

but she needs more.

she grabs your thigh, pulling it closer to her until your leg’s basically hooked over her shoulder, holding the back of your knee. you barely have enough time to process till you feel the tickle of crimson hairs, as her wetness swipes right over yours.

“shii!—“ you hiss. it’s a feeling like never before. you’ve felt her fingers, her tongue, the silicone of that strap she dicked you down with a bit ago—but not her own pussy. you didn’t even think to realize it, you’ve never really touched her there before. mostly because vi seemed to prioritize having your pleasure over her own more than anything. (she’s probably converted you by now. god, you don’t want another guy inside you ever again).

“cupcake,” her rough voice rasps, mouth hung open in a way that’s almost too needy for her pride, heavy panting making her chest heave. what else is there to say? she's been fantasizing about this shit for the longest time. finally getting to feel you like this, rubbing her cunt against yours 'til neither of you can fucking think right.

not that she is exactly thinking about anything when she starts humping against you like a bitch in heat. her head hangs, eyes squeezing shut on instinct. she's desperate, feeling the heat building up in her lower stomach quicker than before. no pillow could ever replace the wet warmth of your cunt, the slick that coats her folds, sticky and messy and so fucking good.

"fuck, fuck, fuck—" vi's really hardly hearing you, her own groans being the one thing she can hear. you cum easily. after all, she had just ripped one from you, and here she is again, taking yet another one. all she can really discern is that you're impossibly wetter, essentially just lubing her up and making her own job easier. there's a whimper that tries to escape her throat, desperate, but she forces it out as a groan, head falling and top teeth tugging at her bottom lip.

"fuck, princess..." she growled, hands a vice-grip on your thigh. "please, fuck. yeah, shit, give it to me, give it to me..."

she's like a broken record, chasing her own high, while you tried to keep from screaming, body trembling and jerking with the aftershocks of your second orgasm.

"viii!—" a pitchy whine, ripping from your throat, strained at the angle of your head tilted backwards. "'s too much! gh-- too much!"

"fuck, baby," vi groans, a deep growl that rose from her throat, "shit, i know, i know. you can take it. you can take it, right?" her voice drops even lower, as she spoke through pants. her free hand shoots up to grab your face, making you look at her. powdery blue eyes meet yours, pupils blown wide, face flushed, sweat dripping down her temple. she looked like an angel.

"you can take it, right? fuck, please, baby..." her voice is borderline whiny, getting pitchier the closer she gets to the edge, which is rapidly approaching. how could you say no to a face like that? she half expected you not to answer.

"yeah, vi," you pant, trying to keep your voice as stabe as possible. "keep... g-"

"shit!"

she hissed, her abdomen locking, pussy gushing right over yours, not stopping, only jackhammering her clit against yours 'til you're cumming yet again, a silent scream leaving you, chest heaving. she has to bite the skin of your knee that's hooked over your shoulder so she doesn't cry out. you can tell, though, by the vibrations that run down your skin.

vi collapsed on top of you when she was finally done, her own body trembling. she has half the mind left to kiss up your neck, arms wrapping around your waist.

you both lay in the afterglow for a few minutes, not bothering with words. just the way she holds you is good enough, more than words can speak. she eventually lifts her head, eyes meeting yours, gentle and loving like you've never seen.

"you alright?" vi asks, voice like raspy but still like sweet honey. "i didn't hurt you, right?" yeah, she might've acted like a brainless mutt back there, but she's can recognize she overstimulated you. she liked hearing your cries, sure, but she doesn't want to hurt you.

"no. of course not." you reassure her, hand reaching to cup the back of her head, then her cheek. she found herself leaning into it like a needy cat, nose nuzzling into your palm.

"you sure?" she asked yet again, pulling a genuine chuckle from you.

"yeah. i promise," you rub your thumb down the slope of her cheel, the slight bump of her cheekbone. she's always been sculpted like a greek goddamn statue. beautiful.

“mhm." she grumbled. she hated that you could get her like this. so weak, so... vulnerable. but if it was for you, she'd probably be able to handle it.

"fuck, i-" she starts, without thinking, "i love you..."

before she can panic over her words, nervously meeting your eyes, you replied, "i love you too."

and she can rest easy knowing that you love her, that she didn't fuck it up. that all this was worth something, not just a quick fuck to you. to her, it never was.

you've always been more than her best friend to her. way, way more than that. her love.

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 © bootycallin on tumblr. do not copy, translate or cross post without permission. ᛝ

[milfsloverblog]

HIIIIIII!1!1!1!1!

can i req something with Brienne where reader is like an important person in the hierarchy (like a queen or princess whatever you want 😭😭) and all her life she has been rejecting suitors because she’s been in love with Brienne since they were teenagers??

and just like a kind of angsty confession because y/n thinks the feelings aren’t mutual, some good old hurt/comfort :)

PLEASE AND THANK YOU I LOVE YOUR FICS SM AND I LOVE GWENDOLINE CHRISTIE SM

What We Never Said

Brienne of Tarth x fem!reader

A/N: Giggling and kicking my feet as I get asked to write angst 🤪 I hope you’ll like what I did with your request, enjoy!!

The grand halls of the castle had always felt too large, too empty, despite their opulence. Tonight, they felt suffocating. The whispers had grown into conversations, and the conversations into proclamations—You had finally accepted a suitor. The announcement was set to be made within the week.

Brienne had never known true fear until she overheard those words.

For years, she had watched as noblemen, lords, and princes from across the realm sought your hand. They came with wealth, with power, with whispered promises of alliance and prosperity. Each time, they were sent away, some with quiet refusals, others with barely concealed disgust.

"Too arrogant," you had said of Lord Redwyne. "Too cruel," of Prince Damon. "Too dull," of Ser Aldric.

Brienne had been there for every rejection, standing silently by your side, watching as your father’s patience wore thin, as your court whispered about your stubbornness. She had never dared to wonder why you refused them all—had never allowed herself to hope. But now, hearing that you had finally chosen someone, the reality crashed into her like a blow to the chest.

She had spent the past fortnight avoiding you, unable to face the weight of what she’d accidentally heard.

That night had started like any other. She had been making her way through the castle’s dim corridors, her mind preoccupied with the day’s duties, when she heard your voice. It wasn’t unusual—she had long since memorized the soft cadence of your speech—but something about your tone made her pause. She hovered just out of sight, heart hammering in her chest, as she realized you were speaking with your most trusted lady-in-waiting.

"I do not love him," you had said, voice quiet but steady. "I never have, nor any of the others."

There was a pause before your companion asked, "Then why, Princess? Why have you turned them all away?"

Brienne’s breath caught in her throat. She should have left. She should not have lingered in the shadows, listening to words never meant for her ears. And yet, she was rooted in place, as if the very foundations of the castle held her there.

"Because," you exhaled, a sound so weary it nearly broke her, "I have been in love with Brienne of Tarth since we were young. And she will never love me back."

Brienne felt as if the air had been knocked from her lungs. She gripped the cold stone wall beside her, steadying herself as your words echoed in her head. You loved her?

She barely heard the rest of the conversation over the roaring in her ears. Your lady-in-waiting murmured something about duty and the expectations placed upon you, and you had only laughed bitterly.

"It does not matter now. My father grows impatient, and I can only hold him off for so long. If I must marry another to quiet the rumours, then so be it. Brienne will never know."

Brienne staggered away from the corridor, her chest tight, her breath shallow. A sickness coiled in her stomach, shame mingling with longing. You had loved her for years. And she had been a coward. She had told herself that silence was protection, that swallowing her love was an act of duty. And in doing so, she had let you suffer alone.

And now you were to marry another.

She stormed through the dim corridors, her blood roaring in her ears, her fists clenched at her sides. The thought of you—her princess—standing at an altar beside some nobleman who had done nothing to earn your love, who would never deserve it, sent a fire through her veins.

She didn’t think. She didn’t plan. She only knew she had to find you.

When she reached your chambers, she barely registered the guards stationed outside. She was the sworn shield of your house, and they did not stop her as she pushed through the heavy doors and into your candle-lit room.

You stood near the window, your hands clasped before you, a ghost of yourself. You turned at her abrupt entrance, your lips parting slightly, surprise flickering in your eyes.

“Brienne?” Your voice was wary, but beneath it, there was something fragile, something tired.

She struggled for breath, her throat tight, her limbs trembling from the storm within her. She had rehearsed so many words in her mind over the years, ways to tell you she had loved you since she first understood what love was—but all that came out was raw, desperate.

“You’re to be married?”

You stiffened. A silence stretched between you, heavy with unsaid things. Finally, you lowered your gaze, your fingers twisting in the fabric of your gown.

“I had no choice,” you murmured. “My father—he’s grown tired of my refusals. And I—I had to move on, Brienne.” You inhaled sharply, as if trying to steady yourself. “You gave me no reason to hope.”

Brienne felt as if she’d been struck.

Her silence had been a weapon she had never meant to wield against you.

A ragged breath tore from her lips, and suddenly she was in front of you, closer than she had dared to stand in years. “You think I don’t love you?” she rasped, her voice shaking.

You looked up at her then, and in the flickering candlelight, she saw the cracks in the mask you had worn for so long. You swallowed, shaking your head slightly. “You’ve never given me any reason to think you did.”

Brienne’s restraint crumbled. “Gods, I’ve loved you since we were little more than children.” The words tumbled out, raw and unguarded. “I have loved you in every glance, in every breath, in every moment I have ever stood beside you.”

Your breath hitched, your eyes wide. “Brienne—”

She shook her head, stepping back as if the weight of her confession had shattered something inside her. “I thought—I thought if I stayed silent, it would be enough. That I would rather endure my love in secret than risk losing you.” She let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through her hair. “And now I’ve lost you anyway.”

You stared at her, your body trembling. “You fool,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Do you know how many nights I spent dreaming of you? How many years I spent hoping—only to watch you act as if I was nothing but your duty?”

Brienne flinched. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“And yet you did.”

Silence stretched between you again, thick with pain, with wasted years, with love that had been buried for too long.

Then, slowly, hesitantly, you reached for her hand. “If you love me,” you whispered, “say it again.”

Brienne exhaled shakily, her fingers curling around yours. She stepped closer, until there was nothing between you but the grief of what had almost been lost. “I love you,” she breathed. “I have always loved you.”

A choked sob left your lips before you surged forward, wrapping your arms around her. Brienne caught you, holding you as if she could shield you from the very world itself. She felt your tears dampen her tunic, felt your heart hammering against hers, and she pressed her lips to your hair, murmuring, “Forgive me. Please, forgive me.”

You pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, your own eyes glistening. “Only if you promise to never let me go again.”

Brienne cupped your face in her hands, her thumb brushing away a stray tear. “Never,” she swore, before finally, finally, she kissed you.

And for the first time in years, the halls of the castle did not feel so empty.

————————————————————————

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[hauntedjellyfishwitch-blog]

Your writing is excellent 👌 Could you please write some more about daryl and reader getting into fights cause he doesn’t feel like he deserves her and he’s trynna push her away because he thinks she should go get someone better

Insufferable

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader (No use of Y/N)

TW: Angst. Fluff. Angry declarations of love. Daryl is kind of an ass, but we love him. Alexandria Era.

A/N: Well, I took my sweet ass time with this, didn't I? In what I hope is adequate penance, I am finishing up a smutty, romantic part 2 for this.

-

It’s not that he’s avoiding her. It’s that he’s been really busy, with things he’s actively volunteered for and made up to get away and okay so maybe he’s avoiding her. They’ve not been in Alexandria long, but she thought when he finally settled between the walls, stopped being so alert that he’d settle into some kind of routine like they had before. It had lasted a few days, maybe a week; He’d roll over in an honest to god bed, kiss her awake just as the sun started peeking through. Maybe its that this was more than they’d had before, maybe it’s the change; maybe it’s the goddamn comment someone made about ‘how that animal got a woman like that’, but whatever it is that set him off made him go into recluse mode quicker than his bolts fly.

He's been sleeping on the couch, pretending the plush bed makes his back ache. She believed him, of course, he’d never had a bed so soft in his whole life, not even when he was a kid. He pretends to have a cold so she can’t kiss him, and why would she think he was lying to her? But now? Two weeks of grunts and nods in place of words. Two weeks of flinching out of her touch like her fingertips are made of flames. She feels like they’re back at the prison when she first arrived and where he’d barely speak to her. He’d only just started being vulnerable with her before the place fell, nothing like the apocalypse to set things back ad-nauseum.

She can ignore most of it. The end of the damn world teaches you to ignore a lot of things, and she’s just scared enough of losing him that she doesn’t want to push it, but she can’t ignore the way his eyes look sunken, or the way his hand has started to shake a little at dinner when he sits far away from her and pretends he’s not close to dropping his fork. She can’t ignore the way he’s losing weight because he’s barely using the fucking fork to feed himself and he’s barely drinking and the tell-tale signs of stress that are weighing him down.

“Do we need to talk about this?”

He snaps his head up in surprise, leaning away from the tree he’d just sagged against after losing a bit of his footing. She’d followed him, naturally; watched the way his gait is off just slightly, as he tracks footprints. The fact he didn’t hear her following, being who he is and all, makes her panic.

“Nah” He dismisses, waving a hand as he pushes himself off the decaying sycamore. Even the trees look fucked these days.

“You’ve been ignoring me”

“Jus’ busy”

“I saw on the news last night that everything’s going back to normal”

It takes him longer than it should to respond.

“What?”

“Oh I thought we were playing the lying to each other game since you’re spouting such bullshit”

It takes all of his willpower to keep his lip from quirking upwards in a smile. He’s in a terrible fucking mood and his body feels like its made of lead but she’s always been funny in an acerbic way that speaks straight to his soul. It was the first thing that drew them together, she met every one of his sarcastic barbs with one of her own until they became inside jokes and affection. She’d never been afraid of him, of his temper or his quips; but today he wishes she were, just a little, so it would make this easier.

“Why ya out here buggin’ me?”

“You didn’t want to spend time together?”

“Plenty of other people ya could be spendin’ time with”

“You want me to have a girls night or something?” She asks with a quirk of a brow, crossing her arms over her chest as she rolls her eyes.

“Whole lot of available men at home ya could be botherin��� with”

She feels physically the way the word ‘home’ warms her from the inside before being stamped out like a boot covered in ice. He’s infuriating sometimes, has been the whole time she’s known him; he gets inside of his own head and goes quiet more than she’d like, but this is new, uncharted territory.

“Tobin, Scott, that tall one with the hair, whiney voice”

“Descriptive, but you mean Carter” she retorts, because carter does have a distinctly whiney voice and he is alarmingly tall and because she can’t bring herself to work out what he’s actually saying. She’s never felt unstable with Daryl before.

“Yeah”

The anger than runs through her almost makes her shake. Head shaking in disbelief she tilts her head up to meet his eyes, lets him see the fire that he’s lit behind them, the ire he’s seen but that has never been aimed at him before. He swallows around nothing, but nothing feels like shards of glass, mirroring her stance but entirely devoid of fury, replaced instead with a heavy stone of guilt in his stomach.

“You want to write me a list of these men you want me to fuck or are you happy just telling me?” She laughs sardonically through tears that threaten to spill over. Daryl has always been complicated but he’s never made her feel like a piece of meat before. “Lucky me, I’ve got my very own apocalypse pimp!”

He breathes heavily, fingers clenched so hard the muscles in his arms bulge, jealousy flaring in his nostrils like this ridiculous line of conversation isn’t his own damn fault. He is Daryl Dixon, though, predictable to a fault, so instead of apologising like he should, grovelling like he wants to, admitting he’s been a damn fool, he snaps.

“The fuck ya with me for when ya could have anyone?”

“Because I love you, you insufferable fucking asshole! I love you and you keep breaking my fucking heart my insisting I can’t!”

He takes a step back as if she’s slapped him. Of course it would be her saying she loves him for the first time that shocks him, makes him flinch, not the frustration she’d levied at him since she’d followed. He never thought she could; he’s not a stupid man, he knows there must be some feelings on her end, she’s made that clear. He’s been stone in love with her since day three of knowing her, but he’s always been too wrapped up in his own shit to say it. It should have been obvious, shouldn’t it? He’s certainly felt loved.

“Ain’t ever meant to hurt ya”

“I’m not an accessory you get to trade off to another man when you get bored of me”

He’s silent for a beat that feels ten times longer than it is. He’s horrified at himself for both implications. He loves her so much it hurts, loves her so much he doesn’t think he deserves it.

“I didn’t mean it like tha-”

“If you don’t want me that’s fine, but you don’t get to decide that I don’t want you”

“I do want-“

“And you definitely don’t get to decide to mistreat yourself, okay?”

“I wasn’t-“

“You were”

“Dammit woman let me finish a sentence”

“Sorry, I just assumed since you’ve been not using sentences at all near me you might want to keep pretending I don’t exist”

“I didn’t-yeah I did, ‘m sorry” He huffs under his breath, almost a laugh if he trusted the situation enough. He’s aware of how painfully ridiculous he’s being, how painfully unfair but she’s still looking at him with hope he hasn’t squashed out of her yet so he braves forward steps until he can touch her; palm up on her shoulder to bring her in for a hug. “I love ya too, ya know?”

She burrows her head into his chest, nodding despite the left over annoyance. She knows, has always know, he’s spent their entire time together showing it so plainly he’d be a fool to deny it.

“I’m sorry I called you an insufferable asshole”

He grunts against the top of her head, peppering a small kiss into her hair.

“I am”

“Well, yeah, but we don’t name call”

[empthy1]

ambessa; tarot.

cw; age difference, but it's unmentioned. pierced!reader. alcohol consumption, noticeable intoxication (neither you, nor ambessa). implied sex work, as with any other piece from this series. avoidant behavior (ambessa).

an; i like this one actually... not so sure on the ending though...

wc; 2.3k

She searched for you, keeper of secrets. Searched for the place you were sequestered, sought to draw every piece of intel she could from your lips. High profile clients, despite their secrecy, frequented this place—and they could not hide from her. 

Unexpectedly, she was not faced with a fawning confidant or a gruff thing she’d have to needle. There was no indication she could bribe nor charm you, quiet demeanor your shield. Your presence was lofty, your hands strong around the painted cards. When asked about your keepsakes, the boxes that lined the walls, full of confessions from the deepest, most secretive parts of souls, you’d simply shook your head, turned your head away as if emulating a particularly indignant feline.

And that was that. 

Though, why did she keep coming back? There was no information to parse from you—not the kind she wanted. Sometimes you’d shuffle those heavy cards of yours, one or two spilling out the sides. Your fingers would caress the painted edges as you laid them out, facing towards you or, occasionally, towards her. She didn’t understand what they meant, truly, but you’d always huff in amusement. Despite how she bristled, she relished in the noise. It’s not often she withdrew something from your sealed lips, even if you’re saying no words at all.

Often you sat in silence. She’d inquire about something, some singular datum from the box of some Piltovian councilman, and you’d huff and shuffle and say not a word. Your head would fall and your hair would obscure, and she’d mourn the loss until you pressed the rebellious pieces back behind your ears. Your ears. They caught her, as each piece of you slowly did. Her eyes would methodically trace the pieced skin, admiring the gleaming metal that hung or studded each aperture. Sometimes she’d arrive to see a new one, winking at her in the light, the skin around it still raw and gently swelled. Something in her urges her to touch it, trace the softly swelled cartilage. She wishes to feel it, your skin. Would it be sweltering, enough to make her palms perspire, or would it chill her to the bone?

Yet, she does neither. She asks for your cards, for a spread more expansive than the one or two you entertain and observe when conversation dawdles. Desire for the explanation shoots through her as well. It feels she’s cut off from you, how you speak such a different language. How you just know. She’d like to know. 

“Future, present, or yourself?” Your voice is slow and quiet, eyes already downturned towards the shuffling cards. As you wait, none slip, not even a corner out of place. There’s almost a laze to your shuffles, an expectant energy vibrating at your fingertips.

“Myself.” She hums, watching as your strong fingers twitch. Her own lips twitch in tandem, amused at the sort of restless energy, the desire to read her so closely. Unnerving, perhaps, the relentless wanting to know her; but it seems it’s just your nature. You just know. 

And so, with that, you begin. Every shift of the cards in your hands is delicate, coated with a deliberate ease that only comes after years of experience. The sound of the cards impacting, sliding and bumping against each other fills the otherwise silent space. She watches you, and the focus on your face. Watches as you are drawn into the painted sheets, and how they shift almost independently with that desire to escape. 

Two slip out first, in tandem. 

You explain every card as they fall, laying them delicately one by one, every shuffle causing more and more to slip from the deck. Sometimes it’s two, three; most of the instances, though, it’s one at a time. 

The first two are seemingly contradictory, you explain. The Empress and The Emperor, both upright. Feminine, yet masculine. Nurturing, yet methodical and authoritative. The meld is unique, and something rare. “It fits,” you muse briefly, thumbing at the deck’s edge. 

Even in your fascination, you notice the sweep of her eyes. They land not on the cards but you, watching as your lips form the cognizant words. Her dark eyes seem even darker in the candlelight, the shadows of her lashes casting low on her cheeks.  

“It truly does.” She murmurs, focused on you whole-heartedly. You puff, and continue.

The Magician. As above, so below, you echo. Ambessa’s head tilts curiously at those soft words. 

“Heaven and Earth, balanced. Total control. Your willpower is strong… well, I should have known that.” You smile, and she follows. Her fingers twitch, slipping down her thigh as if to extend outwards, but instead just settles on her knee. You can see how the tendons tighten with the effort. It only makes your lips pull further, teeth exposing now. 

“Willpower is everything.”

“So it is…”

More cards join the line, each explanation that slips from your lips savored by the woman in front of you. Eventually no more come when intended to explore her, but neither of you want to stop. So she asks you for a differing topic. Her goals, just to extend the time. 

You shuffle once, and the Two of Wands and Three of Wands slip out in tandem, quick as if tugged. You inquire about new plans with a curious cock of your head. An expansion of something, or an opportunity she had traveled to Piltover for. She just nods stiffly, shoulders drawing gently. As much as she tries to hide it, you’ve seen that expression many, many times. 

“I think that’s enough for today, yes?” Her previously easy smile has melted into something truly terrible, some amalgamation of sharpness and unease. It doesn’t reach her eyes, the familiar crinkle absent. You feel it rattle in your chest, the void of it, sinking to coil awfully in your stomach. There’s no knowing when you became dependent on the easy gleam of her teeth and the lines it pulled into her cheeks, but the absence hurts, a tightness blooming all down your left side. She stands, using the table to press herself up, and you’re left alone as she strides from the room. 

And, it seems, that was that. You, stumbling across an imaginary line of her own volition, and everything implodes. She never comes back to the brothel herself, never lowers herself to the Undercity again. Her business still flows—as much as Miguel attempts to hide it. You see how he winces and avoids the teasing inquiries of the others. Occasionally he’ll come back, much too drunk to regulate his speech. He’ll sprawl, as he always does when he’s heavily inebriated, across your lap, murmuring about her and all the physical things you never got to see. How her hands felt, so large and warm, or how taunt her flesh was beneath his hands. The imagery, vivid with alcohol��s proclivity towards extravagance, only makes the tightness throb, a near-constant ache now. 

You decide, one day, curled in your bed as the near-constant glow of neon streams over you from the thin window, that you would have to confront this. Otherwise it’d never cease. 

When the brothel stirs in the morning, readying those who must leave to see patrons with a bustle in the kitchen and a fluttering thing wielding makeup like an arsenal, you embolden yourself. You drop into the seat next to Miguel’s, cupping his hands and drawing his focus. 

“Please.” He straightens at your desperation, at the plea you release. There’s very few things you are unable to accomplish, whether by coin or cards, so to hear you confide in another is unusual. 

“Let me take your place. I need to see her again, to talk with her. You can take the pay, I don’t care. I just need to resolve this.” You squeeze his hands, just once. The look in his eyes falters, blinks rapid at the remembrance. You’d never cried over her, not in front of anyone, but he’d eased the story from you one night over a bottle she supplied. The harsh sweetness of the Noxian spirit had loosened your tongue, and he’d curled a hand over your face so tenderly it made you sob. 

His eyes settle with sympathetic resolution, squeezing your hands in return. 

“Of course. I understand.” He falters, just briefly, as if contemplating spilling. It only takes a moment before he continues. No one keeps secrets from you for long. “She’s been different, without you. She sends me away anyway, more often than not, even halfway through the day.”

After breakfast you dress, cloaking yourself to hide the difference in features. It’s a foggy morning, even in Piltover, so there’s thankfully no questioning guards, no curious gazes attempting to peek under your hood. You board the unfamiliar ship, startling as it jolts beneath your feet but settling eventually, grip heavy on the railing. Your eyes are instinctively pulled to the city’s brilliance rising over the horizon, gleaming and lacking the familiar grime you're used to, coating each Undercity building in generations of dirt and sweat and blood. The brightness of it, even with the weak sun, is overwhelming as it reflects off the tall, lustrous structures. 

Finally you arrive at where she’s staying, departing from the airship and praising solid ground. Before you’ve had a chance to center yourself, you’re ushered in by the guards—who don’t even check who’s under the hood. Either they truly believe you’re Miguel, or they don’t think whoever the Undercity could send would be strong enough to kill their general. Hm. You’d be concerned for her if you didn’t feel like killing the woman. 

(You attempted to cling to that lie, at least. The anger blanketed everything else, thin as it was. It was already half-dissolved everytime you glimpsed gold.)

You enter silently, pushing open the door. For a second, it feels as if everything will go wrong—that a guard will grab you, or something will… you don’t know. It’s inescapable, the anxiety. But you slip in without a problem, greeted by her back to you. She’s half-clothed in a loose robe, the fabric slipping down her broad shoulders, looking undone in a way you’ve never seen. A glass of wine dangles from her fingertips, despite the early hour.

“Pour yourself a glass.” She husks, voice sounding much-too heavy. You obey silently, filling it halfway and moving to join her. You don’t spread on the couch as she has, instead just sinking delicately into the end. 

“...you look…” beautiful. “...unhappy.” 

She jolts at the sound of your voice, eyes flickering wider and over to meet yours. It’s the first indication of emotion you’ve gotten since you arrived, and the first time you’ve caught her visibly off-guard. 

“What are you doing here?” She murmurs, faster than her usually-slow timber. Her fingers twitch, tightening around her wine. She’s composed but cracking, like an old stone eroding. “How did you get in here?”

You ignore both her questions, taking a sip of your wine instead. It spreads over your tongue, richer than the one you shared with Miguel, but no less acidic.

“You need better security. They didn’t even check if I was the right person.” 

Her fingers tighten, and her eyes narrow. Perhaps it’s at your flippancy, or the suggestion that her well-trained men are in some way incompetent. 

Neither protests leave her, in the end. Just a sigh as she sinks back into the cushions, cradling the glass to her mouth but not yet drinking. 

“...I told them if you ever came, to let you in.” The confession sits heavy between you. She doesn’t look at you, and in turn, you keep your eyes forward, towards the still-rising, late-morning sun. 

“Why would you do that?” You murmur, voice softened by the wine. It’s not yet hitting, but the fine flavor itself is enough to break you down a small, necessary amount. 

“I had hoped you would come, in some… childish dream of mine.” She muses idly, again hiding the brief stutter. Her thumb glides over the edge of her glass, sweeping absentmindedly. Your eyes are drawn to the motion, to the scars on her large hand that cradles the wine so delicately. 

“Well, I’m here.” You echo, feeling unsure. There’s a note of tension between you, not like a taunt rope but a simmering pot. It will boil over. You’re just not sure when. 

“Would you draw for me again? Just once.”

So you reach into your bag, hugged low on your hip. You withdraw your deck, and shuffle until you feel that familiar pull. From the very top you draw the card, thumb sliding it off into your waiting fingers. You flip it. The High Priestess, reversed. Again, you feel her gaze, attempting fruitlessly to hide her curiosity. Her lips purse, as if suppressing the urge to ask what it means. You indulge her regardless.

“Repressed feelings. Ignoring yourself, and rejecting your intuition.” You murmur tightly, suddenly feeling the coil reappearing and the ache returning.

Her eyes flicker over to yours. There’s no surprise in her dark irises—just an acceptance, a reluctant concession you know hurt her pride.  

“Yes, I suppose I have, and it’s hurt you.” No questioning, just fact. Her actions have hurt you—are still hurting you. Despite that, the pain lessens to a dull ache. Still there, but almost as if a balm was massaged into the tender skin. 

You don’t say it’s alright. It’s not alright. You shift closer instead, watching as she sets down her wine in anticipation of your hands. 

Unexpectedly, in a bout of courage, you reach for her hand. You exhale quickly, breath leaving in a huff as you snake your fingers over her own. She’s warm. You’ve never touched her before—not like this. Her hands are so much larger than your own, dwarfing you. You imagine she would, no matter your size. She breathes out, and can’t help but chuckle at your slightly-moony-eyed expression.

“I apologize. And you do not have to forgive me, dove. I’d hope your mental strength was more fortified.” 

“I don’t forgive you.” You murmur, eyes narrowing slightly. Something urges you, perhaps her own words, to be tougher, less generous with your kindness. “You will have to fight for it.”

“I haven’t lost a fight in many years.” She responds, and squeezes your hand. Her head inclines, a shallow impression of a duel’s bow. “I await your resistance.”

© empthy1

[aldisobey]

Wrecked me. Destroyed, emotionally bereft and words abandon. I am in love with your prose. It’s like my brain is at the spa getting a massage and the temperature is just right and the pressure, the intensity of it, the hands at play, the words chosen hit. I wish I could describe. I can’t. So take all this. All these things I wanted to say I loved.

Legitimately too much don’t open unless you want a lot. Love what ya made, what voice, mastery.

“A quiet test, a way of observing whether the word we would slip into conversation naturally or require a pause, a conscious effort.”

Everything in above, below this, that longing the measuring. The gentle tests to avoid another burn. Pulling further and further back at the continued failure. The mind we see, the emotions there? Your words evoke it powerfully.

“A home, maybe. A study with matching desks. How adorable. Before I know it, I’ll be spending more time with you than without, and suddenly ‘we’ have ‘traditions.’ ‘We’ have ‘a life together.’ And the next thing out of your mouth will be that cursed, saccharine stupid word: family."

Hey now. Nothing wrong with that! Fuck. The desks match. It’s a lovely simple life, I’m picking hobbit every time. But that wouldn’t fit Johanna maker. No she’d kill him first. You speak your truth Hezenkoss, never a wrong thing done.

“Then, one day, sudden as a fairytale, a little thing followed. A little thing made entirely of curiosity, of unguarded wonder. It assembled itself from air and light, slipped into its chosen shape, donned a backpack, adjusted its goggles, and, most importantly, selected him. It let itself be named. It let itself become. First an it, then a he, then a wisp no longer but This is Manfred.”

What. A delightful. Augh. It’s like a small Manfred storybook beginning within it all. Love you little skeleton. You chose well.

“His grave gold has been carefully curated. Each piece first chosen for its shape and luster, its particular delight, but also bright enough, costly enough, to be seen. Gold so pure it warps under a careless grip, so soft that teeth would leave crescent-shaped wounds in its surface if one were to bite.”

I’m in love with this imagery. You can see it in mind, almost feel it in hand. It makes me want to bite it. This prose makes me want to break my teeth on it. Roiling in the gut alright.

“He can no longer offer the prettiness of youth—fine, let it go. But there are other currencies. Stability, for one. A steady hand, a still point, a place to land when Rook, inevitably, falls. Because she will fall. It is in her nature to leap, just as it is in his to remain still, just as it was in Johanna’s to trespass.”

Amazing imagery after amazing imagery you keep showing such mastery of such a style. Other currencies damn. The leap? The trespass? I’m filled with disgust for how good you are at this. I fear for the curse that must come with such a gift. No. I err, not gift. There is toil here. Years of practice and study. Gift, perhaps, but an offering of gold doesn’t a crown become without the shaping of it.

He feels selfish, but after all this time, surely, he is allowed. He is not certain if this is the love, grand and operatic, but it has the right proportions, the right density.

This is so beautifully put and…sad? Hopeful? I love the ‘density’. The weight of words placed here. Soft, simple, heavy, something of comfort there.

Nevarra is softer. Nevarra has clouds, long grey stretches of them, merciful and cool. Nevarra has catacombs and tombs, stone corridors humming with history, names carved so deep they outlast memory. And everywhere—flowers

I want to go there. Is it desert a bit above? I don’t know I don’t care it looks cool below. What a permanent chill that seeps complete. Your prose here is, it, the throat pulls right. It’s delight. Everywhere-flowers. It is a beautiful place.

He will visit her bones, speak to her as he speaks to his parents, his voice flattening against stone, words meant for no one but himself. He will not whisper. Not to her. Not the way he does to the others, not in the hush reserved for the dead.

Thaaaaaats the feeeel I’m here for. Burn the Rooks always burn the Rooks I don’t want the bones about. The thought alone makes me itch. The constant not makes me believe he thinks about it a little too much. What a thing to even have to think about…

press her against familiar sheets in Nevarra, in Rivain, in places they have never been, in places that do not yet exist.

Ahem. Wow. Yes, however this was put. I don’t know why I like familiar sheets so much hmm.

Know that every piece was placed there, deliberately, by someone who cares for her in the way that gold cares for fire—devotedly, completely, until it melts.

I want to growl. Grind my teeth and eat this to absorb whatever it has. I can see that gold melt see that piece placed but I can’t say why how I like it. Beautiful work.

Then gold it shall be," he concedes. "Fed into your veins, threaded through capillaries, chaperoned along the corridors of your body. A patient infusion, drop by drop, until the filigree of your arteries is lined with metal, until the marrow of your bones drinks it in like water. When your heart beats—"

All of this. And below. All of this and made you know my feelings plenty. Bless this piece I’m humble to it for it. This has the feel of a familiar show, illustration of a scene viewed there. Glorious to have here.

Rook watches him for a long time, long enough that she seems older, the angles of her face sharpened by something he cannot name. Then he blinks, and suddenly she is younger; too young, younger than memory allows, younger than she has ever been. Paler, too.

I’ll end quiet here. I want to leave on your word above. Something speaks.

At nineteen, Emmrich proposed to a fellow student, a boy with hair so dark it drank the light. The age itself was incidental; a number, an illusion, a neat division imposed upon a life that did not yet know how to divide itself. But still, nineteen was good. Good because it allowed for certainty, for decisions made with the heedless bravado of someone who has not yet learned how time can warp them.  

He remembered family in the way one remembers the texture of a childhood blanket: warmth not as an abstraction but as a sensation, something real enough to be retrieved at will, kneaded, reshaped, pressed into new forms. It was this warmth, this phantom of closeness, that he sought to recreate in the tender spaces of early love. No one stopped him. Nineteen was the age of indulgence, of watching without intervening, of murmured allowances. Let him. He will learn. He will unlearn. The world granted him this folly.

"Let’s wait until we’re no longer apprentices," the lovely boy said, and so they did. 

Then Minrathous for one, Ferelden for the other. Cities that, on maps, seemed no more distant than the span of a hand but, in practice, required whole journeys to cross. The change was slow. Small gaps in the correspondence, a hesitation in the ink, an unfamiliar concision where once there had been excess. 

The letters continued. At first, swollen with sentiment, words pressing against the margins, impatient, tumbling over themselves in their need to be read. Then, the same flourishes, the same intricate loops, but now with the care of one writing an alibi. The words became beautiful in a way that beauty becomes a substitute for feeling. Then, in the end, not at all. 

At thirty, he tried again, though this time without the formalities of a question. A gesture here, a remark left to linger, an invitation just vague enough to be ignored or accepted without consequence. The art was in the waiting: nets cast, lines slack, the delicate balance between reeling in and letting the current decide.

Gifts, unobtrusive at first, then a shade too particular, too attuned. Plans, not for next week but for some fogged-over point just far enough ahead to suggest permanence. A quiet test, a way of observing whether the word we would slip into conversation naturally or require a pause, a conscious effort.

Some entanglements stretched across years, some unraveled in mere months, some never took shape at all. But the process remained the same, a practiced routine, less an act of pursuit than a habit of expectancy, of waiting to see who would mistake the drift for direction. 

With Johanna, it had almost seemed possible. They were young, clever, bright enough to blind themselves. Where she rushed forward, he held back; where she burned bridges, he traced blueprints for new ones. They fit together, he thought. She chose him to fight with, to kiss, to mock, to fuck, to abandon, to retrieve, to champion when it suited her and dismiss when it did not. Out of all the others—so many others, so many better ones—it was him she turned to, and that was beyond exhilarating.

"You're a fucking idiot," she would tell him. 

"Perhaps," he would agree, adjusting his sleeves, "but you still should not do this, Johanna." Or that. Or the next thing. 

They did not balance each other. Balance suggested symmetry, some reciprocal give-and-take. Johanna was a force of nature; he, at best, a gust of wind. But in those days, he let himself believe they came close enough. 

"I could stay with you forever," he confessed to her once, drunk on sentiment, on whatever else had been in his glass. 

"Love. Romance." Johanna muttered, barely looking up from her notes. "Convenient, isn’t it? Always there when it suits you. Always such a lovely little supplement to whatever grand, important thing you’re doing. We could go anywhere, you and I. Climb every ladder, scale every rung. Publish together, argue in print, scandalize conferences, carve our names so deep into the spine of academia they’d have to chisel us out. For a while, it could even be fun." 

Tap-tap-tap. Her cigarette met its end against his desk. 

"And then, of-fucking-course, you'll be wanting more. Because you're a sentimental twat. It'll start with something small. A home, maybe. A study with matching desks. How adorable. Before I know it, I’ll be spending more time with you than without, and suddenly ‘we’ have ‘traditions.’ ‘We’ have ‘a life together.’ And the next thing out of your mouth will be that cursed, saccharine stupid word: family."

A wave of the hand, cutting off whatever nonsense he had been about to say. 

"Tell me, Volkarin, when that moment comes, when the great balancing act begins, who do you think will tip the scales? Who will step back? Who will compromise, just a bit, just a fraction, just enough that it becomes a habit? It certainly won’t be you." 

In the aftermath, he stopped collecting people—they had a way of slipping through, of vanishing between seasons—and turned to objects instead. Objects had the decency to remain where they were placed. Objects, too, could be tender. A frayed ribbon, a cufflink left behind in a hurry, the curve of a wine glass still faintly smudged. If flowers could be pressed between pages, why not the remnants of former closeness?  

For a while, it sufficed. Once-beens do not grow cold. They do not tire of a familiar voice. They do not wake to discover that passion has gone. 

Then, one day, sudden as a fairytale, a little thing followed. A little thing made entirely of curiosity, of unguarded wonder. It assembled itself from air and light, slipped into its chosen shape, donned a backpack, adjusted its goggles, and, most importantly, selected him. It let itself be named. It let itself become. First an it, then a he, then a wisp no longer but This is Manfred. And once again, he thought: this is enough. More than enough. Did he really need more? Did he really dare ask for it? To ask was to tempt, and he had lived long enough to know that nothing is punished more swiftly than wanting.

It is a graveyard, he thinks now, standing in the Lighthouse, frowning at the accumulated debris of a life, at the weight of what he has chosen to drag with him. The artifacts of his years; the trifles, the curiosities gathered not for use but for the fact of their gathering. Books he cherishes and books he detests, bought because, once, someone he desired mentioned them in passing. His grave gold has been carefully curated. Each piece first chosen for its shape and luster, its particular delight, but also bright enough, costly enough, to be seen. Gold so pure it warps under a careless grip, so soft that teeth would leave crescent-shaped wounds in its surface if one were to bite. 

He wonders if Rook—whom he loves, though he will not tell her, not yet, not when love, spoken too soon, has the peculiar effect of making things disappear—might find some use for them. If she would accept one without knowing it was an offering. If she would take a second. If she would take them all. Books she cannot read, books she can set alight. If the gesture would amuse her, if it would tilt her just a hair closer, if, in some small, unnoticed way, it would make her stay after all is said and done and the gods are dead. 

He is vain, naturally. If the wind disarranges his hair, he will pause before a reflective surface to smooth it down. He will scent the pulse points of his throat, darken his lashes, adjust the folds of his collar. But vanity, like intelligence, like charm, is an instrument. He has wielded it since youth, when prettiness earned him gifts, indulgences, the interest of those old enough to give what he could not take. In his prime, handsomeness made students linger too long at his desk, made colleagues tilt their heads toward his in the candlelit hush of evening. And now, past fifty, he is something else altogether. 

Now he looks like a man who can provide. It is a new sort of attention, neither unpleasant nor pleasurable, merely a shift in expectation. He can no longer offer the prettiness of youth—fine, let it go. But there are other currencies. Stability, for one. A steady hand, a still point, a place to land when Rook, inevitably, falls. Because she will fall. It is in her nature to leap, just as it is in his to remain still, just as it was in Johanna’s to trespass. 

He is tired. Not old, not yet, though the distinction is beginning to blur. A little past his prime, a few paces beyond what once felt limitless. Still, the weight of it settles; a fatigue not of the body but of anticipation, of wanting, of that feverish, grasping giddiness that used to propel him forward and now only leaves him breathless. He isn’t sure when it happened, when the thrill sharpened into something sweeter, something he dared to call love. 

All he knows is that the Lighthouse has no hours, no division between night and day, only the endless lull of the in-between. And that in this strange, untethered time, he would very much like to kiss Rook for every second of it. 

"You look very good there," she says, watching him rearrange his books. 

Another night, when a tome slips, edges itself beneath his desk, and he is forced onto hands and knees to fish it out, she remarks, "I don’t like reading, but I like it when you read to me." 

"I like this, and I like that, and I like this even more." Her voice is drowsy as she traces the lines of his face in the dark. He doesn’t know what this or that are, only that she is saying it, only that it undoes something in him. He turns his face slightly, breathes in, and without meaning to, without even noticing at first, he cries.

"Oh," she says, and then, "Hm." A pause. A brief assessment. Finally, a careless shrug. "It’s fine. That’s fine. I like this too." 

Rook, Rook, Rook, he wants to say, you don’t need Rivain, you don’t need the sun. The sun burns you, always has, always will; your skin is too pale for it, you freckle, you scald. But Nevarra— 

Nevarra is softer. Nevarra has clouds, long grey stretches of them, merciful and cool. Nevarra has catacombs and tombs, stone corridors humming with history, names carved so deep they outlast memory. And everywhere—flowers. Tangled over crypts, spilling down staircases, curling at the hinges of forgotten doors. He has seen them all. He's collected them, commissioned their likeness in ink, dried them between pages so they would keep, so he could say: look, here, this one, still perfect, still intact. You don’t need the sun because they don't either. 

He feels selfish, but after all this time, surely, he is allowed. He is not certain if this is the love, grand and operatic, but it has the right proportions, the right density.

Then let him be selfish. Because one way or another, he will go before her. She is young; he is not. He will leave her everything—what he has made, what they will make together—let her wade through the excess of it, scatter it, burn it, gild herself in its remnants. Or perhaps it will be the other way around. Perhaps she will die first, and he will remain, the eternal, patient custodian of the Necropolis, throat slit in the name of lichdom. 

He will visit her bones, speak to her as he speaks to his parents, his voice flattening against stone, words meant for no one but himself. He will not whisper. Not to her. Not the way he does to the others, not in the hush reserved for the dead. Because what if she does not answer? Worse—what if she cannot? What if there is nothing at all on the other side, just a severance so complete that every Rook-shaped, Rook-possessed, Rook-claimed thing is erased, like a hand wiping chalk from a slate? And he, undying, would remain to witness it. So no, he will not whisper. But he will talk. 

He wants it, but he doesn’t want it, because he wants too much, all at once, all overlapping, all pulling in different directions. He wants to live, but he does not want to die. He wants to live with Rook, wants to kiss her, undress her, drag her down onto the floor of the Lighthouse, press her against familiar sheets in Nevarra, in Rivain, in places they have never been, in places that do not yet exist. He wants to pull her so close that the seam between them dissolves. 

More than that, he wants to buy her grave gold, not just because she would relish it—because she is a dragon, a creature drawn to glittering things—but because when she wears it, when her wrists flash with bangles, when her ears are burdened with gold, when her fingers are swallowed in rings, people will see. They will see and know. Know that every piece was placed there, deliberately, by someone who cares for her in the way that gold cares for fire—devotedly, completely, until it melts.

"I love you so much," he tells her one night, after a sip of whiskey too many, after something in his chest has tipped over and spilled. "I love you so, so much, and perhaps, oh, just perhaps, we do not need to die." 

She kisses his cheek, absently. She looks tired. "Not now?" she asks. 

"Not ever," he insists, giddy again, grasping her hands, pressing his lips against her knuckles. 

She exhales, leans back, undoes her braid, fingers brushing through. Inquires again, "How?" Not with disbelief, but with that particular indulgence she reserves for him. She humors, but she listens. She likes to listen. And so he will talk. 

"Me, in lichdom. You... I do not know. Not yet. Not entirely. But I will. Through artifice, perhaps." 

"Artifice?"

"You like gold, do you not?" 

"I suppose."

"Then gold it shall be," he concedes. "Fed into your veins, threaded through capillaries, chaperoned along the corridors of your body. A patient infusion, drop by drop, until the filigree of your arteries is lined with metal, until the marrow of your bones drinks it in like water. When your heart beats—" he presses his fingers to the pulse at her wrist, measuring it, counting. "It will push gold through you, coil it around your sinew, stain your blood the color of amber. It will settle in the soft places, the hidden ones. Behind your ribs, along your spine, between the cords of your throat. You will be a reliquary, a thing preserved, untouchable." His grip tightens slightly, just for a moment, before he releases her, watching the light catch at the faint blue of her veins. "And if your skin were ever cut," he murmurs, "nothing would spill. No ruin, no red, no proof of mortality. Only the gleam of permanence seeping through." 

Rook watches him for a long time, long enough that she seems older, the angles of her face sharpened by something he cannot name. Then he blinks, and suddenly she is younger; too young, younger than memory allows, younger than she has ever been. Paler, too. 

She takes his glass, finishes it without hesitation, grimaces slightly. Still wordless, she cradles his face in her hands, presses a kiss to one cheek, then the other. Her lips brush his eyelids, and he closes them for her, yielding. She lingers there, warm and silent, mouth against the thin skin, long enough that the room begins to shift, long enough that he thinks, drowsily, that he might simply drift into sleep. 

"I love you too," she murmurs, very quietly. Then, softer still, her lips moving against his temple, "But don’t speak like that again." Another kiss, this time to his jaw. "I will come to the Necropolis with you, if you like. In the next few days. You are not doomed, nor transcendent, nor anything half so tragic. You are homesick. That is all. You are simply homesick." 

He knows himself to be a man of excess: of reaching too far, of wanting beyond reason, of pressing his hands too deeply into whatever is offered. That was why the others left, wasn’t it? But Rook, Rook is different. Rook takes. Rook wants. Rook gives, recklessly, and he, in turn, cannot help but take. 

Bad jests, confessions that start careful and end careless. A first time beneath the covers, blood on the sheets, a kiss, the way her mouth moves against his, the way she lets herself be known in increments, in silences, in the cool of her palm against his cheek. Her favorite spot behind the waterfall. Because love, if it is anything at all, is the act of giving. Not just anything, not just for the sake of it, but precisely what the other cannot reach for themselves. 

And so, he wants to give her gold. 

In the morning, he will apologize. Will run a hand over his face, will mutter something about whiskey, about tiredness, about speaking without thinking. He will dismiss himself before she can. Will say that he does not know what possessed him. 

But tonight, he will think of her throat gleaming with gold. He will dream, as he always does, in metal. 

[callixpene]

L&DS Future Lifetime Series - PART 3: THE CHASE BEGINS

Note: We are back to the individual POVs of the Love Interests for Part 3😁

MASTERLIST - For PART 1(Completed), PART 2(Completed) & PART 3(Ongoing) of this series

L&DS Future Lifetime Series - PART 3: SYLUS X OC - THE CHASE BEGINS

Sylus X OC.

Set in Future Timeline. All Love Interests have no memories of their past lives. All of the MCs(5 Sisters) all have memories of their past lives. Very persistent LIs. Avoidant MCs. Love at first sight. Soulmates.

Genre: Fluff, Some Angst, Slightly Suggestive

"I would like to speak with Miss Nyx Kingsley, bring her here for me."

"Right away Sir." the waiting staff replied, before he left.

VIP access was so incredibly convenient, Sylus thought. He had precedence and could make any sort of demand.

And Sylus relished in the fact that he had superiority.

Nexus' event staff did not even think twice about accepting his sponsorship after finding out he was bringing in Rafayel, from Mo Art Studio, as the art curator, and Zayne, from Akso Hospital, as the head of the medical team. The event planners were tasked to look for the best of best for all aspects of this party, and Sylus had presented his trump cards to them at the perfect time.

It was fairly obvious that Nexus spared no expense with this business party. There was the main party hall downstairs where guests mingled and talked about business and investments. Then, there was a beach & pool resort outside, should some of the guests wished to go for a swim. Finally, for some guests who wanted to unwind, there was a makeshift nightclub at the top floor, and this was where Sylus was.

He was settled on a large nook at the VIP lounge. Far away from the crowd.

The music wasn't too loud, as to not disturb those who were downstairs, but the atmosphere was still lively. Guests danced and drank with one another just like in any other posh nightclub at Linkon's high street.

"Sir, Miss Nyx is here. As you've requested."

Sylus turned his head, and sure enough, she was there.

Nyx was dressed in a tight-fitting, velvet red dress. It hugged every inch, every curve of her enticing figure, perfectly. The mere sight of her could make any man fall to their knees.

And Sylus was not immune to her spell.

Even as she stood there, a grimace taking over her expression as she realized which VIP guest had requested her presence.

Sylus chuckled and her face soured even more.

His Kitten was getting feistier by the minute.

"Well done." Sylus said, as he discreetly handed a handsome tip to the waiting staff. "Now, leave us alone."

As the staff eagerly left, Sylus patted the seat beside him.

"Well, what are you waiting for, Kitten?" Sylus smirked. "Or would you rather I carry you myself and put you on my lap instead?"

He wanted to touch her, to feel her smooth, delicate skin with his fingertips.

But he willed himself to behave. Sylus would not do anything without her consent.

"Mr. Sylus." Nyx rubbed her forehead with her hand in frustration. "I'm almost certain that you did not call me here to talk about business. So let's not waste each other's time. I need to tend to the other guests..."

"You're forgetting that I have a VIP ticket to this event, Sweetie." Sylus replied, smugly. "And it states on the invitation that VIPs can request to speak with anyone from the Kingsley family."

"Yes, but only for business-"

"Oh, I have business matters to discuss as well with you. Don't forget about our deal, Sweetie. Remember, you are the only one from Nexus I'm permitting to speak with me for our dealings. This is for the sake of our partnership. Now, what are you going to do about that?"

With a huff, Nyx stomped towards the seat next to him and begrudgingly sat down.

"That's what I thought." Sylus replied. He gestured towards another waiting staff. "A bottle of champagne for me and my lady."

Nyx swiftly faced him. "I am not your lady." She said through gritted teeth.

As she said that, Sylus felt an ache in his chest.

He was actually hurt by her blatant refusal.

Damn, since when did he get this soft?

In one swift motion, Sylus held the tip of her chin and turned it to face him.

"Now Kitten..." He said, tone stern yet sincere. "I really don't like it when someone plays with my emotions."

Nyx's eyes widened.

Then, she smirked.

Sylus was taken aback by this. "Sweetie, what-"

His words were cut off as Nyx kissed him.

And it was not some gentle, innocent peck.

When she sought entrance, Sylus opened his mouth and responded to her with much fervor.

His mind went blank.

She was actively touching him as well.

Sylus could only grunt when she kissed and sucked the sensitive spot behind his ear, his Adam's apple and the bottom of his neck.

It was as if Nyx knew exactly where to touch: where his weak spots are, and which parts of his body to caress to make him shudder as they continued to kiss passionately.

Sylus had to hold himself back from moaning, despite how pleasurable she was making him feel.

He was on cloud nine.

He couldn't help but to put his hands on her and caress her body back as well.

They made out for what seemed like several minutes. They only stopped when both of them felt like they were on the verge of fainting and desperately needed to take a breath.

"Kitten...." Sylus' expression was euphoric.

Despite his handsome looks, he had absolutely no experience with sexual matters. He never found himself interested in anyone before.

But at this very moment, he was damn desperate.

It seems his woman was a master at seduction.

And that made him love and want her even more.

"Come here..." He leaned forward to embrace her, to feel her lips once more, to express the depth of his love and devotion through touch.

But Nyx stood up before he could hold her.

"I'm so sorry Mr. Sylus." She smirked. "It also states in the invitation that each VIP guest can only spend a maximum of 20 minutes with the Kingsley family member of their choice." She said, then she showed her smartphone to him. "It's been twenty minutes, I'm leaving now."

"You little minx....." Sylus replied as he continued to breathe heavily. His mind was still foggy, it was still slowly phasing out of its blissful state.

His knees were so damn weak right now. It would take him a couple of minutes at least to recover.

Nyx huffed. "Goodbye Mr. Sylus. Oh, and don't bother seeking for me for the rest of the night. This island is huge. I'm going to make sure you won't find me this time."

At that, she walked away and left the room.

She really did leave him all hot and bothered like this.

Sylus' ego was bruised. She successfully played with his emotions after all. He was entirely bewitched by her.

Inwardly though, he was thrilled.

He loved a good chase. And the way that his Kitten was playing this game was making it so much more entertaining for him.

His fingers traced his lips, as he recalled the way she had kissed him earlier.

His body was still hot. He groaned when he felt the hardness on his crotch.

He was going to have to relieve this by himself, for now.

Oh Kitten, when I catch you, I'm going to get my sweet revenge.

Rafayel's will be up next🩷

Thank you so much to everyone who has kept reading this series up to this point🥹

Please tell me your thoughts in the comments what you think about this series so far💜🩵🩷🧡❤️

[mizusbabygirl]

hihihi i’m a big fan of your work. can you write a fic about semi meeting your family for the first time, like at a family event. but it ends in like smut fucking you in the bathroom or something idk i feel like that would b hot. no pressure to write this, ty! 😋

established presence ⋆. 𐙚 ̊

player 380 (se-mi) x fem reader ────୨ৎ──── cw: strap usage (se-mi referring to it as a dick), edging, bathroom sex, fingering, mirror fucking

preview: you and se-mi have been dating for a long period of time and your family finally agreed on meeting her by inviting her to a family event. little did you know that inviting her would take a turn for the best…

“se-mi! you’re here too early! but it’s whatever, come in,” you greet her as you were busy putting on the new pair of earrings se-mi has gotten for you the other day.

“are you sure your family will like me? i mean, you did tell me that your family had a weird feeling about me,” se-mi said, worry growing in her eyes.

“of course they will! they did have a weird feeling about you when we first became friends, but now that we’re dating, they’ve always insisted on getting to meet you,” you say with honesty, hoping the worried look on her face would disappear.

se-mi smiled upon hearing your words that basically reassured her that everything will be okay.

later that evening, you and your family were gathered around the large dining table and having a feast. se-mi was seated next to you and tried to avoid eye contact with everyone around her. you could tell she was uncomfortable since some of your relatives would constantly ask her questions regarding where she lives, works, studies, etc. in that moment, you got to meet your girlfriend’s new side.

se-mi was always outspoken around you and was never afraid to speak her mind. but tonight, your girlfriend acted like a completely different person. the pity feeling you felt for her as you watched her look more and more uncomfortable, your relatives clearly not respecting her personal space by continuing to ask questions or make comments about the way she looked or acted. some of the comments were positive and some were sarcastic.

you’ve had enough and decided to excuse yourself to the restroom and brought se-mi along with you.

you shut the door behind you, making sure to lock it. you turned to look at se-mi, who was already in tears. your first instinct was to embrace and wipe her tears away.

“i’m so sorry baby, i didn’t expect them to act this way,” you apologize.

se-mi shakes her head and says, “no, don’t worry. i’ll be fine as long as i’m with you.”

her body softened upon feeling your hands caress her short black hair.

you press kisses on her cheeks as you feel her holding you tighter and closer to her. those kisses soon turned into a kiss on the lips, then to a hot makeout session.

nobody could hear the two of you since your relatives were busy probably having a conversation or something.

her tongue swirled around your mouth and so did yours.

se-mi stopped the kiss and looked at you in the eyes and smiled. “i forgot to mention how lovely you look in this dress,” she said as her hands started to roam around your body slowly, caressing you, making you feel some sort of way that made a bolt of ecstasy strike in your body.

you were wearing a dark red short dress that looked classy yet sexy.

“fuck..” semi whispered, her voice reeking with lust and love as her hands gripped onto your hips.

“se-mi, please,” you insisted, clearly wanting her to have sex with you in the bathroom since all your relatives left the home already.

se-mi’s eyes darkened, her grip growing tighter on your body.

“thank god i brought this,” se-mi said with a smirk as she pulled out a black 7 inch strap-on from her bag.

you felt your heart pounding, your nipples growing hard to an extent and not to mention, the wetness in your pussy, knowing that in less than 10 minutes, you were going to get your pussy pounded by her.

se-mi had you on the bathroom counter, on all fours, your back arched and undressed. you whimpered as you felt her finger trace around your outer lips, whilst her other hand was placed on your ass, caressing it gently. “did you shave your cunt for me?” she teased as she slid her finger in, making a small wet squelch sound. “you’re so wet already,” she smacked your ass making you shiver, “did i really make you this wet?” she asked as she began pumping her finger in and out of you. “and do you think i’m going to get any wetter with you fingering me at a slow fucking pace with one finger?” you said, clearly sounding impatient.

without her saying anything, she granted your wish by adding another digit inside of you and sped up her fingering pace. you’re not used to this and you didn’t expect it to hurt. moans of pain and pleasure escaped from your mouth as you felt her add another fucking finger inside your already beat pussy.

she was being so fucking cruel she straight up pulled out without letting you orgasm or anything.

she watched your pussy pulsate, your inner folds basically breathing in and out, looking like they’re about to explode.

“se-mi.. mmm.. i want.. you… se-mi.. don’t make me… fucking suffer…” you uttered, sounding like you were dick deprived. se-mi licked her lips watching your back arch more. the sight of your pussy looking wetter and wetter, and the sight of your ass lifted for her and for her only made her own pussy wet as well as she began equipping her strap-on. she had some trouble adjusting the strap to her liking but she eventually figured it out. se-mi got on the counter with you, praying the counter won’t randomly collapse.

she gave your ass a sharp slap, making it jiggle before slowly sliding her cock inside of your pussy. this all happened to your surprise and your pussy was clearly too tight to support the width of her strap’s dildo.

you screamed out as she fucked her way through inside you, ripping away your virginity for good and stretching you open.

skin slapping sounds filled the room as she pounded you relentlessly with her big strap-on, her hips snapping against your ass over and over again. you could’ve sworn the fucking counter was about to collapse any minute now. se-mi slapped your ass and uttered, “this has to be the best dick you’ve ever received in your life.” se-mi began uttering complete nonsense as she moaned in between her words and so did you. “look at you, fucking look at you,” she said as she lifted your head up by grabbing a fistful of your hair to take a look at yourself in the mirror.

your cheeks were flushed, you looked adorable. your hair looked messed up, your mascara looked smudged.

eventually, se-mi ended up fucking you on the bathroom floor in missionary. she wanted to get a better view of your pussy flaps spreading open each time she thrusted in and out of you.

“se-mi, baby, i’m going to cum..” you cry out as you squirt all over her strap-on and have the best fucking orgasm you’ve ever had. let’s not forget the one she had as well after you got the chance to finger her right after.

what a miracle that no one happened to be in the house whilst se-mi was fucking your brains out.

[yanderes-galore]

Yandere The Boys Queen Maeve concept?

Sure! I just hope I got her character right ^^;

Yandere Queen Maeve/Maggie Shaw Concept

Pairing: Platonic -> Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulation, Overprotective behavior, Violence, Murder, Fear of loss, Denial, Isolation, Kidnapping, Blood, Delusional behavior, Forced relationship.

Queen Maeve, other than Starlight, is probably the best Supe yandere you could have.

She wouldn't want to harm her obsession and would actually be very caring.

Maeve, or Maggie, doesn't particularly enjoy getting close to people.

She sees having personal connections as having weakness.

After all, people can exploit you by threatening those you love.

This is understandable for her considering she had a past relationship with Homelander.

She's probably also one of the only people who can stand up to Homelander too.

Maggie would most likely be in denial of how she feels about you.

She's had many encounters within The Seven, some intimate, but she's struggled truly connecting with others after Homelander.

How could she? Homelander quite literally killed anyone who showed any interest in her.

If you think about it, in canon that's eerily close to having a yandere.

Which could mean a couple things when it comes to her obsession.

She's either just a protective yandere, not wanting to be like Homelander.

That or she subconsciously acts like Homelander by being possessive and jealous over you.

There's plenty of reasons for her to try and avoid being close to you.

She doesn't want you hurt, be that by someone else's hand or her own.

She may even be scared to hurt you.

Maggie could be either platonic or romantic.

Naturally a romantic obsession would be more intense due to her past (Intimate encounters, relationships, etc.)

But a platonic one is more mellow, often being her trying to give advice and protect you.

Maggie truly tries to be cold and distant with you.

Yet she's always been a sympathetic person, even if she's more cynical now.

Eventually she'll step in to help you occasionally, always wary of anyone noticing.

If her obsession is platonic, she may be less wary... but still anxious.

She thinks it's okay to have her obsession start as just a friend.

You're probably still in danger... but it's not like you're involved.

Maggie overall is primarily a protective yandere.

Despite never wanting to be a hero...

She's used to being there for others and can't seem to break the habit when it comes to you.

If she's going to be a 'hero' for anyone, it's you.

She's very secretive about her behavior.

She keeps an eye on you, regardless of if you're a civilian or even working for Vought.

She feels at ease when she knows where you are and what you're doing.

Maggie definitely keeps an eye on Homelander too.

She doesn't want him learning of her newest obsession.

She really tries to keep how she feels about you as a 'secret friendship'.

She knows Vought and does NOT want you being used as some form of marketing.

Maggie takes time to come visit you when she isn't doing duties for The Seven.

You're an outlet for her, she really needed a friend.

She just hates the fact it would be so easy to lose you the second she slips up.

When Maggie begins to develop romantic feelings, she's scared.

She's terrified the second she acts on them... you're going to be dealt with in some horrible way.

This fear, no doubt put in her by Homelander, is what makes her yandere behavior truly develop.

Originally she was just protective.

That alone makes sense because of what her supposed duty is.

Yet the possessive and isolating behavior that comes later?

That's caused by other factors.

Maggie may not even realize she's being as bad as Homelander, her previous partner.

She just excuses it as paranoia.

No, she's not jealous that you get to speak so freely to other people.

She's just... worried they'll hurt you.

She isn't isolating you in your apartment.

She's just watching over you in case Homelander comes by.

Don't you know it's dangerous to associate with her?

She knows it, she knows it quite well...

Yet she can't seem to give you up.

Maggie would kill for her obsession.

She's killed people before... proud of it? Not necessarily.

She'd kill to protect her obsession.

She tries nothing all that gorey.

Maybe she'll snap their neck... That seems good enough.

Although, impaling others with her sword is more satisfying than she'd like to admit....

There's just something about the way their blood spurts when she cuts them down... a strange thought, especially when she thinks of you during it.

She may even take on other Supes if she needs to.

She isn't afraid of conflict, she's even known to speak her mind, yet she tries to prevent it in case you'll get hurt.

When she accepts the fact she's in love with you, Maggie can be affectionate.

She'll hug you more often and sit beside you in your home.

If she gets involved with you, she'll kill you all over and cuddle you.

All of her obsession is a secret.

She hides it from you until she can't take it anymore.

She's going to end up doing something that gives her away to you.

Maybe you're fighting with her or maybe she gets worked up over the idea of Vought finding out about you.

Maggie's confession could be rather blunt I feel.

Like in an argument or maybe she saves you from another Supe...

That might be when she admits it...

She loves you.

While possibly flattering... This isn't normal love, of course.

It's more like a paranoid obsession than anything.

It would not surprise me if Maggie snapped and decided isolation will keep you safe.

It would also keep you hers.

I definitely think Maggie will accidentally act like how Homelander did with her.

She doesn't trust you with anyone else, to the point of her killing anyone who tries to find you.

She keeps you at a private home, or even just house arrest at your own home or apartment.

She's often around you, telling you she loves you.

She tries to excuse her behavior, saying Homelander might kill you.

You don't doubt that...

But you'd rather she didn't hide you away from everyone you know and love.

Maggie may hate to admit it... but Homelander's rubbed off on her.

She may think she's different, that she's doing what's best...

But locking you up... fear mongering you... coming home bloody...

There's no difference.

She still wants you to herself, the excuse doesn't matter.

You'll be scared of her, just like she was with Homelander.

Maggie wants a normal life, she wants to love you and provide for you... She wants you to love her back...

Unfortunately, you'll only be scared of her... It's frustrating.

She has a temper that flares when you refuse her... making you change your tune.

Maybe she'll even be delusional?

Maybe she'll think you love her back... That she's having her happy ending...

In reality you're scared and just trying to placate her...

It's a repeat of her and Homelander... Except she's the problem now.

[nerdlordofnerds]

Alright now here is gonna be my long post about Maomao and Jinshi and stuff. It's mostly just a massive longwinded ramble about what I love about them when compared to each other and how the story goes. I'll let you know when a part of it is getting to spoilers from the Light Novel and stuff

K hi there so:

MAOMAO.

The legend herself who does not want to be legendary but is anyway.

My first prefix of this: I love her so much because quite frankly, she is me. Emotionally repressed with incredible smarts and memory that only apply to things of direct interest without considerable effort otherwise. The biggest thing however that should be understood, she lies to herself about everything. She knows what would be troubling and avoids it if she can help it, but in her case this is a necessary survival mechanism.

We know where she grew up, treated and taught of the upper and lower classes and sexim of the society she lived, people and their services given prices and values in the eyes of those above them. She views every single interaction of her life in this transactional mindset that's further established by the brothel she grew up at, and puts herself as low as she possibly can at any time without bringing herself to danger as much as possible. She cannot clearly express her emotions, which frankly I know he's a great guy, but Luomen has some blame for that with his attempt to teach her not to speak out on guesswork and assumptions. As such she only has two modes of doing things, 100% or 0% (Or at least as close to 0 as she can manage). Clearly of course evident in her adoration of medicine and inability to control her bouts of manic excitement. This note however brings me into the other blorbo:

JINSHI

The prince imperial brother who so desperately wishes he could throw it all away.

Apothecary Diaries does a fantastic job of speaking on class inequality and leadership. Jinshi was told and taught and shown In his life that he is above everyone by those around him. Blessed with perfect looks by the heavens themselves because why wouldn't he be right? However Jinshi is not stupid. He grows up and learns many of the exact same survival and coping strategies that Maomao uses despite being complete opposites in societal class. He cannot express his desires true because his words carry so much weight. And yet the whole country would look to him as a divine being above them so he must fulfill that role as best he can. 0% or 100% in his due diligence, but different from Maomao, he does this to try and earn true respect, find his place. People all over swoon for him on his looks alone and he knows that. He sees right through their shallowness, he's not stupid. He uses it to his advantage. But at his core he cares so so much more about the people he's supposed to be above than someone in his power should, he works himself to the bone with all of his tools when he sets his mind to something when a large number of the other higher people in the show always hand off tasks to other people who excel at them more. And he does this too, it's what he was taught, but what he wants more is his own identity, his own path to work on and feel proud.

Anyways character screaming aside, let's get to the two of them across the story and how feral they make me.

Of course the beginning is what you'd expect, he finds someone whom is seemingly unfazed by all of his gifts and tactics that cause everyone to swoon and fall in line. Naturally it must go further, the teasing, the badgering, the growing curiosity. For the first time in his life, there is someone in his orbit whom has no desire to be involved with him for power or looks or anything. So he tests the grounds and learns more about her and he realizes something. Maomao is someone who steadfastly has found where she wants to be. The world is rarely so simple as that but someone just like him, who will give everything they have at what they do, and has found their calling in it. He learns about how she operates, her past, her family, and his intrigue and curiosity grow into more vibrant feelings, which ultimately causes him pain. He doesn't want to be above her. He doesn't want to hold the whole world on his shoulders. He will do what he must because he cares so much for people as a whole, but ultimately he's been carrying it so long that he wants to throw everything away. Becoming Jinshi in the rear palace, despite being another task set before him, was a huge escape for him, and now he, through learning and seeing in truth the perspective of Maomao, realizes the world is so much more than his beautiful box he's been stuffed into. But of course he knows that's selfish, he can't make her carry his burdens with him, he doesn't want her to suffer like he has. So no matter how selfish he wishes, how he wished he could pluck her up like a flower to take home, to care for and nourish forever, keep close, suffocatingly close, he ultimately knows that if he does he'll end up strangling her to death in the box with him. He's seen it in the rear palace, the strife and struggle and conflict of that life, he couldn't bear it, it wouldn't be worth the short term joy of having her as painful as it is for him.

But now let's talk Maomao on this. She sees herself as incapable of feeling love, of being anything other than selfish. Everything a transaction, every relationship for a price. Even her friend in the rear palace, she convinces herself that she's nice to her for information, to get knowledge when she needs and nothing more. So when of course she is dragged into situation after situation by her so called superior with nothing to show for it, she's frustrated and annoyed. But she can't refuse, she knows, it's the way that's been drilled into her since birth, classes and structures. Yet still when she has to get it done, she goes 100% on the task. It's survival, despite her never wanting to stand out, she has to do her best to avoid punishment. However the nature of it changes, Jinshi will tease her and play around, so she responds in kind. A transaction of sorts. It becomes familiar to her. The dragging into tasks changes into rewards, into favors, into genuine help she wants to do for others, but she will never admit it. She's just repaying her debts and doing what she's told in accordance to her own value from her perspective. Nevertheless however she convinces and lowers herself otherwise, she learned from her sisters a great deal about pride. She has so much pride built into herself that sometimes it overflows into the negative. When she cares, she cares so so much and won't stop until she's satisfied. Internally however, this backfires on her and she never realizes it. Maomao is also not an idiot, she sees Jinshis feelings and developing attachment to her. However, she cannot escape her transactional mindset, and she instantly without any thought determines "I cannot pay him back for that, I cannot give him what he wants, I need to find something else instead so I don't hurt him or myself" and continues to ignore every sign, every clue, every thing that would drag her deeper and deeper into it. This also backfires on her, to Jinshi it's like he's been starving his whole life, and she's the only food he can see, but she keeps stepping away every time he tries to get within reach. It's survival for her though, she doesn't want to be devoured, and thats exactly what she assumes is going to happen because she's seen it all before in her environment growing up. Love and hate destroying people.

This next bit is gonna have some Spoilers for the Light novels and stuff. So yall anime and manga only folks can finish reading here if you want, thanks for stopping by!

But anyways, this whole culmination explodes on its head with all the events with LN5 and LN6. The party that is politically charged with an intent to get Jinshi involved with other nobles to find him a bride. Maomao wants it to go through because she sees her self as the worst option for him, she wants someone who can give him everything. She wants him to get what he wants and needs and be happy because she cares about him albeit she won't admit it to him, they've known each other a good while at this point in the story. But of course her continuous attempt to remove herself from the path only makes him try harder, he has to go 100% when he wants something after all, and leads of course to the scene afterwards. The turning point for both of them, where he tries with everything he can and is eruption of emotion to show her that he's serious, that he will not back down no matter what. She complains continuously in her head about it too, about why does her want her? How she is convinced she cannot repay his feelings. But she responds in kind as best she can, it's a transaction, and she had learned what to do from her sisters, albeit as a sort of fallback safety mechanism in her head to avoid being vulnerable in the moment. But after that is becomes increasingly harder for her to justify to herself about how she feels towards him, and the same likewise is it hard for him to express to her in ways that she expresses to him. All in all, it's a mess that develops and buds throughout the rest of the series.

It just makes me insane, even the characters in the story know and see, if Jinshi wants her so badly (and he does), he has all of the power to just take her. Even Maomao herself expresses how it would be so much easier for him to just take her as a concubine and not have to worry any more about how she felt about it. But Jinshi won't do that, he knows how torturous that would be to Maomaos spirit and pride. So instead he will work and work himself to near death to create a situation where they can both finally be happy, which sort of unexpectedly helps Maomao sort her own feelings to, because she cannot hide how much she cares for him in making sure he rests and doesn't overwork. She convinces herself otherwise near constantly of course. But yeah, it's an incredible slow burn because the characters both try to protect the other from harm, in their own ways at least, and in doing so they protect the other from being with them because they understand they'll cause each other pain if they do it before everything is right, both internally with their own thoughts and emotions, and externally with their world and the society they live in, and it makes me so insane.

Anyway yeah, I love these dorks who love each other so much that they try to not love how they do because love is pain and they cannot bear to hurt the other on purpose like that.

[ollie-bees]

The Empty is not cold, but Dean shivers anyway. The Empty is not hot, but nervous sweat runs down Dean’s back. The Empty is nothing, but Dean’s chest constricts and the air feels heavy and it chokes him with every breath. Dean hums off and on; notes of AC/DC and the thin gold strand wrapped around his waist are his only tethers to life—the only things to remind him there is another life to live. But Jack and Sam are waiting for him to get back, and his angel is waiting for him to come.

It seems to have been days since he started. He doesn’t know how time passes here.

When he finally reaches Castiel—really a body covered in a trenchcoat with the life stripped out of him—he pauses. He takes a moment to drink in the fact that a piece of Cas is here. When Cas had gone this time, it was with nothing left behind, not a body, not a trenchcoat, not even an angel blade. If this is the last time Dean is going to see him, he needs a minute to take it in.

But the clock is ticking and the forces of the world are watching, waiting for him to pass this trial.

Still tucked in the sleeve of the trenchcoat is Cas’s blade. Dean steadies his hand and swipes against Cas’s throat. The small bits of grace that were left float out and into the bottle in Dean’s other hand. When it’s all there, he shoves the lid on tight and sets it on dark ground.

When Cas’s eyes flutter open, Dean pulls him up, cradling the back of his head. When Cas’s eyes narrow, Dean squeezes his hand. When Cas’s eyes then widen with recognition, acknowledgement of what is happening, Dean pulls him close.

“Don't do that again,” he says.

And Castiel can’t speak.

“I’ll get you out of here.”

And Castiel can only nod.

“You have to trust me.”

Castiel pulls back. “Of course I trust you, Dean.”

Something like a tear forms in Dean’s eyes. “You have to follow me. You have to promise to follow me and trust me.” Deep breath in. “And you have to stay. You have to come back and then you have to stay.”

Cas nods, choked with desire and disbelief. “I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.”

And as much as Dean wants to say ‘forever then,’ he can only smile and pull Cas up.

“Okay.”

And then, once Cas is steady on his feet, Dean will turn around and start walking. He will walk and hear no footsteps behind him. But Cas said he would stay, so he must be there. And when Dean starts off, shaky in his steps but not looking back, Cas will follow. Dean will say nothing and his soul will feel far away. But Dean said he wants him to stay, so it must be true. Even after hours have passed and no words have been shared and all he wants to do is turn to see if Cas is there, Dean will keep walking. And Cas will follow.

The Fates themselves might stop to watch the march. The angels will pause their heavenly duties and the demons will halt their sinning in recognition of this test. The new Death might smile as she puts a book back on her shelf. The Empty itself might release its tendrils, sedated enough with the grace of a cracked angel and willing to give up the fight.

And when the portal is there and Dean steps through, he will let out the breath he has been holding in his chest. And with a gasp, he will begin to turn, to reach for the angel he knows is there. But Sam will grab him first, keep him facing forward until Cas is through and the portal is closed and the tragedy of the millennia is avoided.

Only then will Cas revel in his new humanity, in the golden light of the bunker, and let out a laugh of that true happiness. And Dean will turn and pull him close and bury his head in Cas’s shoulder as though there is no other place he should be.

[silyabeeodess]

So, these aren't really theories (I guess except the last one, but I don't feel like I'm adding much to what's already out there), just things that have kind of stuck in my head that I want to get down somewhere after Chapter Four's release. None of them are really worth their own post, so I'm just gonna note them each below. The subheadings are as follows: 'False Justification and Unrestrained Evil,' 'The Importance of Kevin Barnes,' and '"Love" with Limits.'

False Justification and Unrestrained Evil

Throughout the game, we've seen several of its villainous characters try to justify the experiments "in the name of science" or in "how it can one day help a lot of people," but nowhere near as much as in this chapter. This chapter showed us cases such as how Stella Greyber got involved with them despite her supposed love for kids, how security staff members who were both aware and unaware of the truth behind the experiments would abuse the toys, and how Warrenbach Construction was pushed into maintaining its contract despite Mr. Silver's concerns over what they were building. Each of these times, all of the adults try to come up with some reason for the evils they're involved with - and even though some of them were rightfully fearful of their own lives, I will go so far as to call out all of them for being wrong.

Starting off with Stella, yes, we can say she "loves kids," but that "love" never goes behind her own desires. Reflecting on her tape all the way back in Chapter One, when she first interviews to get into the company, we already see that she has an obsession with the idea of youth. Quote: "I don't think anyone ever really feels like an adult. Your body, just gets older and older... and then you die." It's important to note that no one prompted her on this issue: She was just asked why she wanted to join Playtime and volunteered these thoughts. Even the interviewer is put-off by her remarks, telling her that they were "getting off track."

This is important because it tells us why she gives in so easily when she finds out about the experiments. She's not doing it because "it'll help out a lot of kids someday." She's doing it because the end result is something she personally desires: Effective immortality. Note that, when speaking to Leith in her VHS found in Chapter Four, she doesn't ask about the failed experiments (as if anyone could avoid seeing the literal mountains of bodies at the Prison's front entrance) or the treatment of the kids involved, she asks "Do they know when it will be ready?" Her rationalizing that "it'll help a lot of kids too" is just a flimsy excuse to spare herself from feeling guilty. For an irl comparison, her behavior and that of the other scientists who follow this justification isn't really all that different from people who murder and steal organs to sell on the black market or doctors that let registered donors under their care die--all under the idea of "saving lives."

People have and continue to donate their bodies to science. Playtime Co. could've focused on that. Even in the events of the story itself, we see individuals like Thomas Clark from the Bron video on MOB's YouTube channel willingly let themselves be turned into toys--a fact that the other toys are very much aware of and understandably infuriated by. The orphanage just gave the scientists a means of hurrying their experiments along with an endless supply of bodies no one would know went missing.

You can say maybe Stella didn't know about just how bad the Prison was, but I don't give her a pass there either. Knowing about the experiments, going out of her way to even make recordings for the kids who undergo them in attempt to calm them down, yet somehow never paying attention to how they were treated is, in the very least, willful blindness. That, and since the toys were already being used around the factory as slave labor, she doesn't get to make excuses: She would've seen them all the time, particularly the ones in Playcare. She is just as guilty as the other executives, and the fact that she pretends to care despite this, acting as one of the many "gentle voices" that Kevin talks about, makes it even worse.

The matter of the prison guards is a little more to the point. Some of them didn't know anything about the toys being anything other than monsters, as seen in Cole's notes: They followed a "you hurt us, so we'll hurt you," mindset, which while understandable, is never justified. Some guards, however, like in one of the first VHS tapes found in the prison, did already know that the toys were kids--hearing them cry out for their parents or consulars and comparing them to their own children. These individuals are just plain vile. They ignored the horrors that the toys were going through because of their own "struggles" dealing with them. These workers were callous and completely lacked empathy, evidence we see in employees on other teams as well such as the ones on clean-up from the Theatre Incident.

Now to Warrenbach, we can give them some leeway since their lives were threatened. They themselves are also victims of Playtime... but we have to note that it wasn't like they didn't have options either. In Mr. Silver's case, his life was in immediate danger--so, yes, the logical thing to do to save himself was to play along with Eddie's wishes. Key words here: "Play along." Here's a little fun fact: There is no company on this planet that can make you commit a crime. For all of Eddie's talk about the contract, in the eyes of the law, it would be nothing more than a worthless scrap of a paper--and that's not even getting into the matter of morality clauses, something that has regularly been used--and, granted, abused--to break contracts. If I were Mr. Silver, or even just a standard construction hand capable of sneaking a camera in, I would've been keeping receipts. Were they too scared to take Playtime to court? Fair enough, but how about the press? In the very least, you don't think prison blueprints would've raised a few more eyebrows and get people asking questions that Playtime didn't need? One of the worst things a person can say to themselves in a situation is, "There's nothing I can do to fix it." There's almost always something you can do, no matter how small. Giving into fear or ignoring a problem because "you can't do anything" may not be a stance many people can blame you for taking, but it is the exact kind of mindset that allows villains to thrive.

All of the adults in this series failed the kids by trying to justify their sins with these excuses. Even still, all of that doesn't even scrape the surface of Dr. Sawyer's unrestrained evil. Don't get me wrong: He makes the same "for science" excuse that the rest of his team do. However, there's also a lot that he openly admits to doing "because it amuses him." The biggest example of this is Yarnaby, who he treats as a pet, among many of the other toys as well--specifically the Nightmare Critters. A post of MOB's explains that the Nightmare and Smiling Critters once got along well, but "not anymore." It seems odd to say that all of one type of toy simply defaulted to the Prototype's side. Another thing worth noting is that, unlike the Smiling Critters, all of the Nightmares are shown to be feral by the events of the game. I wouldn't be surprised if this was Sawyer's doing. For the experiments, he may have wanted the toys to have intelligence, but the same couldn't be said for his own, personal playthings.

He's done plenty of other acts that have nothing to do with the experiments as well. He had Boxy Boo's appetite "tailored to human flesh," and while yes, this was a way to get rid of witnesses... he could've just as easily have done that by sending their body to the labs. During the Theater Incident tape, one member of the clean-up team notes that he doesn't understand why Sawyer wouldn't cover up his involvement. It's not a matter of Sawyer thinking he's in the right or that he's acting on some greater purpose: He just doesn't care. The only things that Sawyer cares about are what piques his curiosity at any given moment--and the only thing that stops him is the fact that he overestimated his worth to Playtime. Up until then, Sawyer was the embodiment of actions without facing consequences.

The Importance of Kevin Barnes

There's been enough critiques going into how Kevin is labeled a "problem child" both in and out of the story, so I won't get into that here. All I'll say on the issue that I also don't agree with that label. Instead, I'd much rather focus on what makes Kevin's role so pivotal among the three boys used to create Doey. There's a quote from the 2000's Teen Titans cartoon that keeps coming back to me when I think about him: "Having that thing inside you doesn't make you an animal. Knowing when to let it out is what makes you a man."  We can say this for Doey "letting Kevin out," but we can also say this for Kevin himself when it comes to his aggression.

Before I really get into this topic, let me point out one thing I don't think a lot of people considered. For the most part when it comes to Doey's actions, people tend to place Kevin only in the steering wheel at Doey's most aggressive/untrusting moments. Despite this, there's one more time I think we see Kevin's true self shine though, and that's in Doey's final tape. When Doey talks about his decision not to leave the factory, he says the other toys, "mean a lot to him... a lot more than [he] thought they did." This line can't easily be applied to Jack or Matthew. Jack wasn't from the orphanage, but his personality is already plenty bubbly and loving. Matthew would've already cared: He already saw himself as responsible for the well-being of others and wouldn't shut down his emotions. But a kid like Kevin? A kid that was known for getting into fights with his friends and having rocky relationships? That backstory fits this line to a tee. While he was forced to become part of Doey, Kevin came to accept that he cared. Kevin's personality doesn't just come out when Doey's angry: As much credit as we give to Matthew for this, Kevin comes out when Doey needs to protect those around him.

We see two bits of evidence for this. First, is our own meeting with Doey. Pianosaurous tries to attack the Player and Doey destroyed Painosaurous in one of the most gruesome ways possible. The second example is in the murals in Safe Haven. I don't think it can be seen very easily, but in the mural with Doey's arms extended around the other toys, he's drawn with an angry face--the face we associate with Kevin.

One of the reasons Kevin was chosen to become part of Doey was because of his high scores in "mental fortitude." This means that, while Kevin is aggressive, he's also the one who can best handle high-stress situations. Jack was just a small kid with no clue what happened to himself and would've lacked the ability to regulate his emotions like someone older could. Matthew was a peacemaker, but was someone who had already been traumatized due to losing his parents in an accident, which made him fall back on his own sense of guilt and insecurities. Kevin was someone who can put all of that aside to act fast when he needed to. He was a fighter, and I strongly believe that that fighter's instinct is what allowed Doey to be as strong a leader and protector as he was.

Everyone has the capacity for violence. Kevin being aggressive wasn't a flaw: He just needed to learn how to temper that aggression into a tool that could defend others instead of hurt them. The tragedy of his character is that he had to learn that all on his own and in the worst kind of circumstances.

"Love" with Limits

While this theme is echoed with Stella and the security guards who have kids of their own, the character I'd really like to cover with this is Elliot Ludwig. What I'll go into here follows the theory that Elliot became the Prototype, and my reasoning for supporting this theory rests largely in how the Prototype acts toward Poppy. Even when under the guise of "Ollie," he talks to her like a parent would. When he wants Poppy to explain what "the bad men" did to her in one of the VHS tapes, he prods her with the typical lines like "Is there something you need to talk about?" and "There's more to this you're not telling me." He's not really even pretending to talk like a kid: This is how a mom or dad talks, sitting on the end of your bed and refusing to leave until you give them an answer. We also have his reminder of "what he and Poppy are" and his insistence that "she come home"--back to the case, in the room connected directly to Elliot's office.

If the Prototype is Elliot, I think it goes without saying that Elliot loved his daughter. Despite how much he stressed the need to care for others and the formation of the orphanage, however... I think Elliot's idea of love had its limits. For one thing, the experiments seem to have been going on a long while, including during the time that Elliot was in control of the company. We find a report for Experiment 814 on his desk, and while that one only alluded to the possibility of involving humans, there's one more bit of evidence we need to consider: The Poppy dolls themselves. By the time we get to the factory, while Poppy is shown in advertising, we don't see any more of her dolls having been in production by the time the place shutdown. Nevertheless, we know there were more besides our Poppy at one point due to their advertisement and maintenance video. The latter is what's most important, because it shows that organs/blood were used in the toy at a very early point in the company's history. I can't find where exactly I remember this from, but I believe there was also a notice from Playtime insisting that customers not repair the dolls on their own and instead send them back to the company--likely to avoid this discovery. (If someone remembers where, please feel free to link it. Every time I look it up, all I really get is shopping pages...)

There is a good chance that Elliot was framed with the kid in the duffle bag situation, but I think it's equally as likely he experimented on others before Poppy's success. He cares about his daughter, not necessarily kids as a whole. Playcare being built underground was already fishy, something that Rich brings up in one of his tapes when he points out that the kids deserve real sunlight. The Prototype may have saved Theo, but he's also the reason Theo nearly died. There were teenagers in Playcare he could've gone to. There were caretakers at the orphanage who genuinely loved the kids and would likely fight to protect them, not to mention other employees who wanted to expose the company. Instead of turning to them, people who were far more capable of using a grabpack and/or with more access around the factory, he picked an isolated seven-year-old, someone easy to manipulate. There were kids from the orphanage who grew out of the program and added on as factory employees, just like how some of the caretakers wanted Matthew as part of their staff: The Prototype thought nothing of slaughtering them too during the Hour of Joy. And we could go on and on about all the evils the Prototype committed against the toys themselves.

Elliot/the Prototype may have shown the other kids love... when they were useful and obeyed him. Even his love for Poppy is twisted in this way. While locking her in the case can be seen as putting her in "time out," it's also treating her as an object to be shelved--ironically, just like how the Prison itself is called, "The Shelf." Like the prison cubes, there's barely any room to move in the case, little to no comfort, and nothing to occupy your time but your own thoughts in the darkness. It's abuse. He also shows no remorse for murdering his daughter's friends, scolding her for "missing the point" when she's grieving directly because of his actions. Whether he sees it or not, despite his protests that Poppy isn't a "thing" to him, he's treating her as one: A thing that's thoughts and emotions are to be disregarded, a toy that's always meant to be a sweet, obedient child.

[thearcherbrothersx]

He gave a slight shake of his head at her suggestion. "No, I want you right here. In my bed, sore and aching, with my cum inside you. I'll let the staff know not to disturb you." His tone held just enough of the same certainty, the same authority, as it would during a scene, to make it clear he wasn't going to let her move from the spot. Coupled with the way his arm tightened around her, there was no mistaking him.

There was something cute about the way she bent her head, avoiding his gaze as he explained his current state, told her the things he needed her to hear. Part of it was aftercare, of course it was, but it was something else too. Something different. And maybe it was just because of what she'd been through that he needed her to hear these things a little more clearly, but it somehow felt like there was more to it, a new sort of appreciation. He didn't push her to look at him until he'd finished speaking and brought her features back up to his; he knew she was paying attention; he also knew that he was probably feeling a little overexposed right now.

Declan held her in that kiss for a long while, letting it settle her, letting it give her comfort, reassurance, tenderness. He wasn't often explicitly affectionate (by most people's standards at least) with her. Caring, gentle, sure, warm even, but not outright affectionate. Not the way he had been yesterday and certainty not the way he was now. He'd given her plenty of verbal assurances post-scene, but they were vastly different from what was happening now. Not in a way that could really be articulated, but it was all there - in that kiss. Somewhere in his consciousness, he registered what might be interpreted from the way she kissed him back, but if he were being honest with himself, if he really took the time to analyse that, he knew exactly what was happening. For now though, he simply pulled her in closer, breathed into the kiss, buried his fingers deeper into her hair.

When he finally released her lips, he paused, then moved back in a moment later and gave her a final little peck before fully withdrawing. He didn't speak for a few seconds, just opened his eyes to look down at her. "Now I really have to go," came next, the words soft-spoken, a near-whisper, as his thumb caressed the lobe of her ear. "I'll be back as soon as possible." Then he finally began to pull away from her, untangling her body from his grasp.

That tired was settling in over her easily as her parasympathetic nervous system took the lead, her heart rate slowing, coming back down somewhere close to real life. “I probably can.” Falling asleep wasn’t ever really her issue, it was the staying asleep that had always gotten her. Even before her mother had passed away, Alice had told Cora that her imagination was so active that of course her dreams were too. Sleep or not, she wouldn’t be moving anytime soon. With the adrenaline exiting her system, the pain of his blows was becoming more pronounced by the second. “I can also go back to my room, if you need me outta your hair.” She had to assume this was out of his comfort zone, and Cora could already feel herself pulling back, pulling away, heading back to that place of ‘not wanting to bother him’ that she’d existed in since moving in. 

More surprising was the level of honesty that he gave her. A brow raised, catching the smile on his face only served to put a radiant one on hers. Nodding, she could understand what he meant, or at least, she thought she could understand what he meant about an edge coming off. Granted, their edges were two very different things given the circumstances. “Good.” And she expected him to leave it there, was happy to let him, wouldn’t push for anything else right now, but then he gave her more. 

She had to swallow what felt like a look of surprise when he kept speaking. Her face was warm, eyes cast down somewhere along his chest, unable to take the pressure that came from his words and his gaze. Cora thought she might crumble a little when he told her he was thankful, that he was proud of her, and she dipped her gaze down further, not wanting him to see the couple of errant tears that had cropped up. It felt silly, maybe even a little pitiful, to be so happy to have made him proud, but she was. The raw emotion of the moment had her uncharacteristically quiet, and his hand was shifting her face, bringing her closer to him again. 

There was a weight in his eyes, a quality to the way he looked at her - one that she couldn’t put her finger on, but felt intimidating (in a good way) all the same. It made her shy, curious, but then his lips were on hers in a kiss that demanded she put everything else aside. A kiss that didn’t ask too much, didn’t push her back into the headspace she was floating down from. No, it was just the kind of kiss that gave things to her - offered up reassurances and affection that she ached for but would never request. So she gave it back, her returned affection not greedy like he was used to, but cautious, welcoming, and giving in her own way. There were plenty of things she felt for him that she would never say and plenty of feelings that she had that she wasn’t even aware of, and her lips against his now laid it all out for him. 

[nebulousfishgills]

As much as I love playing embrace Dark Urge runs (discussion in therapy pending), there's something so narratively satisfying about how a Resist Durge playthrough can go once you get to the Bhaal Temple. Your character steps into the ring with Orin, it's intended to be a duel, but odds are you're getting eviscerated pretty quickly. You then switch to one of your other characters in your party and throw an attack, effectively breaking the duel and setting the whole temple upon you.

(Adding a cut because this ended up being longer than I thought)

But, I think it's a very satisfying way to play. Your party members have grown fond of your Durge, seeing them as a friend, a family member, even a lover. They've watched you and your pain over your Urge and what it makes you do or want to do. Maybe you've slipped up once or twice, but you've been trying so hard to be the hero they know you can be, that Faerûn needs. So, when it comes time to finally face your demons and you're getting so horribly hurt in the process, they can't help but rush to your defense. It'll put all of them in danger, but it doesn't matter because they want and need to help you, their ally and companion.

Bonus points if you select your character's romanced companion as the savior/duel interruptor to make it extra delicious. They've fallen in love with you, stayed with you when your Urge craved their blood the most, maybe by this point in the game you've helped put their demons down as well. They see you in pain, a final valiant effort to overcome your Urge against the power of Orin, a whole cult, a god of murder himself. They want to protect you, save you as you saved them.

I'm also fond of the extra beauty of Astarion being your Resist Durge romance since it puts the two of you in very similar situations. Fighting against the will of your masters, finally defeating your demons with your newfound companions' help and being offered the greatest power you could ever fathom... only to deny it, ignore power in favor of your party and your love.

This isn't even mentioning just how goddamn good the Withers resurrecting you cutscene is. This skeleton in your camp with unknown and unfathomable power (also apparently supposed to be Jergal himself if I've done my research properly?) is able to bring you back to life, free of your Urge. The line along the lines of "Bhaal could only destroy what of you that he knew, but because you've grown past your Urge and become your own person, he couldn't destroy that new growth" is just so weirdly powerful narratively. Tav may be a default character for you to create upon making a new save file, but Durge is the canon protagonist and I think that entire scene shows it the best. It's a beautiful secondary climax of the narrative (primary being battling the Netherbrain of course).

And, perhaps it's just an oversight on Larian's part or something that'd be a bit difficult to work into the cutscenes mechanically, but I think that it could only get more impactful if your companions could comfort each other during these moments. Everyone and their mother wishes you could hug Astarion after he kills Cazador, but also imagine your romanced companion cradling your body after Bhaal kills you. It seems just a little odd that they all (meaning your party) kinda just stand around staring at your corpse, especially with how close y'all have gotten.

Idk, I have a lot of thoughts about this section of the game in this particular type of playthrough and some of them are hard to articulate into words. It's just such a damn good narrative peak and can really make you feel things.

I've completed I think two resist Durge runs and just hit this point on my third and it really stuck out to me this time (then again my new antidepressants are kinda fucking with me so that might be playing a role). I left it as my last mission before dealing with the Netherbrain and I think it helped build the anticipation of that moment. Everyone else has been helped by you, and now it's your turn to come into your own. I really felt so connected to my character walking into the temple, feeling like everything has been building to this, that regardless of what happens our suffering will finally end. And you have your party there to help you in your time of greatest need as you've done for them.

There's a reason this game was Game of the Year, the narrative is just so powerful and the replay-ability is just insane. I've beaten this game ten times, heading for my eleventh and it truly just never gets old and never fails to make me feel so many things so strongly.

[hiddenbeks]

oh also in other news. i finally finished leviathan the other day

[existentialcrisis-9-5]

Was randomly suggested a miraculous season 6 criticism and I have been plagued for hours now with visions of a rewrite. I’m going insane please help.

[jackass-jones]

Yeah the mouthwash game is pretty good