#like. i love them both so it is a hard choice

[considermeharmless]

An ~In Stars and Time~ and ~Over the Garden Wall~ crossover? 👀 It's more likely than you think!

I couldn't decide which version I liked best, so you get both. As a treat <3 There isn't a strong story behind the choice for that crossover, but it felt neat and looked cool enough in my brain to draw xP I have a couple fun notes below for anyone curious! Spoilers for In Stars and Time, and Over the Garden Wall, just in case.

Obviously Siffrin had to be stuck in the Unknown somehow, the angst-magnet they are =v= But I just loved to imagine Bonnie in Greg's place, plus it just felt right <3

This journey would be placed before the Party reaches Dormont. Sif's hair has a bit more dark dye than in canon

The rest of the Mira-squad is losing their minds on how they managed to lose the both of them. Not so much quiet and stealthy Siffrin but Bonnie is so hard to not notice and "they were there just two minutes ago?? They can't have vanished into thin air!"

Some of you might notice that the bird-guide (Beatrice) is not a bluebird here... There's a perfectly reasonable explanation for that :3c

Bonnie does find a frog buddy <3 But they only name it after food and dishes!

"... Avocado, Gratin, Cantaloupe, Pain de Mie, Rosemary, Calisson, Cassoulet, Macaron, Quiche, Tatin, Profiterolle, Potato, Cherry, Waffle... But I think the very worst name for this frog is—"

"Wait, wait a second. Uh... Bonbon? Where—are we?"

Bonnie, at some point, asks why Siffrin is wearing an eyepatch and doesn't it bother him to watch where he's going? Siffrin pauses before answering that he felt like pretending being a pirate that day :)

Instead of "Potatoes and Molasses", Bonnie sings about "Potatoes and Pineapples" :D (this one might have been my best idea guys)

[janiehellion]

Walking The Dog

ONESHOT

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You don’t just walk the dog—you make him crave it. And just like a loyal pet, Daryl Dixon will follow your every command—if you keep him on a leash and train him to obey.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: SUB!DARYL DIXON X DOM!FEM!READER

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: SMUT / HUMILIATION / DEGRADATION / LIPSTICK KINK / LEATHER GLOVES FETISH / CUMPLAY / IMPLIED CBT / EDGING & DENIAL / PRAISE / LANGUAGE

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 8.080

MASTERLIST & REQUEST GUIDELINES

You never did blend in, and that was the whole point. Your style had always been a choice—black and red leather and latex, hugging every inch of your body. Leather jackets, thigh-high boots with heels that announced your arrival before you ever spoke, and even tighter leather pants that hinted at the curves underneath without giving too much away.

A tantalizing kind of restraint.

You'd always chosen black as your base, but red? That was your signature color. It wasn't just in your wardrobe, either. It was the color you put onto your lips, perfectly applied and turning heads.

You weren't shy about it. Not at all. The way you used that lipstick was intentional. You liked how people's eyes looked at your lips when you talked and how they stared at you when you smiled. Even before the world fell apart, you'd been magnetic—someone who drew attention just by existing in the same space.

When the apocalypse hit, you didn't drop the act like so many others did. If anything, the end of the world had given you more reason to keep it up.

While others scavenged for practicality, you hunted for pieces that made you feel powerful.

You wore leather gloves, too. But they weren't just for show—they protected your hands, just like the rest of your outfit was a form of protection. It was all about control in a world that had taken everything else from you. And if that meant walking into every stranger, living or dead, like you owned them, like everyone and everything was already beneath you, so be it.

Later, you met Juanita Sanchez, even though you don't remember the exact day you met Princess. It was one of those moments in the apocalypse where survival felt like the only thing keeping time moving. You'd been scavenging in a half-collapsed building—in your usual style, walking through the halls in a way that made even the living dead seem hesitant to approach. That's where you'd found her.

She was standing in the middle of a store where you watched her for a while, leaning casually against the frame of a broken doorway, a cigarette between your gloved fingers. Your lipstick—a deep, sinful red—was freshly applied, even if finding a mirror that wasn't broken in this world was a luxury. You didn't need one, though. You'd practiced until you could swipe it across your lips perfectly in the reflection of a knife blade.

"Gotta say," you'd called out after some time, "you kinda look like you're auditioning for a circus act."

Princess had turned around, and her eyes had landed on you, then dropped to the outfit you wore that day—a tight catsuit with the zipper pulled down just enough to leave little to the imagination. She didn't even try to hide the fact she was staring.

"Damn, if I wore that outfit, I'd look like a sausage," she joked, eyeing you up and down. "But you? You look like... a femme fatale! Girl, you're like sex on legs! I absolutely love it!"

"Something like that," you'd replied with a smirk, taking a long drag from your cigarette before flicking the ash to the floor. "Too bad I don't share my closet."

That was the start of it. She'd laughed so hard she snorted, and from that moment on, the two of you had been inseparable. Princess was the kind of friend who never asked questions about the things you didn't want to talk about. She didn't ask about your past or push you to explain why you wore leather and latex like armor and why you painted your lips with the boldest and deepest red you could find.

When you both joined up with Eugene, Ezekiel, and Yumiko, it became clear pretty quickly that you were nothing like them. But you didn't care. You didn't owe anyone at the Commonwealth or the Coalition an explanation, and you weren't about to start dressing differently either.

Then there was Daryl Dixon.

He had been the hardest to crack after you got to know your way around the new people. From the moment you met him, you could tell he was different. He didn't look at you the way other men did—at least, not at first. At first, he'd avoided you entirely, keeping his eyes on the ground or somewhere in the distance whenever you were around. Like he was afraid you might catch him looking.

But you did catch him. Over and over again.

And you hadn't made it easy for him because teasing him had become one of your favorite pastimes...

The department store you were now in had seen better days—most of the shelves were broken, the walls covered in dust and blood, and the floor in broken glass. Scavenging wasn't exactly your favorite thing in the world, but it was still necessary, even after all this time.

You, of course, walked through the cosmetics section while Daryl followed a few steps behind, his boots crunching over old plastic, and Princess had wandered off toward clothing racks.

But Daryl? He stuck annoyingly close. Not that he was trying to talk or anything—God forbid. No, he was just there, walking after you like a shadow, grunting whenever you looked his way.

At first, you thought maybe he was just keeping watch, being the silent protector or… whatever. But it didn't take long to notice that every time you moved to a new section, he followed. Close. A little too close.

Soon, you were looking through a shelf of random cosmetics when you saw it—a tube of lipstick, half-buried under some packaging. Your fingers closed around it, pulling it free, and you smirked to yourself.

Red. Not just any red—your red.

"Well, would you look at that," you said, holding it up to take a closer look. "A bit of civilization."

Daryl glanced at you out of the corner of his eye but didn't say anything. You could feel him watching, though, as you popped the cap off and twisted the lipstick out of the tube.

"I should give this to Princess," you laughed, turning the tube over in your hand. "She'd probably lose her shit."

You paused, pretending to think, then shrugged. "Nah. Think I'll keep it for myself."

And just like that, you dragged the lipstick across your mouth, slowly, like you were painting on war paint.

Rubbing your lips together, you admired the color in the cracked little hand mirror you'd found earlier. "Not too bad for something that's been here for years."

Then, out of curiosity, you looked at Daryl again.

He was frozen.

Absolutely frozen.

His hand was halfway to a shelf like he'd been about to grab something, but now it just hung there uselessly. His eyes—those blue eyes—were staring at your mouth, and for a second, he didn't even blink.

"You think it's my color?" You asked casually, pressing your lips together one more time.

He blinked, pulling his gaze away so fast it was somewhat funny. "Dunno," he grumbled, his voice a little too quiet.

"Mhm." You slipped the lipstick into your pocket, walking past him as you moved to the next shelf. "I'll take that as a yes."

You didn't miss the way his breath stopped when your shoulder touched his arm or the way he stumbled a little awkwardly like he didn't know what to do with himself.

For someone who was supposed to be all tough, he was being downright weird.

But somehow, it was charming.

Then there was the fact that he was still following you.

Every time you moved, he was right behind you, just close enough that you could feel his presence like a shadow behind your back. He wasn't even pretending to look for supplies anymore. His eyes kept looking at you—your hands, your lips—and every time you caught him, he looked away as if feeling guilty.

Pausing in front of another shelf, you were bending down slightly to check the lower level. Behind you, Daryl stopped, and you knew his gaze had dropped—staring at your ass for just a second too long before he looked back up.

When you straightened yourself and turned, he was closer than he had any right to be, his face red and his eyes looking everywhere but at you.

"You okay there, Dixon?" You asked curiously, smiling and raising an eyebrow.

"'M fine," he answered, stepping back like he needed to put space between you. His voice sounded strained, and he was fidgeting with his hands like his life depended on it.

"Okay, if you say so." You took a step closer, just to see what he'd do. He didn't move, but his breath hitched again, and his gaze dropped to your lips before looking into your eyes.

"Jus' don't see how that's useful," he continued. "Ain't exactly what we need."

"Oh, really?" You rolled your eyes, closing the space between you until you were chest to chest, making his breath stutter. "And what is it that you need, Dixon?"

His eyes widened just slightly in an instant, his mouth opening and closing itself as he tried—and failed—to form believable words.

"Hey, c'mon now, Daryl," you said, leaning a bit closer. "A little lipstick never hurt anyone. And I don't do sloppy… in any sense."

You were about to push him further—tease him, maybe wet your red lips just to see if his eyes would follow—when Princess's voice was to be heard from somewhere nearby.

"Hey! Did you find anything good? I found a mannequin missing an arm!"

Daryl practically jumped at the sound of her voice, stepping back so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet. His face was red—so red it almost matched the lipstick you'd just found.

"Over here!" You called back, not even bothering to hide your amusement.

Princess came into view as she waved a mannequin arm in the air. "I mean, come on! Look at this thing! Who broke it? And why? Were they mad? Was it for art? The questions are endless!"

"Who knows?" You answered dryly, but still with a little grin on your face.

"Right?" Princess threw the mannequin arm aside. "Anyway, I'm gonna check out the upstairs. Think there might be some supplies up there—maybe even some cool clothes!"

Without waiting for a response, she disappeared around the corner, leaving the two of you alone again. Turning back to Daryl, your grin was widening as you watched him.

Poor man was blushing hard.

His fingers were now tapping his leg like he needed something—anything—to focus on other than you.

You tilted your head, watching him closely and observing every little reaction. "You know," you said, stepping even closer, your voice dropping to a whisper, "red's always been my color. But I think it might look even better on you."

He huffed in response, his shoulders tense as he kept looking to the floor before he stepped away completely.

Oh, this was too much fun.

So you followed Daryl through the aisles, the clicking of your heels almost too loud in the otherwise silent building, but now and then, you'd lean into his space, just close enough. Your clothing creaked with every movement, a sound he could hear and not ignore, no doubt.

A sound that made him nervous.

You didn't even have to try hard. You just had to be you.

But then, as if you weren't satisfied with just that, you turned into the next aisle, stopping in front of something familiar.

A pair of leather gloves. Black, shiny, perfect. You slipped them on with ease, letting the smooth leather slide over your fingers, loving the feeling of it.

Daryl was silent, but you could feel the way his eyes stayed on you from behind.

"Tell me, Daryl," you then started, "what's so interesting about me?"

His eyes didn't leave you, though his lips parted slightly as if to say something. But then he just shook his head, a little breathless. "Nothin'," he responded, looking around.

His hands twitched at his sides as he swallowed hard. He was so close to losing it.

"Well, if you say so." You held your hands up, wiggling your gloved fingers with a smirk. "I think I like the way they feel on me. Makes me want to... touch everything."

Brushing past him accidentally, you moved toward a door with the sign Employees Only, pushing it open with your hip. The room inside was small—only a storage room, judging by the shelves stacked with boxes and random chaos in every corner.

Daryl stopped in the doorway, clearly torn between following you and staying put like a good little watchdog. You didn't give him a choice.

Grabbing his arm, you pulled him inside and kicked the door shut behind him. He stumbled slightly, his wide-eyed expression confused as you turned to face him.

"You know what? I think I missed a spot," you suddenly said, pulling the lipstick from your pocket and holding it up like a weapon.

His brow furrowed. "Huh?"

"My lips," you clarified, pointing at your mouth. "Missed a spot. Hold this for me, would you?"

You grabbed the small mirror again and shoved it into his hands before he could argue. He looked at it like it might bite him, his fingers trembling slightly as he held it up. "Ain't there a mirror right behind—"

You stepped closer—too close—until there was barely a bit of space between you. His breath stopped as you leaned in, looking at your reflection in the little mirror.

"Wait," you said, twisting the lipstick and carefully swiping it over your lips. "Tricky angle. Maybe if I…"

You leaned in closer, your face stopping just inches from his while his chest was rising and falling with quicker breaths by now.

Then, without warning, you pressed your mouth to his cheek, leaving a lipstick kiss on his skin. Daryl stiffened, a quiet, fast groan escaping his throat.

Oh... Oh, that was interesting.

"My bad," you said, not sounding sorry at all. "Must've slipped."

You leaned in again, this time brushing your lips against his jaw. He made that same noise—quiet and desperate—and you felt the tiniest shiver run through him.

So you kept going.

One kiss turned into two. Then three. Each one was slower as you worked your way along his jaw and his throat. His breathing grew heavier, and when you reached his neck, he let out a broken little whine.

"Something wrong, Dixon?" You asked innocently against his skin.

"N-nah," he stammered, but his voice cracked, and the way his hand gripped the mirror told a very different story.

"Okay." You trailed your lips back up to his ear, letting your tongue move along his neck just enough to make him squirm. "You sure about that?"

He whimpered—actually fucking whimpered—and you had to hold back a loud laugh. God, he was pathetic. And it was absolutely adorable.

"Hold still," you commanded, taking his chin between your fingers and tilting his head back slightly. "Haven't reached the spot yet."

Daryl's knees wobbled, and for a moment, you thought he might actually fall.

"Please," he whispered, his voice so soft and quiet it made you growl slightly.

"Please what?" You teased, brushing your thumb over his bottom lip, smudging the faintest bit of lipstick.

"I… I…"

Daryl trailed off as he noticed your smirk, with your lips only a breath away from his. "Use your words, Dixon."

But he didn't.

He just let out another whimper, his body trembling as you leaned in and kissed him again—this time on the lips.

And that was when he completely fell apart.

Daryl didn't say anything—hell, you hadn't expected him to, and in this moment, words weren't needed anyway, because his body said everything for him. The way his shoulders stiffened and his hands shook as he let the broken mirror fall to the floor, the way his eyes looked everywhere but at you, as if looking at you for even a second longer might break him in half.

He didn't even resist when you pushed him back on a dusty old chair in the corner of the room. The thing looked like it hadn't been sat on since before the world ended, but you didn't care. You shoved him down into it, straddling his lap before he had a chance to protest against it, trapping him under you like the helpless little thing he was.

His breath hitched again—barely, but enough to make you smirk, as his hands hovered awkwardly near your thighs, not daring to touch you unless you told him to. You tilted your head, studying his face, and watching the way he was trying to hold himself together.

"Don't worry, Dixon," you said, holding up the lipstick. "Gonna make you look pretty."

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, but he didn't argue. Not verbally, anyway.

You leaned in, swiping the lipstick across your lips, making sure it was freshly applied. Then, you turned your attention back to him. You put a soft red dot right next to his mouth, just a tiny spot, and he squirmed under your touch. His lips parted, a shaky breath escaping him as you dragged your thumb over the mark, smearing it across his cheek. The leather of your glove against his skin made him flinch—only a little bit—and you couldn't help but laugh.

"Look at you," you continued. "What a pretty boy you are."

Daryl's only response was a soft whine, so soft it got almost lost. Almost.

You leaned closer, pressing your lips to his neck again, leaving another kiss and mark against his skin. Then another, just below it, and another still, moving down to the collar of his shirt. His breathing was uneven now, shallow and fast, and you could feel the way his heart was beating faster and faster.

When you reached his chest, you grabbed the collar of his shirt and tugged, opening a few of the buttons with ease. "Don't need this in the way, do we?"

You kissed him there, leaving another red mark against his skin and another below it, just like before. You worked your way down as you slid off his legs, slowly, marking him in your color, inch by inch.

By the time you reached his waistband, you didn't even need to look up to know he was gone. His body was trembling in front of you, his hands gripping his thighs like they were the only thing keeping him sane. You then glanced down at the obvious bulge straining against his pants and back up at his face. He looked done—blushing, panting, eyes almost closed and glazed over with need.

"You're so cute," you smirked, dragging your gloved hand over and down his abs. He let out a choked groan when you stopped just above his waistband, teasing the skin with the leather. "Getting this turned on from lipstick? That's all it takes?"

"Shut up," Daryl grumbled, his voice all shaky, but there was no anger behind his words. His eyes dropped to your hands again—those goddamn gloves.

He hated how they looked on you, hated how perfect they fit, how they moved so roughly against his skin. It wasn't right how much it got to him. He was embarrassing, wasn't he? Letting a pair of gloves own him like this.

Letting you own him.

And yet, he couldn't stop staring, couldn't stop imagining what it would feel like if you wrapped those gloved fingers around his throat instead, squeezing just enough to make him feel dizzy, to make him beg for air. The thought alone made his cock twitch, and he hated himself for it. Hated how much he wanted it.

"How sweet, did I embarrass you?" You asked, tilting your head. Your fingers moved lower, brushing over the bulge in his pants again, and he tensed up, a whimper escaping his lips before he could stop it.

You laughed softly, grabbing his bulge a little bit rougher. "You're so hard, poor thing... Bet it hurts, doesn't it?"

Daryl didn't answer, just let out another broken little moan, hips bucking up into your touch like he couldn't help himself.

"Pathetic," you said, shaking your head. "But I guess I'll take pity on you. Only this once."

You undid his belt and yanked his pants down just enough to free him, his cock springing up against his abs, hard and leaking.

Not even giving him time to adjust, you positioned yourself more comfortably onto your knees in front of him and holding the lipstick up again, you twisted it and painted a slow, messy line along the length of his shaft, leaving behind a perfect mark of red against his skin. He let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a moan and a whine, his head falling back against the chair.

"Look at you," you teased, putting the lipstick aside. "So fucking pretty, don't you think?"

You slipped one gloved hand around his cock in an instant before he could respond, gripping him just tight enough to make him squirm, and started stroking slowly up and down, letting the leather glide over him. His reaction was immediate—hips bucking, head thrown back, mouth open in a silent groan.

"P-please," he choked out, voice barely more than a broken whisper.

You smiled as you continued to stroke him, slow and merciless. "Please what, Dixon? Gotta use your words."

"Please," he whined again, louder this time, hips bucking into your hand. "Please, I—fuck—jus'—"

But you didn't let him finish. You tightened your grip, cutting him off with a rough squeeze, and he cried out, a loud, desperate sound that had you grinning from ear to ear.

"Good boy," you whispered, dragging your thumb along the tip of his cock. "Come on, Daryl. Let me hear you."

And oh, he obeyed.

"Haven't even done anything yet, and you're already that close? What a shame."

Daryl sobbed—an actual, honest-to-god sob—and you could feel the way his thighs tensed beneath you. His hands were gripping the sides of his legs so hard his knuckles had gone white like he needed something to hold onto or he'd completely come undone.

"Gonna give you what you need, don't worry," you told him, pulling back just enough to look up into his face, "but only 'cause you're looking so damn pretty like this. All red and so needy. Now… Sit still."

Kneeling between his spread legs, you were tugging his pants down further to get them out of the way. His cock was so slick at the tip, leaking pre-cum over and over, and when you wrapped your fingers around him once more to keep it steady, he gasped, and his hips jerked involuntarily, making you give him a warning look that froze him instantly.

"Don't move," you said. "You wanna be a good boy for me, don't you?"

He nodded several times, lips parted and panting wildly. "Y-yeah…"

"That's what I wanna hear from you, Daryl," you smirked, grabbing the lipstick and moving it underneath the tip of his cock, painting a small, messy red heart under it next.

Daryl gasped, his head falling forward, his whole body trembling as you worked. "F-fuck," he stammered, voice shaking. "What—what're ya—"

"Be quiet," you said, still smirking as you painted the tiny heart. "Told you I'd make you look all pretty, didn't I?"

You put the lipstick aside when you were satisfied, leaning in close to press your lips right onto the tip of his cock, leaving another faint smudge behind. He let out a broken groan, his thighs now quivering under your touch, his hips bucking up once more before he caught himself.

"Stay still," you warned again, gripping his cock harder. "Don't make me tell you again."

"'M sorry," he whimpered, but you weren't interested in apologies. His lungs were fighting for air as he tried—and failed—to keep quiet. But your voice, that lovely, mocking tone, went straight through every bit of his self-control like it wasn't even there. You didn't need to say much. Just the way you looked at him… it wrecked him.

"Sorry doesn't cut it," you said, running your gloved thumb over the lipstick-smeared tip of his cock. He whimpered again, loud and desperate as you teased him further. "You're lucky I'm even touching you after that. You're so fucking pathetic, Daryl. All this just from a little lipstick. You like being my toy that much, huh?"

He nodded, his head tilting back, not wanting to look you in the eyes, but you had other plans.

"Look at me," you snapped, and his eyes flew open. "You're gonna watch," you continued, leaning in to kiss the side of his cock softly, leaving more smudged marks in your wake. "You're gonna watch, Dixon. And you're gonna thank me for it."

"Please," he whimpered, his voice cracking more with every word, and you felt almost satisfied with how wrecked he sounded. "Please, I—Shit, shit, I can't—"

"Can't what?" You interrupted, pressing your other hand to his abs to keep him from moving as you kissed your way along the length of his cock. "Can't handle it? Can't stop yourself from being a whiny little boy for me?"

He let out a choked cry, his hands moving to the sides of the chair this time, gripping them so hard it looked like he might rip it apart.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," you grumbled against his throbbing shaft, kissing him just above his base before dragging your tongue back up to the tip to smear the line of red all along it.

"God, you're so fucking needy," you said. "You should thank me for making you look this pretty. Go on, baby—say thank you. Thank me for making you look this pretty."

"Th-thanks," he choked out, just before he apologized. "'M sorry!"

"You're not sorry," you laughed, shaking your head in disapproval. "You'd let me do this to you forever, wouldn't you? Tell me, do you even wanna be a good boy for me?"

"Yes," he gasped, the word barely more than a breath. "Yes, please, I—fuck, I do! I—"

Indeed, he wanted to be good for you. Wanted to do what you told him, no matter what it was, no matter how much it made his face burn. Because when you praised him—when you called him a good boy, even in that mocking tone—it felt like salvation.

And when you didn't, when you laughed and shook your head like he'd disappointed you… That was worse than the end of the world. Literally. He couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand not being enough for you. So he'd do anything—anything—if it meant you'd look at him like he was worthy of your time. Even if it was just for a moment.

"Oh, I know you do," you said, smirking as you tightened your grip. "But you're not good enough. Not yet, at least. You're gonna sit there and listen to my every command. Understand? Just sit still and be quiet."

Daryl nodded frantically, his breath hitching as you started to stroke him again, slow and torturous, dragging your gloved hand up and down his shaft. He was a mess—whimpering, gasping, his head thrown back, his body so stiff, and his muscles flexing.

The rough feeling of the leather against his sensitive cock was driving him insane, his hips jerking up into your hand despite himself. It throbbed painfully, aching with a need that made him want to scream.

He hated how much it turned him on, how much he craved it, but fuck, there was no escaping it. The feeling of your leather gloves, the smirk on your lips, the way you tilted your head and insulted him like he was just some toy for you to play with… it made him feel small and weak, and somehow, that only made him harder. He hated how much he loved it, how much he needed it.

You were training him, and he was letting you.

No—he was begging for it.

"I told you to keep still," you suddenly said, pulling your hand away. He whimpered, his cock twitching, and you swore his entire body tensed. "You really don't know how to behave, do you? You want to be good for me, but you're only acting all pathetic instead."

"I—I can be good," he stammered, his voice shaking as his hands gripped the chair tighter, desperate to keep himself quiet. "Please, I can—"

"Shut up," you snapped, cutting him off. "If you could behave, we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we?"

You didn't give him a chance to respond before wrapping your hand around him again, tighter this time, stroking him slowly from base to tip. He groaned, his hips twitching again, but he stopped himself before he bucked up fully.

"There you go," you praised mockingly, your gloved thumb brushing over his leaking tip once more. "Knew you could listen if I kept you desperate enough. Such a good little thing when you wanna be, huh?"

Daryl whined, his lips parted. "Fuck," he choked out, his voice all desperate. "Please, I—fuck, I can't—"

"Again?" You asked, jerking him faster now, watching as the muscles of his arms flexed. "Can't handle how good this feels? Can't stop yourself from being such a greedy, slutty boy for me? You can't what?"

He made a sound you could only describe as a wail as you decided to slap his cock with your gloved hand out of nowhere. His head shot up, eyes wide, his lips quivering as he stared down at you.

"Did I say you could move?" You asked, your voice cold. He shook his head quickly, a tiny tear rolling down his cheek as he whimpered out another apology.

"Good," you said quietly, smirking as you slapped his cock again, just a little harder this time. It twitched in your hand, and he let out a strangled moan as he tried to brace himself for whatever you'd do next.

"Would you look at that," you laughed, pumping his cock again. "Getting even harder from me slapping your dick. You're so damn ridiculous, Daryl."

"N-no," he whispered. "I—I love… I—I, fuck, please, I need—"

"You need?" You repeated with a grin, laughing as you pressed another kiss to the underside of his cock. The lipstick smeared against his skin as you kissed it some more, this time so fast he could barely feel it. "Go on. Tell me what you need, baby. Use your words."

"Need ya," he choked out, his voice breaking further. "Need ya to—to finish me, please. I'll be good, I swear—"

"You'll be good? That's what you keep saying," you said before you slapped his cock again, hard enough to make him flinch. Daryl just whimpered, and you shook your head. "You don't even know how to be good, Dixon. You're just a desperate, whiny little brat."

"Please," he begged and cried, some more tiny tears rolling down his cheek. "Please, I'll do anythin', jus'—jus' don't stop!"

You laughed louder, stroking his cock a little quicker now, watching as his eyes rolled back, his chest rising up and down with each breath. "So adorable," you said, leaning in to press one more lipstick kiss to the tip of his cock, making sure the red was looking messy. "Keep begging for me, baby. Let me hear and see just how desperate you can get."

Your pace turned ruthless soon, stroking him hard and fast, watching as Daryl lost himself more and more. His breath came out in quick gasps, his body trembling so violently you thought he might come on the spot. He was close already—so damn close—and you could feel it in the way his cock throbbed wildly in your grip, could hear it in the way he moaned for more like it was the only thing he could do.

"Gonna come soon for me?" You teased as your gloved hand moved in unforgiving pumps up and down his shaft. "That's why you're so fucking ridiculous, Daryl. You're literally trembling! Bet you're imagining me riding you, huh? Bet you'd come in seconds if I even tried. Poor little baby boy can't handle anything, can you? Pathetic."

"Please," he whined out over and over again as a sob tore from his throat. "Please, I—I'm so close—fuck, I—"

Then you suddenly stopped, removing your hand from his cock.

His eyes flew open immediately, wide and glassy, his lips parted in shock as he stared at you like you'd just ripped his soul out of his body.

"Wha—no, no, no," he whimpered, his voice a broken plea as his hands gripped his thighs so tightly again that his knuckles turned white once more. "Please, don't stop—please, I'll do anythin'! I'll—"

"Quiet," you interrupted, pressing a gloved finger to his lips after you stood up. His voice died immediately, though he let out a pitiful little sob as his eyes dropped to your hand, noticing his pre-cum smeared on the leather.

"You really are adorable," you laughed, smirking as you tilted your head, watching the way his eyes looked frantically from your glove to your face. "So fucking needy you can't even obey. Do you even know how greedy you are right now?"

He whimpered again, nodding and squirming beneath you, his hips jerking up involuntarily as if he thought you might touch him again. But you didn't. Instead, you dragged your gloved finger slowly across his bottom lip, smearing a mix of pre-cum and lipstick along his mouth.

"Go on," you said, your tone sounding commanding as you pressed the tip of your finger harder against his mouth. "Lick it off. Be a good boy for me, Daryl."

His eyes widened even further, his hands trembling as he stared at you, another blush immediately rising to his cheeks. "Wh—what?" He stammered, his voice barely audible.

"You heard me," you shot back, arching an eyebrow. "Lick it off. Or do you want me to stop entirely? Maybe I should just go away. Maybe I'll leave you alone here like this—so hard and desperate… with no one to help you."

"N-no," he stuttered quickly, shaking his head as another tear rolled down his cheek. "I—I'll do it, jus'—don't leave, please, I'll do it! I—"

"That's what I wanna hear," you smiled as you pressed your finger more roughly against his lips. "Now, be a good boy and show me how much you want it. How much you want me to finish you."

With a shaky breath, Daryl opened his mouth, slowly at first, his tongue brushing against the leather. You could see his hesitation, the way his body quivered beneath you, but he didn't stop. He licked up his own pre-cum, his face flushed red and his eyes now closed as if that might somehow help him.

"Licking up your disgusting mess like the desperate little thing you are. You really have no shame, do you, Daryl?"

The word 'shame' hit him with every little sound he'd made so far. And yet, somehow, it was addicting. The pain of your words, the way you handled him like he was not worth your time. It hurt, and he wanted more of it. Needed more of it. It was sick, wasn't it? Letting you tear him down, scold him, mock him… and feeling like he'd die without it. You were breaking him, and he didn't want you to stop.

Daryl's tongue was still moving over your glove, cleaning it like his life depended on it. When he was done, he pulled back slightly, opening his eyes a little to look up into yours.

He'd worship you if you told him to. He'd beg and plead at your feet if it meant you'd touch him again, even if it was just to insult him. The thought of it—of being that desperate for you—made him feel even more shame.

But shame had never felt so good.

"Good boy," you praised him, cupping his cheek with your free hand, smirking as you watched the way he leaned into your touch when you stroked his cheek lovingly. "See? You can behave when you really want to."

"Please," he then whispered, his voice broken, his cock still throbbing and twitching against his abs. "Please—'M good; I promise... I'll—"

"Oh, I know, I know," you interrupted, your smirk widening as you wrapped your gloved hand around him again, giving him one slow, light stroke. His moans came out in cries now, pitiful and still needy, his hips jerking uncontrollably as he begged for the friction he so desperately needed. You leaned in close, stopping right next to his ear as you whispered, "You want to come now, don't you?"

"Y-yeah," he begged, his voice shaking, his breath hitching with every stroke of your hand. "Please, I—I need it—please, jus' let me—"

You pressed a soft kiss to his temple, almost tenderly, before you slid down between his legs again, and his eyes were glued to you as he panted like he'd been running for miles.

Then, without any warning, you moved your mouth to his cock again—but this time, instead of just teasing the tip with kisses, you took him fully past your lips, wrapping your mouth around him. The sudden feeling of it all hit him at once.

"Oh—fuck, fuck!" He let out a strangled cry as his hips bucked uncontrollably, trying to fuck deeper into your mouth. "Please… please, 'M gonna… please, don't stop—"

You sucked hard at the tip of his cock as you bobbed your head just once—slowly—before pulling back with a wet sound, holding it tightly in your grip. "Go on now, be a good boy, and come for me."

It pushed him right over the edge—he couldn't hold back, not when you had him so suddenly, so fast, in your mouth, only to leave him hanging once more as if he didn't deserve the feeling of your lips around him.

Daryl's eyes were shocked, his expression wild with panic, but you didn't give him a chance to protest. His orgasm hit him hard and much too fast, his body shaking uncontrollably, his cock throbbing in your grip as his cum shot over your glove and himself.

"Fuck, fuck, I—I'm sorry!" He sobbed. "'M sorry, I—I didn't mean to!"

You didn't soften your grip, holding his shaft through the last of it, watching as he whimpered and squirmed, his cock twitching helplessly in your hand.

"Still pathetic," you answered as you leaned back on your heels, looking at the mess he'd made of himself. "Can't even come properly, can you?"

"I—I'm sorry," he whispered again, his eyes now squeezed shut as if he didn't know whether to keep them open or not. "Didn't mean to—please, I'm sorry—"

"Shut up," you responded before you reached out to scoop up some of his cum with your gloved fingers. "Look at this nasty shit... Open your mouth and clean it up. Again."

His eyes shot open at that, full of embarrassment once more. But he didn't argue. Not now.

"Lick and swallow, baby," you teased as you watched him suck his cum off your glove, his breath still coming in short, ragged bursts.

By the time he was finished, he was trembling so badly you thought he might collapse all over. And as you stood up, taking a step back and straightening your gloves, you knew you'd left your mark on him.

But Daryl couldn't think. Hell, he could barely even react.

His chest was still heaving as he slumped back in the chair, every muscle in his body flexing from his orgasm. His cock was still half-hard, but he hadn't even thought to tuck himself away, too wrecked to do anything but sit there and take it. His lips were bitten bloody, swollen from how he'd chewed them trying not to embarrass himself even further, but it hadn't worked.

Not when you had gotten every sob, every whimper, out of him like you'd planned it that way.

His half-lidded eyes followed you as you picked up your lipstick and moved away from him in your thigh-high boots. Daryl didn't know where to look—your thighs, your ass, your lips. All of it was overwhelming, and shit, how he loved it. He felt completely done in your presence and at your mercy, and for some reason, that only made the ever-present need in himself worse.

Suddenly turning around, you didn't say a word as you approached him again. His heart was pounding in his chest as you stepped closer, every click of your heels on the floor shooting straight through him, making his head spin.

When you stopped in front of him, he thought—prayed—you were done with him. But you didn't back away. No, you leaned in, close enough that your warm breath touched his neck, and lifted one of your boots, pressing it between his knees.

Daryl's breath caught in his throat as it slid along his inner thighs, just barely brushing against the skin there. His hips bucked involuntarily, the movement pitiful even to him, but he couldn't stop himself. He felt it—you—your boot moving higher, pressing hard enough between his thighs and down onto his still-sensitive cock.

Shit…

The feeling was maddening. The pressure on his balls made him whine, and his hands didn't know what to do as he fought the urge to grind against the feeling of your boot like a desperate brat.

He sure as hell felt it all.

He felt how you owned every inch of his body. And he knew it.

Your boot pressed down harder, forcing a choked groan from his lips, but you didn't care.

"Speak up," you then demanded out of nowhere. "Tell me what you are, Daryl."

"I—I'm…" He stammered, his voice sounding weak.

"You're what?" Your boot pressed some more, grinding just enough to send a bit of pain through his cock, and his body flinched. "Say it. Say how pathetic you are."

"'M pathetic," he whispered without any kind of hesitation, his face still burning red, and his hips bucked slightly again.

He shouldn't want this—not after the mess he'd already made of himself—but his body didn't seem to care as his cock gave another faint twitch.

You leaned in further, and the extra weight against him made him whine. Your breasts were practically in his face now, the sight of your tits teasing him as you adjusted the pressure of your boot just enough to make his head spin.

Goddamn it.

Without another word, you tilted your head up and began reapplying your lipstick after having it pulled out of your pocket again, your eyes never leaving your reflection in the mirror.

Daryl tried to look away, embarrassed by the way his heart raced at something so simple, but your free hand shot out, grabbing his chin roughly and forcing his gaze up to look at you.

You used the opportunity to put the lipstick onto your lips slowly—intentionally—making him watch, making him wait. And the kiss you then put on his cheek felt like fire before you were pulling your boot away slowly like you wanted him to miss it.

When you were done and finally spoke, your voice sounded lovingly, praising him.

"My adorable little boy," you whispered, smirking at him before you turned around without another word and walked toward the door.

Daryl could still only sit there as he watched you leave. The sight of your ass in those tight clothes would haunt him as well; he was sure of it.

He let out a deep, shaky breath, his head dropping back against the chair as he tried to pull himself together. But the red stains on his skin and the faint ache in his muscles reminded him that he was anything but together.

And maybe he never would be, no, not when it came to you.

Daryl stared at the door long after you'd left, his heart pounding in his ears.

As soon as he tried to stand up, his eyes looked at the mirror mounted on the wall behind him, and he gulped at the sight staring back at him. He was covered in red stains, the smudges of your lipstick marking him like a trophy.

He reached up, touching the marks as if it would make them disappear, but they didn't. The color clung to his skin, and it wasn't just there. His body felt raw and wrecked. And lower—Jesus Christ…

He finally looked down at his still-open pants. The red smudges on his cock were obvious, every print of your mouth burned onto him like a brand. He didn't bother cleaning it off. Hell, the thought of wiping your lipstick away felt wrong, like getting rid of a memory he wasn't ready to lose. Instead, he tucked himself back into his pants, the marks hidden but not forgotten.

Daryl tried to focus, to get his head straight, but his hands shook as he buttoned up.

His reflection stared back at him, lips parted, eyes wide, and that look on his face—the one that screamed for more—made him groan softly.

Get it t'gether. C'mon.

But he couldn't. Not when his legs felt like jelly… until the door creaked open behind him, and his whole body tensed.

"C'mon, Dixon," your voice pulled him out of his thoughts. "We're leaving."

Daryl turned slowly, watching you lean against the frame. You didn't even look at the mess you'd made of him, your eyes already looking away like you expected him to follow without a second thought.

Of course, he did. He walked after you, his head ducked low as if scolded.

Princess's voice was to be heard somewhere ahead, but Daryl barely listened to it, too focused on you as you led the way.

You stopped all of a sudden, and he almost bumped into you, too distracted by everything to notice you'd turned again. Before he could step back, your hand shot out, grabbing his cock roughly through his pants with a hard squeeze.

Daryl froze, choking out a strangled groan, his face burning as you pressed just enough to make him feel it.

"Still following me like a good boy, huh? What? Gonna bark if there's a walker around and getting too close?"

Daryl didn't answer. No, he couldn't. He swallowed hard, his hips twitching against your touch.

"Should I get you a leash? Maybe you wanna be all dolled up? Is that what you wanna be, Dixon? My pretty little pet? Say it."

His head spun before he stammered something like, "Y-yes, 'm yer pet," but you couldn't quite make it out as your other hand tilted his chin up, forcing him to look at you.

You looked him up and down, your eyes dropping to his neck, where one of the red stains remained.

"Good," you said, releasing him with a few pats to his cheek. "Next time," you whispered, "we'll see if you look as pretty in a collar."

Daryl's legs trembled as you stepped away, but he didn't have time to steady himself before Princess appeared out of nowhere, searching for the both of you.

"Y'all find anything good?"

You didn't even hesitate, grinning at her as you patted Daryl's head and then his chest—right where one of the lipstick marks was smeared beneath his shirt.

"Oh, I haven't found anything worthy of my time just yet," you responded. "I'm just walking the dog."

Princess stopped, tilting her head to the side with a slight frown. "The dog? Wait, we got no—"

But you were already stepping away, leaving Daryl and Princess standing there, his face red as he struggled to keep up.

He followed you, of course. Just like you knew he would. And God help him, he wanted to follow you anywhere.

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ's ɴᴏᴛᴇ: Thanks for reading! I've got a couple of ideas for a possible follow-up—maybe next time we'll see what happens when he gets a little treat, or what happens when he misbehaves just a bit too much. Just saying, there’s plenty more I could do with this. So... If you enjoyed this, drop a comment, reblog, or leave some kudos. Even if you hated it, I wouldn’t mind knowing—feedback always helps!

[yokelish]

Solas sees himself in Rook is the lie in Veilguard I cannot get over.

"Solas sees himself in Rook, perhaps even things he doesn't like to acknowledge", they said. There are no two people more diametrically opposed than Rook and Solas. Outside of Rook doing that thing that pissed off a bunch of people in some sort of authority over them, there is nothing between the two to connect them. All their parallels are utterly superficial.

Well, they are both leaders! Solas lead armies, agents, spies against seven powerful mages with armies, agents and worshipers of their own. He had to be ruthless, to sacrifice, forge alliances knowing he'll break them, to manipulate. His friendship with Felassan suffers because it's exceptionally difficult to be emotionally open with a person you give orders to, who you know might die in your name, for your cause, willingly. Solas know it. That's why Felassan writes about how Solas is planning something and is not telling anyone, even his closest friend. It's nothing good. Both know that and neither can do anything about it because there is massive wall between them made of their complex relationship, their cause, Solas' devotion to Mythal and his vengeance for her murder. Solas cannot be a true friend to Felassan just as Felassan can be a true friend to Solas. Love and care are there there but there are things bigger than them and their relationship at play. Solas had to go along with the Dread Wolf narrative even if he hated it. Rook has to prove they are a really good guy to factions and therapyspeak their team of professionals into working under a lot of pressure. Rook suffers none of the consequences of leadership unless they utterly ignore their companions' side quests. What does Rook lose? Their moral codex? Not once did they have to do anything morally questionable. Their relationships? Hardened mechanics is utterly meaningless in the narrative. Since Hardened mechanics is the only thing that was brought from Origins, it's fair to compare it to Origins: Neve is not Leliana who becomes ruthless and thinks murder might actually be an answer to many questions; Lucanis isn't Alistair who accepts that he must become First Talon. What does Rook lose? One companion who willingly sacrifices themselves.

Solas made choices. Stupid ones, yes, but choices. His actions had terrible consequences. Rook is not active in the narrative. They only react. The choice between cities is so in the moment that it isn't about what Rook is willing to sacrifice, what terrible consequence they are more likely to accept, it is not about "all choices are terrible and you have to choose" but reacting to having to choose at all with very little information based on your companions 3 seconds explanation before they ran away. In inquisition, the choice between mages and templars is also quite early in the game. But it influences how you meet Cole and Dorian, it influences who comes to attack Haven, which enemy you are more frequently encounter in the world. Antivan Crows and Rivain apparently have business dealings going all the time, about supplies and Antaam, but after a dragon attacks Treviso, the Lords of Fortune do not offer a dragon hunter (who is big Crow fan) to help out their assassin business partners and consequently Rook. No, it's on Harding to find the dragon hunter. They see a blighted dragon in D'Meta Crossing, hear Ghilan'na speak through it, and not even say that this might be a big fucking problem very quickly and no one nearby knows how to handle it. It's after a city gets blighted that Solas is telling you to find a dragon hunter. Thank you, dear, but I knew that 6 hours ago. Rook somehow didn't tho. The choice between the cities is utterly superfluous, influencing only your gameplay (which companion can't heal you, which city's side quest get cut, which merchants aren't available) rather than the world. Minrathous is no better for fending off Elgar'nan in the end whether you save it or not. UNFORTUNATELY, due to AMA and John Epler, they resolved the artificial moral quandary of this choice as well. Because the Blight in Minrathous will calcify and die at the end of the game, the blight in Treviso will not. Thanks, I hate it. Though the Archon you choose is very much aware that there are blighted gods with an equally blighted dragons but no preparations for any war marches, attacks, sieges will be made. Antiva doesn't reconsider its governance after having a city invaded and blighted. You chose Treviso? Cool. MInrathous' blight will die at the end, Dorian will become Archon and outlaw slavery and cults. Crows rule unchallenged. You chose Minrathous? New Archon is outlaw slavery and cults, your blighted mage will be just fine, Crows rule unchallenged, not a single Talon is blighted. Sad about Treviso, though, that place might just have to be Chernobyl of Antiva.

Solas had moral complexity. Rook doesn't. Varric handpicked the goodest, goofiest little guy to go against a morally dubious ancient being (MW Rook seems to have committed some cultural taboo but don't worry that will not influence how Emmrich views you. MW is EASIER to gain rep with instead of harder. Strife being that way about VJ Rook who saved lives of their people is nonsensical because Strife sided with helping a human mage instead of cutting off said mage's limbs to free himself. LoF background is nonsensical. Why a bunch of pirates give a shit what nobles think? Because trade? They trade fucking lost treasures, not freshly caught salmon. If not those guys, it's gonna be the other guys. Every nation has insufferable rich people who like to put "exotics" into their home decor.) WHY Varric picked the goodest, goofiest little guy in Thedas to stop an ancient mage who fooled an entire organization (and possibly his lover) a decade ago before disappearing into mist that Spymaster of Inquisition couldn't find him until he wanted to be found makes no sense. The man who has lived and actively participated in the shit happening in Kirkwall and Inquisition. The man who fucking lies for a living. Yes, Varric is a overall a good man, but he isn't the paragon of goodness, far from it. It's not Varric who approves you helping refugees in Inquisition. In fact, Varric approves of Inquisitor deciding to let soldiers to fend for themselves. Varric greatly approves of bullshitting your way through thing, including lying, and protecting what is yours. Hawke was never the goodest guy, they are either a smuggler or merc he hired to go through the Deep Roads. Without committing to either choice presented in DA2, Hawke was presented with moral choices where either pick can be dubious. Hawke had to have picked either mages or templars. A bunch of people who are without a doubt dangerous. Or an order who will commit atrocious crimes because they can get away with given that the crime is against a mage. Hawke had some sort of relationship with the guy who bombed the Chantry and either executed him or let him run, either choice without being canonical presents a moral quandary of its own. Varric writes books about how underhanded tactics, lying, spying, and manipulation with a dose of blackmail can actually be for the benefit of the greater good if done with right intetions. But by choosing Rook, it's like Varric thinks that goodness of Inquisitor is what gets one through Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, and not ruthlessness, self-service, and a lot of Varric's own favourite hobby - lying. Why Varric you meet in DA2 and Inquisition picks Rook? Well, he CALLS Rook clever and adaptable, but all Rook's cleverness is bulldozing through obstacles and killing obviously evil guys. Rook is stubborn, determined - no doubt. But Rook isn't clever, cunning, or crafty. They prioritize saving life in droves, which is something that would be on Varric's mind IF Varric was to believe Solas was a heartless bastard with no regard for the damage he causes and we know that's NOT what Varric believes about Solas.

Solas has to fight against his downfall - pride. I genuinely don't know what Rook has as a flaw they struggle against. Their compassion doesn't get them in trouble, they don't get tricked or betrayed. But Solas puts them in prison! Yes, but the reason Rook gets caught isn't due to Solas's trickery but because they can't do shit in the moment. They just fought against Ghilan'nain and her darkspawn puppets alone while trying to free their companions, get knocked on the head a few times, hangs upside down like cattle while their friend gets skewered. How Solas gets them into the prison is TACTICAL. Rook is weak, Rook is tired, Rook is vulnerable, and the Veil is thin so he can actually reach through. It's not trickery. But Rook and Co couldn't shut up about Solas' inevitable betrayal so the payoff is due in whatever way possible. Solas thinks he alone can fix what he has broken, he alone has to face Elgar'nan because many ancient grudges and regrets are knotted up in there. Solas turns on his friends because he thinks what he must do is the thing he must do or all is lost (elven immortality, magic, spirits, knowledge, the world he knew and its history). He thinks he alone knows better than anyone. Partially because he is one of the very few beings who lived since it all began, before the world was changed by the Veil. The Prison sequence wants you the player to believe Rook carries the responsibility in some internalized way, but it's not fucking written in any way until this point, so why would you consider it an issue Rook has to actively face and has struggled with and not just an excuse to have Solas out? My brothers and sisters by the Maker's grace, Leandra scolding Hawke for their sibling's death was more scathing than choosing a whole damn city to be left to burn.

"I've molded you into someone the prison can accept in my place". How? You've done nothing. We had like 4 conversations. 3 of which you spent telling me about the Evanuris, the Blight, their dragon thralls, and how much you fucking hate Elgar'nan. Solas says nothing that changes Rook in any way, how they view their leadership, their actions, or themselves. I think the prison will accept anyone with a formed frontal lobe, honestly. Solas makes you say "I'll do whatever it takes" in the dialogue! Again, that attitude Solas tries to push on you is: a. fucking necessary? you have immortal beings with pet dragons and almost unlimited power to fight against. b. the attitude is more embraced by your companions than Rook. c. Rook is never pushed into doing anything morally questionable or even debatably interesting to reach their objective. Not once is Rook saying "i don't want to do this, i hate to do this, but i have no choice." Rook doesn't even have to lie! Not fucking once!

Tricking someone doesn't make you right. It's one of the things Rook and Solas will discuss. And regardless of anything, Rook will go Shiro Emiya "just because you are correct doesn't mean you are right" on Solas's ass. And that's good. It shows that Solas is shit with introspection just like Elgar'nan and Ghian'nain are. It shows why he is stuck in the prison. On the other hand, his fucking murals are shows very nicely why he is stuck in the prison: he immortalizes his regrets that he wishes to forget instaed of working through them. And by bringing the point of trickery without engaging with what it actually menas to trick... It creates a problem. Well, two problems, actually. A. Where the Solas you meet in Inquisition and Trespasser and when can we get him back? Where is the man who tricked a whole ass organization, played chooms with a Seeker of Truth, Qunari spy, published liar, Spymaster of the Divine, and most ruthless diplomat? Never once does Solas feel superior or above the people he tricked there. He is in fact very fond of the Seeker of Truth who not once found truth on her own (I love you Cassandra). He is very fond of the Antivan diplomat who cheats, lies, manipulates, blackmails probably even better than he did as Dread Wolf and he doesn't feel any superiority for having outplayed Josephine. The reason Solas is the trickster is because it's his only weapon. He was never as powerful like Elgar'nan or Mythal, doesn't have a bunch of other somewhat powerful egomaniacs standing for his cause. Wits, trickery, deception are his only damn weapon, were his only damn weapon for centuries. That's why he is so good at it. The problem of Solas isn't in being a fucking trickster who thinks he is right because he can outsmart you, Veilguard, it's that he goes about solving the problems he creates the same way he goes about making them in the first place: alone, through deception. His trickery is a double edged sword and he constantly cuts himself, refusing to lay it down. He alone tricks the Evanuris into containing the Blight with their life force. Boom! The Veil. He lets the Venatori get his orb and bring it to Corypheaus, thinking he outsmarted them all and soon will unlock his orb and tear down the Veil he created. Boom! Corypheus lives, there is hole in the sky! So he slithers his way into the only force he thinks can fix what he just fucked up - the Inquisition - through deception, alone. That's his torment nexus. You tried and you came close, Veilguard, I giveyou that, but you slightly misrepresented the issue. B. The other problem is that Rook never has to trick anyone. Not even their enemies. Rook can never truly testify for the claim "outsmarting someone doesn't prove you were right" because they never had to. Rook is never confronted by the idea that tricking someone might actually good, put you on that high horse and it can be hard to get off. So Rook's words are just lipservice and not proven experience or tested issue.

"Solas sees himself in Rook". Only if Solas views himself as an insufferable goodie-two-shoes fool who thinks in straights lines and is about as easy to trick as a toddler.

[hansolen]

beneath the light of the neon moon

꩜ pairing ⇾ beast!dazai x reader

꩜ word count ⇾ 3.5k

꩜ summary ⇾ this is basically just dazai being a wet cat and unable to understand yet overanalyzing his attachment towards you through all the world’s that exist in the book. he’s just a lil weird about it.

꩜ author’s note ⇾ i missed him. there’s no other explanation. beast dazai needs more love 💔 i think dazai having beef with himself through all the worlds is very real and very true. this is nothing but the outcome of the visions that plagued me.

꩜ cw ⇾ slight yandere vibes i won’t lie.. but c’mon it’s dazai so that’s to be expected. some possesive behaviour might come up. slight spoilers for beast if you haven’t finished the ln/manga/movie, though nothing too major. if anything else needs to be tagged lmk!

ability description — the reader’s ability stays active 24/7 and it does take a toll on her. while i haven’t gone into too much detail of what it really does (maybe more in the future, since i have a lot of ideas for it lol) but the ability holds a similarity to that of arahabaki — it too is an entity. not really a god but something more sinister. reader is basically a concious host of that entity which lays dormant.

If Nakahara Chuuya — one of the top most executives of the Port Mafia, is called the left hand of the boss; then it goes without saying that you are the right hand. Just as scary, sometimes even worse. 

If Chuuya is the hurricane that destroys towns after towns with its howling whirlwinds, then you are the tsunami that envelopes everyone entirely. Once and for all — like an oppressive silence. And yet it’s commonly accepted that destruction is prevalent regardless of which hand the boss chooses to use. 

Everyone in Yokohama can see the large and daunting building from wherever they stand, yet no one glances at it twice as they go through their day. A wise choice, by most. It’s sleek and definitely suspicious, neither the civilians nor the government officials ever directly mention it — in public, that is. Hushed whispers can only be so silent.

Everyone knows that the hands of the devil reach far and wide. Must be nice having two vessels of otherworldly entities on the tips of his fingers, they all murmur. And yet no one seems to mention how hard it is to actually maintain them, Dazai can’t help but think to himself.

The boss of the Port Mafia resides at the top most floor of the main building. Anyone who has ever had the (dis)pleasure of being called up, for whatever reason it may be, knows for a fact that the silence on that floor is deafening. Except for when a certain red haired executive comes around, then one can hear bickering reach far and wide. But that wasn’t always the case, much like today.  

The only sound that could be heard along the entire floor was that of your heals clicking against the cold marble tiles. After two knocks against the large doors, you enter Dazai’s office. You hand him the papers — strict and professional, like you ought to be. You’re a sub-executive afterall. By your own choice, of course. You had been offered the executive position far too many times, and yet you always declined. Harshly too, much to Chuuya’s disdain. 

He was unable to comprehend it the first few times, and he even tried to knock some sense into you. He wanted you to understand that you were far too deep into this side of the world to continue thinking that you couldn’t cross a ‘certain’ line. You shouldn’t keep trying to balance your way as you continue to stride on the thin thread that separates the civilian world from the mafia one. You’re in too deep, and have done too much to continue acting as though you have a way out. 

But your only response was a soft hum, which frustrated him even further. Perhaps more at himself than at you. You both were well aware that neither of you ever had a choice, no matter what the circumstances may be. No matter which road you chose, the destination always ended up here.

Although if Dazai willed it, you would be given the executive title in a minute. Whether you wanted it or not. Instead, he allows you to relish in the feeling of being able to make a choice. Some part of him, deep inside his fucked up sense of self — tainted by the shades of blood and things far darker — he almost feels like he owes this to you, at the very least. Even if it’s just for the sake of maintaining what remains of your moral integrity — your sanity, even.

Not that it changes much, you already perform all the executive duties as far as protocol is considered. Including being present in the meetings, guiding troops and having your own faction within the Port Mafia. It’s generally accepted by the entire organisation that you are equal to the executives, if not something more — to the boss, that is. 

Dazai allows you to have a feeling of distance from the work that you do, the lives that you take, the sins that he makes you commit. Letting you wallow in the false sense of security that you could choose to step away any time. Somehow it leaves you a little sane and gives him a little more room to play with. Afterall, no one would enjoy a completely broken doll. 

He enjoys humouring you from time to time. As if this whole play wasn’t written by him. As though he hadn’t willed every single interaction on this path into motion. As if he wasn’t the devil’s advocate, whispering the sins you were to commit with his hypnotising voice. 

He needed you with him on this path. It was all for the plan he had threaded together, he tried to convince himself.

The plan, yes. But Dazai is well aware that isn’t entirely true. And sometimes, a paranoid part of him thinks that you do too. Know for a fact that more than any of the plans — he did this for himself. He brought you and caged you into this world carved out of sin just for his own selfish reasons.

Not for Oda, not for the book, not for the sustenance of the world or any of those idealistic reasons — but for himself. Afterall, he was never an idealistic man to begin with. He was just a boy when it all started. A boy who had given up far too much and for once, wanted something for himself. He wanted you.

And so he did. He kept you. Weaved you into his spiderweb of grand plans. He often thinks back to how he knew everything there was to know about you, before he even got the chance to meet you for the first time. There you stood under the cold harsh lighting of that deserted old lab. He remembers how the flashes of his other lives played all at once. It almost felt as though he was reliving the memories through the sparks of light.

It was making him sick. Being able to witness in such excruciating detail of how he got to hold you so tenderly, in those worlds from the book. It made him feel intense emotions that he couldn’t even begin to describe. All he could do was just glance at those memories that were undoubtedly his own — and yet felt like he was watching them dance through the other side of a glass door. They’re all so painfully clear and yet there is a huge barrier in between.

Dazai has always been well aware that he never should have brought you into this. He knows that he shouldn’t have tried to find some sort of replica of the emotions he felt, as he replayed all his other lives. But he just couldn’t help it. He has to keep you alongside him. Hadn’t he sacrificed enough in this life? You’ve been so good to all the other versions of him, can’t you treat him the same in this one? You’ll forgive him, right? You love him, right?

You have to. There’s no other way out.

𓇚

Dazai’s mind undoubtedly wanders back to the first time you fainted from his touch. He knew it was going to happen — saw it as a staple part of you both meeting in all those worlds from the book. 

He knew what was to come if he were to let his rough bandaged palm even slightly graze your warm one. You’d faint. Like you had in all the other worlds, of which he carried the heavy weight. Those memories all helped him create acute plans for this world. Yet, the ones that he cherished the most, the memories that weren’t a heavy burden to carry but instead some sort of salvation — the ones he replayed over and over again like a broken record in hopes to reach some sort of comfort — were the memories he shared with you. 

In every world, your first meeting was something special, he kept those memories safely. Back when he was younger and the light in his eyes had not yet been entirely consumed — he used to find himself wondering how you both would meet in this world. How differently would it play out? It helped him distract himself from his surroundings and the heavy responsibilities. Those memories often flooded his mind as he gazed into nothing. In all of them, you always fainted when he first touched you. And after that too. 

But, in all his other lives, it lessened over time, and eventually the fainting stopped. “It feels rather relaxing,” you had once said to him — in the original world. To the original version of him.

“It feels as though The Presence subdues for a bit, as if it were never there. Continue holding me like this, won't you?” you spoke to him so gently as you both layed on top of each other with his trenchcoat covering the both of you. It held so much comfort and warmth, like it was just you both in this world, rest all be damned. Dazai wished that adoration was directed to him and not the man of origin.

His heart aches at the thought. What could he do for you to talk to him the same in this world too? What would it take? 

In all the other worlds — with time, you ended up building some sort of immunity, or rather you got used to his touch and even craved it. In every single world. Every world of the book, but this one.

You never seemed to have gotten used to his touch in this world. You still fainted. Every. Single. Time. 

𓇚

Dazai hates it. He’s well aware of the fact that this world is special — after all it’s the only one where Oda ends up living. It’s a world that has been handcrafted by him alone. Each and every thread has been woven with a purpose in mind. Each action has a motive behind it. Which is exactly why he needs to sustain it. Yet he can’t help it — the jealousy that fumes within him. Jealous of himself? Such a stupid reason. He knows that and yet—

“Boss, here’s the report of on the foreign mercenary group that recently surged up, as you requested. I have sent my men to look through their abandoned hideout, although I’m sure you can already imagine the outcome.” you say as you hand him the files.

Dazai doesn’t quite understand why you continue to put up the professional facade when it’s just the two of you here. Yet, he decides to humour you.

He glances at files with mild disinterest, and then at your hand. A thought occurs in his head — among many others. It’s indulgent. Entirely so. You will not enjoy it one bit. And yet he’s also well aware of his track record of never really listening to what you want. He knows this will hamper a few upcoming tasks and meetings. But when has he ever given a damn about those? And so he decides to indulge himself. He takes the report from your hands in a smooth motion and accidentally brushes the tips of his fingers against yours.

It’s a brief touch, and it all happens in the flash of a second. You noticed it, he realises. You saw his intent building up and yet you still offered to hand him the files rather than just placing them on his desk. 

His ability is always active, as is yours. You lose consciousness in seconds.

And you fall.

Right into his arms, like he planned you would. He glances at your face, there’s a serene glow emanating from you. Something about you is always pulling him in. He’s well aware of how you both are so intervened in each other’s lives that perhaps it was fated. Maybe he’s not entirely to blame for everything, or maybe that’s just wishful thinking on his part.

You look so relaxed like this, he thinks as he adjusts the both of you so that you can lay down in a more comfortable position. It’s often underestimated how tiring it must be to have the ability active at all times, especially one that is as draining as yours.

Perhaps, this could be an escape for you as well. Laying with him as both of your breathing falls into sync with one another. Or maybe he’s just cheating and controlling his heartbeat as he tries to come up with some valid excuse as to why he gave into his impulse. All while he continues to trace your face with his thumb. It’s a gentle motion, making sure to not disturb your slumber, though he doubts you’ll wake up from it. Your track record shows that you’ll usually be knocked out for the better half of the day.

The expression on your face is something he wishes to dissect. You look as though you’re in some dream far away from here. He wonders where you go when you lose consciousness. Will you ever take him with you? Doesn’t matter. He will follow you just the same. 

Dazai can’t help but wonder what you would do if you found out about other worlds. Worlds where you weren’t led to such a life. Where he didn’t turn you into a weapon for his own motives. Would you hate him for it? When you are made to face all the other versions of you — the much happier, and brighter versions. Where in the light from your eyes hasn’t been entirely extinguished yet. 

Dazai fears that you already know. Can’t help it when you both hold eye contact during brief meetings. At times he catches a glimpse of the space — somewhere in there — that he cannot reach. They often say that the devil’s arms reach far and wide, and yet he can’t help but feel there’s a large distance that he alone can’t cover, in his quest to reach you. (Dazai also knows that he is no devil. It has alwaye just been a title that was handed to him. He wonders if you know that, too.)

Afterall, you, too, have the look of someone who is hiding something. He understands the expression well enough — he has to meets those eyes every day in the mirror.

𓇚

That’s one of the many reasons he prefers you like this. With your eyes closed and breathing steady. You don’t give him the all knowing gaze that you usually carry. He gets to hold you close, without it eating him up from the inside. Some sick part of him likes having this power over you. Being able to hold it above your head any time he likes. He would never use it against you though. Not really.

Your breathing is rhythmic. A constant motion. He has memorised your breathing pattern over the years. To the point where it’s almost comforting to listen to it. Almost.

His hand hovers from your cheeks to sliding right at the base of your neck. Something swells inside of him. Something sinister. He can’t help but feel a little drunk. Drunk over the control he has over you right now — your life. He can continue to feel as guilty as he likes, but it’s no secret what exactly he’s guilty of.

Dazai gently steadies your head and moves it so that it’s resting on his chest. He then tries to bring his focus back to the papers that continue to lay on his desk, and then glances at the ones that fell on the floor. Lord knows how much that slug would nag him if he didn’t finish reading these by now. So annoying.

He tries to push his focus on reading them, but the comfort of having you so close against him is really distracting. It’s contrasting, really, how your body spreads such warmth against his cold one. Like a single candlelight that continues to glow in the cold stark night.

You both should do this more often, he thinks. Though you might end up hating him for it. But that’s won’t be an issue in the near future, considering what’s to come — the true plans written in the book.

What will be an issue is Chuuya barging through the black doors and seeing you both in such a precarious position — then he might proceed to quite literally kill Dazai. No matter if he’s the boss of the Port Mafia or not.

Afterall, Chuuya is probably the closest companion you have in this world. You both make sure to look out for one another as much as you can. It’s almost as if you both have this air of understanding, that Dazai often feels disconnected from. 

Is it because you both are vessels? Or because he uses you both similarly and keeps you both on leashes? Or is it some form of familial bonding that his emotional nerve receptors are far too fused out to understand? 

Dazai doesn’t know. He doesn’t know that you don’t necessarily hate him. That you never did. He doesn’t know that you let him do as he wills. He doesn’t know that no matter how much he thinks of himself as the ‘mastermind’ it’s you who handed him the reins. The one that held the other end of the leash that hung on your neck and places it right into the palm of his hands.

𓇚

“Men will be men,” The lady in the white lab coat had once said to you. 

“They’ll always believe they invented the wheel. They will always come close to calling themselves ‘creators’ of it all. They do not understand.”

Neither did you, back then. All you could really remember were the sparks she always sent flying towards you — with no mercy.

To those people in the lab coats that stood behind the glass, observing you the reactions your body gave out — you weren’t some kid. Not some seven year old that probably should’ve been playing in park with kids her age or discussing the latest episode of some show that always aired from 6pm onwards. No, you were just a vessel. A means to an end. That’s all you were as they watched you writhing through the glass, taking in the after effects of the electricity coursing through your veins.

Sometimes, you still feel the sparks travelling through your body and the night repeats. This time — it’s in your head. It hurts all the same.

What that lady didn’t understand was that Dazai was no man. He never felt like one, at the very least. No matter how many masks he puts on to fill in the gaps or self — that one hollow part of him never fills up. He’s afraid it never will.

He never feels connected to those around him — to humanity. The best he could have had was Oda, and he didn’t exactly get to experience that in this world. So, as a self preserving tactic, he tries to form some scrappy sense of comfort with what's left for him and take it from you instead. Some part of him felt like you know this too, and let it happen.

In some wild way it’s fitting, he thinks. It makes sense that this world was meant to be special. It’s the only one where Oda will be able to continue living and eventually write that novel. It’s the only one where Dazai will finally fulfill his long running wish. It only makes sense that there are innumerable amount of exceptions.

Not only are the shin-soukoku switched and roles have been exceptionally reversed, new anomalies continue to rise up as days go by. That’s part of the reason he decided to make you part of the Port Mafia. To deal with those anomalies efficiently since your ability was perfect to cut through them all. 

𓇚

If anyone were to barge in right now, they would be greeted with an extremely bizzare sight. The boss of Port Mafia, one of — if not the most feared man in Yokohama — gazing gently at you as his dark figure envelopes you completely. In some humourous way it almost looks like a black cat holding it’s prey close, making sure it doesn’t get snatched.

He likes it, he supposes. The way you look so serene in the low lighting of his office. How your head rests right next to his bandaged heart. He adores the way you pout your lips in your sleep. You seem much more honest with your expressions when you’re asleep than when you’re awake. You look so inviting, he just can’t help himself.

He’s in too deep — you’ve had to have put him under a spell of sorts. There’s no other logical explanation to the way you’ve made him do such illogical things. How you’ve reduced him of all people — the demon prodigy and Mori’s successor into such a state? Since he was a kid logic has been drilled into his very bones. Every strategy and it’s counter. The side of him that was built to be made a mafiaso has always been rational.

What he failed to take into account is that to you he’s just — Dazai. There’s no other valid explanation to how you’ve enamoured and caged his heart in the tender embrace of your palms, in every single world of the book.

So he gives in, he lets himself fall. He leans down to place a soft kiss onto your lips. With as much gentleness as he can muster up — given his disposition. It was supposed to be nothing more than a soft peck. What he didn’t see coming was how as your eyes began to flutter open and how you kissed him back.

© hansolen do not translate or repost anywhere else.

[the-heliophile]

SAVE YOUR TEARS - VI

FROM FOURMI 🐜💌 This is my first time ever writing fanfiction and English isn't my first language so please don't go too hard on me! OMG THANK YOU FOR THE 24 NOTES 🫶🏻

song. save your tears, the weeknd

pairing. emo!Vi x reader (post Caitlyn)

content. angst, pining?, longing, Vi fumbled you

word count. around 1K

“I saw you dancing in a crowded room,

You look so happy when I'm not with you”

Vi was in the club, celebrating another victory in the pit by getting shitfaced with Loris, using whatever earnings she had gotten to buy them both drink after drink. The swirling colors of the lights were all blurry by now, her vision impaired by the several glasses of alcohol in her system, the burning in her throat a small distraction from her thoughts of you. She looks around the bar, barely able to make out people's faces when her chalcedony eyes land on a familiar figure dancing with a woman. Vi squints a bit, trying her hardest to make out the expressions of the woman making her heart beat faster and she manages to make out a smile, your smile, your face contorted in an expression of pure mirth while your company flirts with you. 

“But then you saw me, caught you by surprise,

A single teardrop falling from your eye”

You were enjoying the attention your date was giving you, not hesitating for a second before flirting back until the gnawing feeling of eyes on you pushed you to look around the crowded club, your gaze landing right on Vi. The sight of her is enough to bring back the painful feeling of your heart clenching to the surface, your throat suddenly closing while your eyes get watery and you quickly look away. You pretend not to have noticed her, wiping a fallen tear from your face as fast as you can, the sight not lost on your ex, if you could call her that. 

“I made you think that I would always stay,

I said some things that I should never say”

The truth was, you had been foolish to believe she would ever reciprocate your feelings. It seemed as if everything you did for her did not matter, as if her heart would forever belong to Caitlyn. By the time you had met Vi they had already parted ways, you picked her up after she passed out from celebrating, lying unceremoniously on the stairs leading to her rundown studio. You had offered her a hand, lent her your ear to vent in and your shoulder to cry on and yet she had never looked at you as more than a friend. Until one day, during one of her drunk ramblings she uttered the forbidden words, slurred but unmistakable. “I really love you, you know ? You mean a lot to me..” You had been foolish to believe her, to take this confession as more than drunk words she would forget the next morning.

“Yeah, I broke your heart like someone did to mine,

And now you won't love me for a second time”

You ended up making the mistake that cost you your friendship with Vi, you confessed. A month ago, at her studio after helping her lay down, you brought her a glass of water and cooked her a warm meal to comfort her before asking her to have a heartfelt conversation. You poured your whole heart to her, explained the depth of your feelings and how you would even be willing to wait for her, however long was needed for her to make her choice. You handed her your heart on a silver platter just to be met with a scoff and a scowl, her words piercing right through the organ “Don't try to make it more than it is, we're friends and that's all we'll ever be.” That night you left her apartment without ever looking back, that night you had realized that no matter what you did you could never compare to Caitlyn, she'll always be there in the back of Vi’s mind.

“I don't know why I run away,

I make you cry when I run away”

Seeing you again, looking so beautiful and happy made her clench, a familiar feeling setting in, longing. She had missed you, spent countless nights making up apologies in her head, kept looking for you every time she woke up hungover. She regretted her words more than anything, wishing she could take them back and welcome you into her heart. It did not take her long after your departure for the realization to hit her, that night despite how drunk she had been, she had never felt so sober. She had lost you, she was blind to your affection because she was too busy pursuing memories of someone who looked down on her and kicked her out of her life like she was nothing more than a dirty rag. She misses the high of being with Caitlyn yes, but you provided her with a sense of serenity, gave her a sense of safety and sanity in her otherwise trouble filled life. She did not mean to be that harsh, never wanted to outright reject you like that, with a shaky voice she ordered another drink, downing it in one go before standing up from the stool she had been sitting in to stare at you. 

“Girl, take me back 'cause I wanna stay”

Vi stumbles slightly on her way to you, grabbing your arm before pulling you away from your date without even asking and bringing you to a more secluded place. “Sweetheart, I..I missed you so much..” She searches your eyes, looking for any hint of affection, a glimmer of love or even just a sparkle of happiness at seeing her but her search is met with nothing if not for your unimpressed gaze. “Do you ? Or do you just miss everything I did for you ?” Vi stared at you, incredulous for a second before uttering that she missed you, as a person, as a friend and a companion. She felt stuck, like she was facing a wall, her words seemingly doing nothing to affect you but the memory of you wiping your tears away a few minutes earlier is still etched in her mind. She waits for a few moments, watching you take a deep breath before you chide with a frown “Get yourself in check Vi, I was foolish to think we would even work, I could not be with someone who comes home drunk every time and spends her time fighting for a few coins a night just to spend them all on booze. I want something real Vi, and you'll never be able to provide me with that, I've made peace with it and so should you.” She feels her heart breaking at your words, and she holds her tongue, fighting the urge to argue with you as she reluctantly lets go of your arms. With a shaky breath, she nods, admitting to the truthfulness of your words “You're right, I'd just pull you down with me eh ?” She gives you a half-assed smirk, her tone a lot sadder than she had expected before she resigns herself to her fate and walks away from you, thankful for the dark lighting of the club concealing the tears threatening to spill from her eyes. 

“I realize that I'm much too late

And you deserve someone better”

[biancajadexoxoxo]

Last night was a first for me with my new guy. He's a biker and came home with two other members of the motorcycle gang he's in. Needless to say, he can get any illicit items anyone could want. First we were all just drinking. He was getting a bit flirty. He had me take a couple of E. We were all sitting on this large sectional he has. I was really starting to feel good and we started doing a few bumps after he put porn on the big screen. The guys started getting really flirty too. The motorcycle gang kind of views their women as community property. After 3 or 4 bumps, two E and a couple Long Island iced teas, I was feeling really good and really horny. We haven't been together long, but he knew I was ready to be shared, not that I would have a choice.

He told me to suck their cocks, which I gladly did and oddly really miss. His cock is too big for me to fit in my mouth. One of the cocks was pretty average, maybe 6 inches. The other was a nice, thick 8 inches. Both easily went into my throat. These guys were definitely bikers and used to women being fucktoys. They both tried to out do each other by seeing who could face fuck me the hardest. After the two guys came in my throat, my man told me to get his cock nice and wet. As I licked and sucked at the head of his cock, he pushed my head down hard on his cock. I could feel my jaw strain as he forced a few inches of his massive cock in my mouth. He did this over and over until he was going in and out of my throat. He told me I would take him even if it broke my jaw. This went on until he came in my throat too, holding me down as he pumped his cum into my throat.

He had me get undressed and the guys started sucking and biting my nipples and fingering me hard. I came a couple times and then squirted all over on my third orgasm. He had suck his cock again to get him hard and more wet. He had me get face down ass up on the floor and stood behind me. He put the head of his cock at my asshole and jammed it in. Within a few pumps, his massive cock was slamming into my asshole as his balls slapped against my pussy with each thrust. I kind of had this trickle of squirt keep splashing out of me and onto the floor as he pumped me. I was a quivering mess, but he just kept fucking like a machine. His beautiful massive cock delivering me into ecstasy. Soon he was filling my asshole with his cum, then I was cleaning his cock with my mouth as the next guy got behind me. He told them both anal only, don't touch her pussy. The guys all ended up cumming twice in my ass.

I was just in the same position and was a mumbling, quivering wreck. I thought the night was over as the guys were fully dressed. He told the other guys that he didn't think the bitch was done. The other guys said they couldn't go anymore. He said we'll see how much of a bitch she really is. He called in one of his Rottweilers. His dogs are extremely well trained in every way apparently including fucking women because he got behind me and mounted. He guided the rott's cock into my ass and the dog was instantly fucking away. It was glorious how hard and fast he was slamming into me as his claws dug into my hips. He humped so fast as he panted and drooled on my back. I could feel him start to swell then he pushed deep. I could feel that immediate swelling as he began to dump his cum into my ass. We were tied for about 10 minutes even though my ass is very well stretched. Of course I had to clean his cock too. His other dog, who is the first dog's brother from the same litter, went in my ass next. Of course I had to clean his cock afterwards too. My ass was totally gaped and a bit torn again. I was again plugged with a beer can so the cum would stay in and my ass would stay stretched and heal wider than it was before. It was an amazing night. I love it here. I love being a true biker bitch.

[draculasstrawhat]

So, married 16 years, together 22, (I’m poly, but that’s my longest ongoing relationship) and I’m going to disagree/caveat a bit on some of this.

Love is easy. Love is the ground beneath your feet, the air in your lungs. It’s steady, like checking in to hear your pulse, still there, under it all. True, deep, longstanding, romantic love isn’t difficult at all.

Nor is platonic or familial love - I learned a lot of this in my marriage, but I learned a lot of it having kids too.

If the love isn’t easy… it isn’t worth it. Yes, even in the best, longest lasting relationships, there will be hours, days, sometimes weeks where it isn’t, but the general default of love should be steady, strong, and the easiest thing in the world.

But care is hard work (and often, as prev says, unglamorous scutwork). Showing up for it, every day, regardless, can be hard, exhausting, thankless work.

Being in relationship can be hard work. It is a decision you should make every day, and sometimes it will rip you to shreds, but in the main it should be hard in a “hard, satisfying and rewarding” kind of way.

A relationship is a balance of care and communication, and you can do both of those without the love. Your motive might be deep regard, or the fact you’re a great team, or you have a sound and earnest liking and similar goals, it can be habit, or fear of being alone, whatever. You can have an excellent relationship without love, especially romantic love, for a variety of reasons.

But if you are in romantic love, that part of it is easy. You can choose to care, you can choose to communicate, but love never feels like a choice.

The thing is, though, if you listen to it, then the other bits don’t feel like much of a choice either - because their pain is your pain, and their heart is your heart, and ultimately they are the ground and the air and the breath to you, and you’re not going to risk that over something silly like exhaustion, or grief, or the fucking coffee grounds all over the sink again.

And that’s the hard bit, because, rain or shine or pain or sorrow, you’re going to pony up and do the relationship bits - no matter how annoying or exhausting or hurtful or disgusting. It’s your job, it’s in your hands.

Love is easy. It doesn’t make the other bits easier - it just makes them inevitable.

elaborate for me — the loveless smuckler

[beifong-brainrot]

One thing I love about tlok is how it cleary shows parental figures as real, human people who struggle and make mistakes, despite loving their children. I think a lot of media, especially for younger people has a tendency to polarise parent characters, characterising them as either ubiquitously good and caring, or malicious and abusive.

This was one of my biggest, if not only gripes with atla. The parents in that show were presented as very black and white. Ozai was an horrible father, who burned his son and used his daughter. Iroh is an always loving and supportive fatherly figure. Kya the og died for her daughter and we only hear good things about her. The most nuance had are in Ursa, Hakoda and the Beifongs. But even then, Ursa and Hakoda's 'parenting fails' are presented as out of their control, due to an abusive marriage or war respectively. And the Beifongs are mainly swept off to the side, being the least relevant to the story.

I understand why this was done, and I don't think its a bad choice entirely, especially with Hakoda and Ozai being somewhat foils of each other. But it's still feels like a bit of a boring brick wall in what usually is a very finely detailed storyline.

But tlok gives us a show of characters failing as parents, not out of malice like Ozai, but because parenting is hard.

I actually adore the choice to make Aang and Toph 'flawed parents'. They both cared for their children, but had a lot ot things in their lives that made it difficult to fully act on it. Aang was busy and dealing with the weight of the world and Toph had never been subjected to healthy parenting, therefore she struggled to adjust to it.

Tonraq and Tenzin also struggle to parent properly, their struggle coming from their daughters' respective growth. This is a common struggle many parents have as their kids grow up and it's nice to see it represented in a way that isn't just a parent wiping their tear with the old 'my lil girls all grown up and destroying things'. There's often resistance, there's butting heads, but that doesn't mean there is malice, or a lack of care and love.

Suyin is probably the most controversial mother/motherly figure in the show and that's why I love her so much. I've already yammered on about how Suyin's motherhood makes her so polarising in the fandom. But the long and short of it is that she combines both previously mentioned 'flaw types' and they feed into each other. She, like Toph, struggles due to having a poor parental figure, and she tries to compensate and cope through her family and Zaofu. This leads to her being overprotective and a bit controlling with her children. She responds emotionally when threatened or upsetm

But all of them, Aang, Toph, Tenzin, Tonraq and Suyin still love their children very much. Still care for them and still try, despite their difficulties. And I think that's something I love about tlok.

[burningembers91]

Keeping Hope Alive - Baek Kang-Hyuk x Fem!Reader

Follow up piece to:

War-Torn Love

Synopsis: Baek Kang-Hyuk can see you've lost hope. But he never gave up on you, and he's not about to let you give up either.

Please note this storyline will deal with issues of PTSD, and negative body image issues.

Kang Baek-Hyuk couldn’t figure out what he’d done wrong. He’d spent two years tirelessly searching for you, dreaming of your face almost every night. He tortured himself every day over the decision to let you leave, to allow the medical helicopter to transport you to safety without him on board. He’d needed to stay behind, to provide support to the soldiers and refugees still on the ground. But the choice had broken his heart, ripping him in two as he watched the helicopter leave with you.

He’d closed himself off after that, refusing to open up to anyone else. He’d never had the chance to tell you how much you meant to him, had never been able to tell you that he’d fallen in love with you. Despite the constant violence, death and bloodshed, he’d found a slice of heaven in the midst of hell. But it wasn’t meant to be then, and apparently it wasn’t meant to be now.

He didn’t know why you were ignoring him. Why, after you’d both been searching for each other, you decided you no longer wanted him. He supposed he couldn’t blame you; two years was a long time to go without seeing someone, and circumstances change. Maybe he didn’t mean as much to you as you did to him. But you seemed cold and distant, and Kang-Hyuk wondered if you despised him for letting you go.

He'd tried to talk to you so many times, but you’d give some polite, generic excuse and walk away. He noticed that you walked with a limp now, and that some days were worse than others. He could see the pain contort your features; your beautiful face screwed up in agony. He’d known your injury had been bad, had seen firsthand the severe blood loss and trauma to your leg caused by the car bomb. He knew it would be an injury that would stay with you for life, but he didn’t realise you’d still be suffering like you were.

You found it hard to avoid to Kang-Hyuk; he seemed to be everywhere you were. You’d lost count of the number of times you’d had to hide round a corner or shuffle off to the bathroom when you saw him coming down the hall. You couldn’t bring yourself to face him, didn’t want him to see the shell you’d become.

But he noticed. He could blatantly see you were still suffering both with the physical and mental scars your time in Afghanistan had left. he wanted to ask if you were getting help, but he could never keep you around long enough to ask.

It was a mercifully quiet day in the hospital when Kang-Hyuk found you struggling with a pile of boxes. He was supposed to be attending a budget meeting, but you were more important than a bunch of bureaucrats arguing over money. “Let me,” he smiled, picking up two of the boxes with ease. “You don’t need to do that,” you huffed, annoyed that you’d been caught looking weak. You hated people thinking you needed help, even when you clearly did. You felt like people pitied you, the silly, frail girl with the limp.

Kang-Hyuk ignored your protestations, carrying the boxes into your office while you sulked in after him. Putting them down next to your desk, he turned and closed the door. For the first time in two years, it was just you and him, alone. “What the hell are you doing?” you snapped, “open the door!” The last time you’d been in a room this small together, you’d come so close to making love, your hands tearing at each other’s clothing, his lips trailing softly down your neck. But that had been in another lifetime, one that didn’t exist anymore.

“I just want to talk,” he begged, “please. Why wont you talk to me? You won’t even look at me.” “It’s complicated,” you whispered, slumping down at your desk. You didn’t even know where to begin, didn’t know what to say to him. Kang-Hyuk had been everything to you once upon a time. “Then tell me so I can try and understand. Are you angry with me? Is it because I put you on that helicopter? I did it to save you!” “What?” you shook your head, your heart breaking at the sadness etched onto his chiselled features. “No, it’s not that. I could never be mad at you. you saved my life, and I am forever grateful to you. It’s just…” You looked down at your leg, and Kang-Hyuk slowly began to understand.

“I’m not the person you knew anymore,” you whispered, a single, fat tear rolling down your cheek. “I don’t even recognise who I am anymore.” He wanted to hold you, to take all the pain you were feeling and shoulder it himself. He hadn’t realised the pain you’d been in, and seeing you cry broke him. “I want to get to know you, I want to know the person you are now,” he pleaded. “I loved you so much, I still love you.” “You don’t know me,” you whispered, “not anymore.” You shifted in your desk chair, the movement causing pain to shoot through your leg. You cried out, gripping the table as you waited for the wave of pain to pass. “Does it still hurt?” he asked, crouching down next to you. “May I take a look?”

“No!” You turned away from him, embarrassment and shame suffocating you. “I’m fine.” “You don’t look fine,” he said softly. “Please let me help.” “Kang-Hyuk.” His name on your lips was the sweetest sound, reminding him of the times you’d whisper his name as he kissed you in the darkened hallways of the makeshift hospital. “I really don’t want you to look, ok? My leg, it’s beyond repair. And so am I.”

“Don’t say that.” He hated seeing you like this, so shattered and fragile. “I can help you.” “You can’t fix everyone, Dr Baek,” you smiled sadly. “Some people are just broken.” “But you don’t have to stay that way,” he insisted, “If you won’t me look, let someone else take a look at your leg.”

You laughed bitterly. “What, so they can see how fucked up I am and tell everyone else? No thanks.” You opened an email and started replying, hoping that if you ignored him, he’d get the message and leave. But he didn’t. Kang-Hyuk was stubborn, and he wasn’t giving up on you. You sat in steely silence until his phone rang, calling him to an emergency in the trauma centre.

“I’m not giving up on you,” he told you as he turned to leave. “I will never give up.” You might have lost hope, but Kang-Hyuk knew he could save you. He just needed to bide his time.

[grammarpedant]

Crashes in here, hi this is my main blog and I just saw the tags you left on my art of Miki and the CombatBot and I'm going just a little insane over them. I've been thinking of a fic from Miki's POV for Rogue Protocol for a while and while I don't think I have the skill to pull that off I am SO EXCITED to see that someone else has had the same thought!!! Urg... I just love Miki so so much and seeing how the events unfold from its POV would be so interesting.

I think I gotta go draw Miki some more now hehe. Good luck with writing!!

(the Miki art in question)

Hehe, right? Miki is SUCH a character full of so many hidden depths and surprises, greatest of all is that it's also exactly what it looks like on the surface, in full sincerity: a sweet, kind person of a bot that cared very deeply about its friends and wanted to be able to count Murderbot among them. It also deliberately obfuscates the truth from Murderbot and from Don Abene alike on multiple occasions, it seems to sense what MB means and feels through the feed almost better than MB itself, it's a science bot with visual magnification abilities beyond MB's, when it's stressed and pressed for time it stops trying to talk like a human and goes back to its native code language; Miki has in-jokes with its human friends, but I never had a friend like me. And that's just random stuff I pulled from skimming the book looking for something else! Miki is just such a fascinating character!!

And in this fandom we just LOVE our outsider POVs, haha. I'm sure others have done or tried to do Miki POV of the book before, but I'm gonna use this moment as an opportunity to gush about the thing I want to write- I left the tags that I did because what came to me first was the bit leading up to the same scene you've depicted, the tragic beauty of Miki choosing the trajectory that it did. I have a heartwrenching final scene of Miki's POV in those moments that I absolutely cannot show anyone, not least because the scene simply will not hit as hard as it could unless I actually lay the groundwork that would give it a real punch.

Miki would be about (is about) self-determination, right, obviously. But the Miki POV I want to write would also be about a character caught between connection and alienation, a bot among humans and all that entails. —People love and protect Miki, yes, but do they understand it? Don Abene loved it, and Miki loved her too, and what about all the times they struggled to understand each other? The work that it takes to overcome miscommunication? How does Miki feel, knowing that there are some experiences it just cannot share with its human friends, nor they with it? Do they understand each other regardless? Does anybody ever really understand another person? —Miki has a way of talking that's a little clipped and which may seem "childish" to a reader at first glance; given that in times of stress it defaults back to a nonverbal-to-humans mode of bot communication, might we draw parallels between it and the semiverbal disabled experience? —For perhaps the first time in its life Miki met someone who could understand it reflexively, instinctively, empathize with its machinic experiences almost effortlessly. How does it understand this person's refusal to accept the vulnerability of connection? Does Miki understand Murderbot, and if so how much? In what ways?

Those are the themes I'd want to pull at, and to do so I'd use the motifs of Miki's scientific research function. Its literal ability to perceive the world differently from both humans and from MB, its framing of the world through numbers and measurement and factoids and analysis that is nevertheless beautiful to it, even when it struggles to put that beauty to human words. Names. Identity. Choice and free will. Emotion and connection. What Miki was thinking when it looked at MB's camera at the nebula storm and said, Pretty! The jokes and media and little moments it shares with Don Abene. The love and happiness that made it so secure in itself. If I could just get through the groundwork of it all... it would be beautiful. At least as beautiful as the art you drew.

Anyway, I hope you keep drawing Miki, friend! The art you did has already inspired me a bit more 🥰

[stardust-thief]

ada wong x reader enemies to lovers and we make out in the end please and ty

hello @omorebi u cannot hide from me!! dinner is served rue i hope it's good enough for u

synopsis: you're helping leon find ashley graham in spain, for a moment you're seperated from them both. but never fear! ada wong is here to save the day (she does no saving, like at all she just looks hot), 1.3k

cw: no smut but there is tension, and maybe a little knife play rue don't look at me, vague non-lethal threats, mention of raccoon city incident in re2, lip locking, they make out hard, ada is a tease, and a little ooc im sorry

request /// masterlist

After a long, hard trek through a Spanish village, you would think a castle would be a welcome reprieve. While it was better than facing waves upon waves of crazed villagers, it still did nothing to soothe the anxiety coursing through your blood.

It was clear when you and Leon were assigned to the case that it would be strange, no one would give a normal assignment to the survivors of the Raccoon City incident, but nothing had really prepared you for this. In some way, it reminded you a lot of that September night back home. Swaths of innocent people brutalised by something they had no part in, minions to a powerful man's schemes. If you were anything less, seeing it all happen again might have broken you. But years of being forced to work under the government made you no damsel in distress.

The two of you had worked your way through the village, finding Ashley, and ended up inside the desolate castle walls. Where you promptly lost them both! Ashley’s infection was getting worse, making her more volatile and scared. Honestly, you could hardly blame the girl. Feeling the virus worm its way through your own body was hardly something you were happy about. Which was exactly why you needed to find them again, preferably before the virus took complete control. Leon had met a scientist named Luis Sera who had promised you all the cure to the virus, if only you could find him again. The Spaniard had a habit of popping up and disappearing at the most inopportune times.

With no choice but to move forward, you pushed the colossal door open and found yourself face to face with two figures in a clock, both had gargantuan alien maws on top of their normal heads. You rolled under one as it reached out to grab you and pulled yourself up so you were now facing their backs. The creatures slowly turned around as you reached for the gun in your thigh holster and disposed of the one on your left. You switched your aim to the second, pulled the trigger and - click. No more bullets. Fuck. With every step the monster took forward, you took two back, reaching into your pocket for more bullets. As soon as you bring the gun back to aim, the creature falls dead to the floor. 

“Thought you were smart enough to not get caught reloading like that.” A smooth, syrupy voice says from behind you. “Could’ve got hurt real bad there.”

As you turn you say, “Well then, it’s a good thing I had you there Ada. Always saving the day.” Ada Wong was a mercenary who you first met in Raccoon City. From your previous galivants with her you knew she was trouble. Unfortunately, you also knew that she was maybe the hottest person you’ve ever seen. 

“I didn’t expect to see you here. Leon, yes, but I never expected you to become their lapdog as well.” She crooned.

“A little hypocritical don’t you think? What’re you here for this time Ada?”

“Oh, how I do love hearing my name from your lips. I’ve missed you, you know. Six years has been too long.”

Is she trying to seduce you right now? In this dusty room with two still warm corpses behind you? Is it working? “Stop trying to distract me Ada, I have a mission to complete so unless you’re here to help me I suggest you step aside.”

“Right, you’re here for the girl. She’s a lost cause, you should get out of here while you still can.”

“Ada, you know I can’t do that. I’ve got to get back to Leon so if you could get back to whatever plotting and scheming you’re doing and leave, that would be great.” You bit out.

She hummed and took a step closer to you, “I could help you, if you wanted it. I know you’re sick from the virus. How long has it been in you now? I have the cure, you just have to be willing to pay.” With every word her voice grew deeper and deeper, it thickened into something soothing to listen too. It almost made you want to agree with her.

“No, Ada.” You snapped, “Leon and I found someone with the cure, I don’t need your scraps.”

“You wound me, truly. I guarantee you I could help you quicker than Luis could, all I need is a little something from you. I promise it won’t hurt.”

“How do you know Luis?”

She frowned at you and cocked her head, “How bad at my job do you think I am? I’ve known about Luis Sera longer than you have.”

“That bastard’s on your side isn’t he?” You tighten your grip on the gun, a motion that doesn’t go unseen by the woman across from you. “He’ll make the drug and you’ll sell it to the highest bidder, I knew you hadn’t changed. Get out of my way Ada, I don’t want to play this game with you.”

“Or what, you’ll shoot? It’ll take a lot more than that to put me down. Or we can tussle, let it all out?” As she (rather euphemistically) spoke, she unsheathed a blade from her side and positioned herself as if to fight. Her form was uncharacteristically bad, her left side was completely open, as if she somehow forgot how to fight hand-to-hand combat. Which you knew was a lie considering how natural it came to her in Raccoon City.

Taking the bait, you  threw your gun to the side and moved into her space; you spun her so her back was pressed to your front. In your hands was her knife, her knife that was pressed against her throat.

You felt her throat bob as she said, “Nice move hotshot, who taught you that one?” Without even letting you respond she twisted you both around and pressed you into the wall, knife now somehow back in her possession. She traced the point down the middle of your chest. “Not nice enough.”

The air thickened as she pressed her body closer to yours, you could feel every curve on her body, feel every breath she took. Unbidden, your eyes moved down to trace the shape of her lips. You watch as the corners tilted upwards. Her breath warmed as it hit your face, she leaned in further until your lips were ghosting each other. You looked up to see her eyes boring into yours. 

Much to your chagrin, you closed the gap between your lips. Hers were smooth and warm, nothing like how chapped your mouth had gotten due the Spanish heat. You wouldn’t be surprised if Ada carried a secret compartment of lip balm in her shoe. The knife in her hand pressed further into your chest - not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to remind you it was there. Your hands rested on her hips, desperate to pull her in more. She let out a hum from deep in her chest and pulled away, laughing as you followed her movements.

“I don’t think Leon would be too happy to hear about this.”

Catching your breath, you spluttered, “Way to ruin the mood, Wong.”

“I live to serve,” she mused, “speaking of serve, I really must be off. The overlord beckons.” She moved towards the open window, letting her hand graze your body as she passed.

“You’re leaving? After that?”

“I thought you had a girl to find? Don’t worry, you’ll find me again soon.” With that, she took out her grappling hook and shot it off into the distance. 

Ada’s abrupt leaving shouldn’t shock you much, she was never one to like goodbyes. But riling you up like this was something new to the both of you. Honestly, it might be something you could get used to, if she weren’t fighting opposite you of course. 

Shaking the wildly inappropriate thoughts from your head, you recollected your gun and went to continue your quest into the castle. As you move, a glint from the window catches your eye. You find yourself picking up Ada’s knife again, the steel still warm in your hand. Maybe you two would meet again. It would be rude to not return a lady’s knife, after all.

[theegemini92]

If you follow me on here you know I don’t cancel out peoples user names. I belive that once someone post on the internet for everyone to see it goes everywhere. But with this one I had to because I just want to address my main issue

Now I have been seeing post like this a lot not just ACOTAR but other MMC.

Women please protect your heart and mind and don’t let them both be obscured by the IDEAL FANTASY MAN of ANOTHER WOMAN.

One man’s meat is another man’s poison.

Let me break this down a bit: I would love a FAE MALE too. Preferably Tamlin/fenrys type. Why, they got claws and teeth 🤤 and if he’s a rich lord bonus… has magic powersssssss 😱

These are very unrealistic things… THEY DONT EXIST! I don’t read to find how they treat women because that can never ever be real. Some parts perhaps but No man will randomly kill another man for you in real life and call it love. He’d go to jail 🤣

STOP PROJECTING REAL MEN WITH REAL ISSUES ON BADLY WRITTEN FICTIONAL CHARACTERS.

This post only tells me that instead of working out her real issues and SEEING her husband and Herself, she’s busy comparing other peoples relationships to hers and these things sometimes cut accross even in friendships

You made a choice to marry a man who isn’t emotionally compatible with you perhaps thinking he’d change only for him not to.

Stop bringing your marriages and comparing them to non existent people.

To Bloom into a Rhysand???? wtf does that even mean???? 🤣🤣🤣 will he sprout wings and fuck you and impregnate you and put you at risk? You better pray you have a sister with cauldron powers 🤣🤣🤣 or wait will he sacrifice the Illyrian women for more soilders and CHILD SOLDIERS? Noooo I got it he’s going to try hard to not be like your ex bf who is a Tamlin cus that’s his identity now. No dialogue or emotional connection just trauma dumping and telling him who hurt you and the. just fucking your brains out cus that’s about as far as Rapesand and ferret go in their relationship. There is nothing. They don’t even have anything in common.

How can you now understand Tamlin when you want a BLOOMING RHYSAND? 🤣🤣🤣

You see why I have been saying these MMCs are the main characters and not the so called empowered females? Rage baiting us into thinking we as women have the upper hand when we don’t?

Please ladies let’s stop comparing and face our realities.

[dank-noodlez]

Omg...

You guys...

At the start of episode 41, when Stein is trying to find his way out of the Madness, the FIRST thing he says is "Marie". LITERALLY THE FIRST THING THAT COMES OUT OF HIS MOUTH.

Let's not forget how HORRIFIED he looked when he saw Marie on the edge of his roof, about to jump off. He yells her name and rushes up there to her. He did NOT want her to die.

The scene where he's strapped to the table, about to be cut open by Spirit? He did not say "let me go", "what are you going to do to me?", or "don't do this".

No.

He instead asks Spirit, "What happened to Marie?"

All of his questions and concerns about his own safety come AFTER Marie. It's such a subtle detail, but I absolutely love it.

When he's talking to his younger self about "the place he's supposed to be"? Here's the exact dialogue of their interaction:

"Weren't you satisfied with your life?"

"Yes, I was. Even in a world governed by morality, I made it a long time without feeling guilt. But now..."

"But now what? You finally feel guilt, but you don't understand why. Because of instead fulfilling your own desires, you found something more important. You already know the right choice. You just have to make it."

And then the screen flashes to pictures of Spirit, Marie, his students... basically the academy.

Stein CARES about his students, Marie, Spirit, and the rest. They became important to him.

He desperately wants to be a good guy. He wants to have a purpose. He now found these more important things other than his own hedonistic desires that he's able to feel guilt. That he's able to love.

Now, let's fast-forward to episode 45, where Crona and Marie find Medusa to save Stein. Stein complains about the static and wants to destroy it. Medusa encourages him to. But Marie? She tells him, "There's no need to fix anything. Or destroy it, either. Just accept it as part of you."

The noise stops.

She's literally telling him that there's no need for him to change, that it's okay to be himself. She knows that he's a good man despite his Madness, his flaws, his mistakes, his history, and his obsession with dissection.

"Now try. Try very hard to picture it—the place you're supposed to be. I know you can do it if you try."

When she brings him out of his Madness, he says her name so... tenderly, as if it held every single emotion he feels for her and everything he wishes to say to her but can't bring himself to.

He lets her embrace him. He lets his head fall on her shoulder. He allows himself to be vulnerable with her.

She tells him, "Welcome back, Stein. You're home." But they're not at the laboratory. No, no, no. They're still in Medusa's lair. So, do you know what THAT means?

Marie.

MARIE is his home.

And Maka's face as she watches them... She looks so dumbfounded. Like she can't believe what she's seeing. That girl is BLINKING at them with an open mouth.

Anyway, the whole point of this is that Stein cares a lot and that he's so much more than his Madness. He's not some emotionless monster who doesn't give a fuck about anyone but himself. He has come to care for others more than he cares for himself.

He wants his students to reach their full potential. He worries if Marie is alive and okay.

If he didn't care about the academy at all, then he wouldn't be teaching. Then he wouldn't be fighting on the side of Order. Then he wouldn't have held Marie's hand while she was crying and in distress during BREW. Then Marie wouldn't be the first person he thinks about during his Madness episodes. Period.

He and some others like to claim that he is incapable of love, but the love is written all over him, and he barely realizes it.

It's not even just about Stein and Marie's relationship; it applies to everyone who is in his daily life.

There are a lot more examples in both the anime and the manga... but I've written enough.

I'm not sure if this is unorganized or all over the place, but I tried to make it chronological.

Thanks for reading.

[sweetvoidstuff]

The Attack - Gravity and Gold

Jungkook x Reader

Summary: (Y/N) wants a normal university life, hiding her gravity powers, while Jungkook strives to be a perfect hero. When villains attack their campus, she is forced to make a choice—stay hidden or fight. Their encounter changes everything.

Masterlist

Story List

A/N: Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed it, please let me know—I’d love to hear your thoughts. I plan to publish one chapter per week, so stay tuned for more!

Chapter 2: The Attack

It happened so fast.

A deafening explosion shattered the peace of campus. Students screamed, running as smoke and fire erupted from the main plaza.

The explosion shook the entire building.

Your pen clattered to the floor as a wave of screams rippled through the library. Dust rained from the ceiling, books toppling from their shelves as students scrambled to their feet. Your pulse spiked.

Not now. Not here.

The second blast erupted somewhere outside, rattling the windows. A villain attack? On campus? That wasn’t supposed to happen. The university was neutral ground—home to both regular students and heroes-in-training. No one was reckless enough to breach that fragile peace.

Unless they were looking for something.

Or someone.

Your stomach twisted.

“Everyone, stay calm!” A faculty member shouted over the chaos. “Get to the shelters—”

Their voice cut off with a choked gasp as a dark figure appeared in the ruined entrance, stepping through smoke and debris. A villain, masked and cloaked in swirling shadows, surveyed the room like a predator scanning a herd.

You shrank back, hands clenched under the table. You could feel the shift in gravity around her, the air pressing down like an impending storm. You could stop this—twist the weight of the room to your will—but if you did, you would expose yourself. And you couldn’t afford that.

But then, in a flash of gold, the villain was blasted backward, crashing into the far wall.

A young hero in training stood in the entrance, golden lightning flickering around him like a living aura. His dark hair ruffled and his uniform already wearing sighs of the fight he had engaged in, his dark eyes locked onto the enemy.

“Stay down,” he warned. “Or don’t. I could use the practice.”

You swallowed hard.

This was exactly the kind of situation you had been avoiding. And now, you were trapped in the middle of it—with the one person she absolutely could not afford to catch you using her powers.

But as more figures emerged from the smoke, their hungry eyes scanning the room, you realized you might not have a choice.

The room was suffocating with panic. Students shoved past each other, some scrambling toward the emergency exits, others frozen in place. The villain that Jungkook had struck groaned as he tried to push himself upright, but the lightning had done its job—he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

But more of them were coming.

You pressed yourself against the bookshelf, your heart hammering in your chest. You couldn’t let yourself get involved. Not here. Not now.

Jungkook’s golden lightning crackled dangerously as he stepped forward. “Everyone, get out of here!” he commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Now! Head to the shelters and follow the instructions of the heroes and heroes-in-training—they’ll be in uniform! Look for the black and silver combat suits with the academy insignia on the chest.” Jungkook tapped at his own insignia.

Most students didn’t need to be told twice, bolting for the exits. You, however, were further from the main escape route, caught behind the scattering crowd. You hesitated for a fraction of a second too long.

More villains poured into the library, their menacing silhouettes blocking the way. Jungkook had his hands full, lightning flashing as he fought them off, his focus split between too many enemies at once.

One of the villains, a woman with silver eyes and clawed gloves, turned her gaze toward you, locking onto you like a predator scenting prey.

“You,” she murmured, tilting her head, a slow smirk curling her lips.

Your breath caught. No. Not now.

Before you could react, the woman lunged.

She had no choice. Not anymore.

Her resolve snapped.

You reached out, and the world responded.

Gravity obeyed. The villain’s leap faltered; her body suddenly much heavier than it should have been. She crashed to the ground with a startled gasp. Pressed into the ground.

But more were coming.

And now, you had to decide—fight for your safety, or risk getting killed.

Jungkook turned, his sharp gaze snapping to take out the villain. But she was already forced into the ground. He had seen it.

Golden lightning crackled around him as he met your gaze, eyes sharp and filled with surprise. “You…”

Another blast interrupted them. The villains were advancing. Jungkook cursed under his breath.

"We have to stop them," he said.

You hesitated. You had spent so long hiding. But now… now, you had no choice.

"Fine," you said, stepping beside him. "Let’s do this."

Jungkook grinned. "Try to keep up, gravity girl."

[ofalchemyy]

"that's what people do!" austin said, leaning across the table towards her and flinging his hands up in the universal sign for i don't know! because, really, he didn't know why people came into the city from out of town to line up at 4 am to wait around all day for the ball to drop when you could watch the whole thing from the comfort of your own home. sure, austin had gone to the macy's thanksgiving day parade his first year in new york, but you couldn't pay him to wait around all day for new year's rockin' eve. he was going because he wanted to be supportive...and because adri had asked him to. who was he to deny her his company? he leaned back in his seat and ran his hand through his hair. it was getting a bit long. he needed a fresh cut for the new year. "when i say i'm not judging, i'm not judging," he reminded her with a shrug. his mom had taught him and his siblings a couple of golden rules: if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all high among them. sure, he judged reality tv contestants and fans of opposing football teams, but he did his best not to do so in his everyday life. "i only judge your choice in beverages."

austin shook his head. "nah, i remember it as fun. we were always out doing stuff." both of their schedules were so busy, it was like they always had some kind of event or appearance or fundraiser to be at. it had made it a little bit tough to find time to just be together, though, which was hard for austin in paticular. his love language was quality time, so time spent with his teammates or her colleagues was fun, sure, but it wasn't exactly all quality time. still, he had some fond memories of their relationship and he snapped his fingers as he recalled one. "remember that time i booked that trip to florida on a whim and we just fucked off for four days without telling anyone? that was awesome. we should do that again." he hid a laugh behind his glass, nearly choking on the foam. "that pool boy was obsessed with you."

“I think most people are ready and willing to judge regardless of if they’re doing the trend or not honey.” That might sound a bit cynical but Rowan had spent enough of her life being around fakery to know it was rife in every aspect of life no matter how good people were at faking the opposite. “You want me to get my mind out the gutter but immediately present to me the image of you wearing a diaper? Austin I think we need to have a chat about the meaning behind antonyms.” Still she shot him a wink, smirking because it was obviously a joke, but he would know that. He knew her. She knew him. 

As they both appeared to settle more into the evening she mirrored his movement, sitting back in her seat more comfortably. Every intention of being there a while - she wanted to catch up with her ex properly and that wasn’t always the easiest thing to do considering how busy they both tended to be. “Oh I will be sure to let you know, don’t worry, I’ll be bench pressing you in no time.” Except she wouldn’t because her arms were like twigs and would snap as such if she even tried. She would not be trying. The following question surprised her though, not sure where it had come from, but it made her smile softly. He was so sweet, maybe that was one of the issues, she was a lot to handle and not everyone wanted to sign up for that. And she didn’t blame them really. “No, no of course it wasn’t bad. Why, do you remember it as bad?” They weren’t forever romantically sure, but maybe they were destined to be in each others lives forever and that was a win she would take. “You don’t do you?” An edge of worry in her tone as her new drink was placed down in front of her not a moment too soon. 

[heartorbit]

figure skating set right now please. thanks