#inscrutable teach

[thaisibir]

Kevesi and Agnian Heroes living in the City headcanons

-Ethel and Cammuravi make literally everything a competition (who can run the most laps around the entire City, who can eat the most torpedo wraps in one sitting, good ol' fashioned brawls at the wrestling ring, etc)

-Alexandria tried to enroll in university but was turned away for being too young. High school quickly bored her to tears. It begged the university to get Aionios's resident smartass off their hands. The university finally caved in and let her enroll to study business and IT.

-Valdi is everyone's go-to guy for fixing Levnises, of course. He insists on bunking in the tech quarter, forgoing actual furnished rooms in the residential quarters.

-Cammuravi was initially treated as a walking fire hazard until Ethel and the Ouroboros gang convinced people that he will not in fact burn down the entire City, by accident or otherwise.

-Fiona regards the park as her favorite spot in the City. She's the City kids' favorite playmate.

-Isurd is a new member of the City's tabletop and board game club. He got Zeon to join when he mentioned that some games are farming sims.

-Miyabi joins the City street performers, alternating between her flute and fans to entertain folks with music and dance.

-Not wanting to steal Ethel and Cammuravi's thunder as already established sparring instructors, Teach spends much of his time at the university to learn how gentler arts are being taught.

-Zeon is absolutely enthralled by the concept of greenhouses and balcony gardens.

-Ethel's second home is the City library. The senior librarian is practically her adopted mother.

-Juniper spends more time outside the City than in it, patrolling and exploring the wilderness outskirts to their heart's content.

-Ashera is the resident terror among Lost Number recruits and soldiers. She's always showing up to the training facility uninvited, joking about eating them for breakfast, lunch, or dinner, depending on the time of day. Ethel swatting her off like a fly is a daily occurrence. ("Ash please go away, I already fought you yesterday, you're scaring the poor recruits")

-Isurd becomes a regular at the City's most popular massage parlor and acupuncture clinic. It's very hard for Taion to hold a proper conversation with him there when he's emitting satisfied "oohs" and "aahs" every five seconds.

-Despite stating precautions and giving warnings to discourage any derring-do, Juniper is not popular among parents for being a "bad influence" on their children, who want to slide down ziplines willy nilly. They have to limit their sliding to nighttime, when the kids are in bed.

-It was Fiona's idea to grow more flowers around the Remembrance Stones. City folks backed the project and believe the place has become even more lovely and precious for it.

-Valdi has his own names for all the City Automatons. Half the Lost Numbers think it's endearing and the other half think it's downright annoying.

-One day Hollis gathered all of them at the medical facility to sit down for The Talk. Alexandria and Teach took meticulous notes. Zeon, who had just grasped mastering how to grow potatoes, was hopelessly confused. Juniper, a veteran at growing potatoes, was just as confused. Ashera kept making faces like something had died in the room. Valdi nodded along politely, but really couldn't care less about something that's not at all like making Levnises. Fiona and Miyabi thought the whole thing was simply magical. Isurd stared off into space, mulling over that kind of possibility with a certain someone who loves saffronias. Ethel and Cammuravi looked around everywhere but at each other, their faces red as Noah's jacket.

[imsobadatnicknames2]

Leaving aside the whole debate about the ethics of AI art and copyright, I think one of my biggest gripes with the AI art industry is that generative AI art has this natural tendency towards producing weird and surreal imagery that I actually think DOES have a lot of artistic merit and potential if explored and leaned into as one of the unique strengths of the medium.

Like, when AI image generators were at the stage imbetween the vaguely recognizable imagery produced by neuralblender and the type of generators we're seeing today, they were producing really fascinating imagery that I'd argue had value as a contribution to the art landscape that was entirely unique to AI, since the weird surreal quality of the images was the result of Machine Learning programs interpreting words and images in a fundamentally different way than humans do.

Like i'd argue shit like this indisputably has a place as its own artistic style/medium, it's surreal and weird in ways which are completely distinct from what a human artist could produce because its unique strengths come from details that are inscrutable, ambiguous, and hard to parse to the human mind, which a human artist would have an extremely hard time mentally visializing, let alone translatong into an art piece.

But since the main selling point of AI art for both the people making these generators and the teach aficinados who are a little too into them is that AI art can serve as a cheaper/faster replacement and/or alternative for the work of human artists, progress is measured not in terms of how well they can use and explore the distincly non-human quality of AI art, but instead in terms of how well they can supress it to make it more closely mimic the work of human artists. So all advancement in the tech is geared towards progressively getting rid of the things I find artistically interesting about the medium instead of towards leaning into them as strengths that give it a unique, artistically worthwile style.

Like, I don't think AI art is inherently "soulless" or devoid of artistic merit, but I do think the focus on trying to make it increasingly indistinguishable from art produced by humans strips away the things that gave it artistic merit to me. This thing can produce imagery that is weird and wild and hard for us to even conceive but the profit motive's tendency towards rewarding homogenization has neutered that to turn it into a factory of increasingly bland, generic, serviceable imagery.

[transform4u]

I’m a up and coming gay college freshman, definitely more focused on the academic end of things. any chance I could have a real straight bro’s college experience?

You stand in front of your dorm room mirror, adjusting your outfit for the night. It's not just any party—you're getting ready for Alistair's party, the only other guy as smart as you, yet also your longtime rival. The rivalry goes back to high school where you competed fiercely for top grades, and Alistair never quite forgave you for being valedictorian. You'd hoped attending a top university would keep you apart, but fate had other plans. Now, you share nearly every class and club, constantly crossing paths in classes, dorms, cafeterias, and even at GSA meetings.

High school rumors painted you and Alistair as boyfriends, a hilarious misconception given your rivalry. You were the charming, kind geek with a hidden cuteness, while Alistair was awkward, intensely bookish, and secretly jealous of your easy charm and looks. He was deeply into Star Wars, whereas you had every episode of Doctor Who on DVD and even dressed as the 14th Doctor last year.

Tonight, you had hoped Alistair's party invitation signaled a truce, a chance to bury the hatchet and start fresh. But stepping into his dimly lit dorm room, bathed in red lights and adorned with an emo witchy goth aesthetic, you feel a strange tension in the air. Tacky Star Wars posters clash with shirtless pin-ups of Tom Holland and Chris Evans, and Alistair's black-rimmed glasses give him an intense, cat-like gaze.

"Welcome," he greets you with a coy smile, handing you a drink. You cautiously sniff it—it seems fine. "We should probably pregame a bit, right? To putting the past behind us! To starting a new!" he says cheerfully, raising his glass. Little did you know how true those words would ring.

As you sip the drink, a peculiar sensation washes over you. Your head spins, and you glance down to see yourself standing inside a pentagram marked on the floor. Candles around it flicker to life, and Alistair begins chanting in a low, resonant voice.

"By the magic that shapes the soul and bends the will, I transform my rival with a potent skill. From intellect to muscle, from wit to brawn, Make him the jock he'd sneer upon."

Energy pulses through your body as Alistair continues, his words weaving a spell that seems to twist reality itself.

"Let his speech be all about the game, His thoughts as shallow as his fame. Turn his interests, twist his mind, Let ignorance and swagger bind."

You struggle to protest, to break free from the enchantment that grips you, but it's futile.

"By the moon and stars above, Grant me this spell, my deepest love. To teach a lesson, change the scene."

In an instant, darkness envelops you.

When you regain your senses, you find yourself amidst a lively, bustling party. Music thumps loudly, and colorful lights dance across the room. Confusion grips you—something is definitely different, but you can't quite grasp it. People around you seem to regard you differently, and you feel a newfound confidence, a swagger in your step that's both thrilling and disconcerting.

Alistair stands nearby, watching you with an inscrutable expression. There's a flicker of understanding between you, amidst the chaos of the party. Whatever spell he cast has altered the fabric of your being, and tonight will unfold a new chapter in your rivalry—one that promises revelations and challenges you never anticipated. As you navigate the party, you know one thing for certain: this night will change everything between you and Alistair.

As Alistair watches, a sly grin spreads across your face, almost instinctively. The music of the party pulsates around you, but your mind feels like it's in a haze, memories of computational thinking and Doctor Who episodes slipping away like sand through your fingers. Instead, they are replaced with vivid recollections of football matches watched with your old man, and hours spent cheering on WWE wrestlers.

An energy pulses through your body, causing a throbbing sensation in your head. You reach up to rub your temples, only to find that your dorky glasses slip from your face and clatter to the ground, unnoticed. As you stare down at your hands, you feel a strange shift occurring within you.

Your once-boyish charm and baby fat seem to melt away, leaving behind a face that is a stark contrast to the one you once knew. It's a study in blunt masculinity and exaggerated features, reminiscent of a bulldog's rugged charm. Your forehead, broad and unyielding, slopes down to meet a pronounced brow ridge that casts a perpetual shadow over your steel-blue eyes, now narrowed with skepticism.

Your nose, once straight and strong, bears the signs of numerous fractures, giving it a slightly crooked and pugnacious appearance. Lips that were once gentle and unassuming now twist into a cocksure smirk or a disdainful sneer, revealing teeth that gleam too perfectly.

Your jawline, heavy-set and sharply descending, ends in a squared-off chin that juts forward with an almost confrontational air, adorned with a perpetual chinstrap. Cheeks that were once flushed with excitement over intellectual pursuits now speak of nights spent in rowdy frat parties and on the football field, basking in the adulation of peers.

As your face sets into this new mold, new memories flood your mind, pushing out the remnants of your old life. You recall the rush of adrenaline during football matches, the horsing around with your teammates, and the cheers of the crowd. Thoughts of wrestling matches and late-night parties become clearer, overshadowing any trace of your former nerdy pursuits.

As you stare down at your skinny, twinky body, an unnatural rage begins to well up inside you. Standing at barely 5'6" and 110 pounds soaking wet, you've always felt inadequate, especially when compared to the jocks and athletes around you. The feeling of frustration and insignificance intensifies as you feel a strange twitching sensation in your muscles, almost as if they are awakening from a long slumber.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, your body begins to change. You feel a surge of energy coursing through your veins, igniting a transformation that defies logic and reason. Inch by inch, you grow taller, your frame expanding into something imposing and solidly built. Soon, you stand tall at around 6 feet 3 inches, your once-slender physique replaced by broad shoulders that taper down to a narrow, muscular waist.

Your chest swells into a barrel-like mass of muscle, proudly displaying well-defined pectorals that ripple with each movement. Thick, sinewy arms hang by your sides, adorned with veins that trace their way over bulging biceps and forearms hardened by countless repetitions of weightlifting and grappling.

Your neck becomes thick and sturdy, supporting a square jawline that hints at your stubborn determination and competitive spirit. Despite your newfound size, there's a grace in the way you move—a controlled athleticism honed through years of wrestling and football practice. Your legs, now like tree trunks, showcase the explosive strength necessary for dominating on the wrestling mat or breaking through defensive lines on the football field.

Weathered and bronzed skin, bearing the occasional scar or bruise earned in the heat of competition, tells stories of your journey through physical challenges. Tattoos, often tribal or school insignias, adorn your arms and chest, marking your allegiance to team and fraternity. Off the field, your posture exudes confidence—a relaxed but assertive stance that speaks volumes of your status among peers.

Alistair bursts into laughter as he witnesses the drastic transformation you've undergone. The disbelief and amusement are palpable in his expression, but you ignore his reaction. Instead, you grunt at him with a newfound confidence, "Yo nerd, get me a beer."

Alistair, caught off guard but amused by the situation, quickly conjures another enchanted beer. You take a swig, and as the enchanted liquid flows down your throat, you feel your mind growing duller and dumber. Memories of late-night study sessions and intellectual debates fade away, replaced by images of rowdy frat parties, cheering crowds, and the adrenaline rush of competitive sports.

Compassion and empathy seem to smolder and fade, overshadowed by a growing sense of arrogance and entitlement. As you revel in this new persona, you realize that tonight marks a significant shift in your life. The rivalry with Alistair has taken on a new dimension—one where physical strength and social status reign supreme.

You see a keg out the corner of your eye and rush to it. You feel a strange sensation as you start pumping the keg. With each pump, your intelligence seems to slip away like sand through your fingers. The rage builds up inside of you, consuming every ounce of compassion and empathy that once existed within you.

Your clothes begin to change as well, transforming from your usual smart attire into something more befitting a frat boy - loud and obnoxious garments that scream "party animal." Your personality shifts along with your appearance; what was once reserved becomes brash and aggressive.

The memories of Kevin Brady - the cute theatre twink who stole your heart at prom - fade away like dust in the wind. In their place is an image of some busty blonde bimbo cheerleader who now occupies that special spot in your mind where Kevin used to be. As if by magic, she materializes before you with her boobs jiggling seductively under her skimpy outfit while she smiles coyly at you over her shoulder

With each new pump comes another blow against everything that made up who you are: intellectually curious… artistically inclined… sensitive towards others' feelings… All these traits are lost as dullness sets in like molasses on a cold winter's day – replaced by mindless conformity and shallow pleasure-seeking behaviors characteristic only among straight frat boys.

As you pump the keg more, you start to smell the beer. Your nostrils flare and you feel yourself becoming deeply conservative. Republican and Southern values fill your mind as a gold cross forms around your neck.

Memories and beliefs form in your head - memories of going to church every Sunday with your old man, beliefs about traditional family values and hard work paying off. You remember how much fun it was playing football in high school, representing everything that's right about America: strength, determination, teamwork… all those things that make this country great!

Thoughts about the radical left begin to creep into your mind now too though - thoughts like "they're ruining our country" or "they want us all dependent on government handouts". But then again maybe they're just jealous because they don't have what we do: freedom! And if anyone tries taking away our freedoms? Well then we'll show them who really runs this place… won't we now?

As you continue pumping the keg, memories begin to form in your mind - memories of fucking the dumb cheerleader bitch in the back of a limo. A cocky grin grows on your face at the thought of it.

Suddenly, Alistair is there, looking at you with disdain. "Watch you looking at faggot," you holler at him, and something strange happens - his clothes become tighter, his face cuter… unnaturally so. He looks and talks like a total faggot now!

"You're such a big bully!" Alistair lisps as he cowers before you. You can't help but laugh maniacally as he whimpers pathetically under your gaze. "You're just jealous," you shout back at him while tugging on your own cock for emphasis, "you're not packing like a real man."

Alistair continues to act more like a fag throughout the party as it grows louder and straighter around you - all jocks and bimbo sluts now dominate this scene that was once filled with diversity (or so it seemed). "Why don't you hang out with your loser queer friends in the theatre Alistair!"

Without hesitation or remorse whatsoever (because why would there be any?), you pull up Alistair's tight thong until he screams bloody murder while everyone else laughs hysterically along with you because let's face it: life is just too short not to enjoy ourselves sometimes right?

You remember getting to college on a football scholarship. You're big, strong, and obnoxious - just the way they wanted their players to be. Your fellow bros and you get fucking wasted every chance you get, doing shots and keg stands until the early hours of the morning.

As the beer fuels your every move, you spot a hot chick with huge tits walking by.

"Dude," one of your bros says as he enters the room, "did you fucking do her?" He laughs heartily at his own joke while slapping your back - an action that only makes you feel more nauseous than before.

"Yeah man," another adds, "she was totally into you! Said she wanted it rough." They all laugh again… but there's something different about their laughter this time around: it holds an edge of envy mixed with disbelief – almost as if they couldn't quite wrap their heads around how lucky you always were or maybe they just didn't want to admit deep down inside that deep down inside what really happened was something none of them would ever admit out loud: jealousy.

You spot the hot chick with huge tits from last night at the party, and she walks over to you. "Hey there stud," she says in a seductive voice. "Remember me?"

You grin cockily at her. "Of course I do, babe. You were the one who couldn't get enough of my dick last night."

She giggles like a schoolgirl and flips her hair over her shoulder. "Yeah, that's right! I just can't get enough of big strong men like you."

You take another swig of your beer and wink at her suggestively. "Well, lucky for you then isn't it?"

She steps closer to you so that their breasts are practically touching your chest through their tight clothes as she whispers in your ear: "Do me again tonight baby."

Your eyes widen slightly at this unexpected turn of events - not because it turns out this girl actually wanted more than just one night with someone like yourself but rather because deep down inside… well let's face it: even someone as obnoxious and brutish as yourself has his limits when it comes to how far he can push things without consequences coming back around sooner or later.

You flirt with the hot chick, feeling her up under the table where no one can see. Your bros egg you on from across the room, cheering you on as they clink their beer bottles together in anticipation of what's about to happen next.

Without a second thought, you stand up and pull her by the hand towards an empty bedroom nearby. The door slams shut behind you as everyone outside watches intently through narrowed eyes - waiting for that telltale moan or groan that signals something truly special is taking place within those four walls right now…

Inside, she kneels down in front of your pants unzipping them quickly before taking out your already erect cock which she begins sucking eagerly while running her hands over your muscular frame like it was some sort of prize-winning sculpture come to life right before her very eye. "Oh...Oh...Caleb....you're so fucking hot" she moans

You flex your huge biceps in the mirror as you face fuck this dumb slut, watching yourself with pride. Your ego grows larger by the second, swelling to unimaginable proportions as it becomes increasingly clear that there's nothing or no one who can stand up to you now.

Your mind is barely the size of a pea these days… but who needs brains when you have brute force? Sex and football. Beer and bros. Chicks and thinking with your dick… that's all that matters anymore anyway! You grab fistfuls full of hair and guide her head back and forth along your shaft faster than ever before until finally reaching climax inside her mouth – filling it with thick ropes upon ropes worth every last drop until there's nothing left but satisfaction written all over both your faces.

You're young, dumb, and repeating freshman year for the third time now - but who cares? Not Caleb! All he knows is how to party hard while maintaining his reputation as being one helluva stud among his peers (and maybe even beyond)… so why bother trying anything new when what works keeps working just fine.

[maximumzombiecreator]

Some of the comments I get when I talk about introducing 5e players to other games really bum me out.

Like, if you talk about other TTRPGs on the internet, you will get a certain amount of 5e players who are weirdly defensive and hostile showing up to argue with you. I get that, I truly do. But you gotta understand that those are just very online people. If you start projecting those people onto every 5e player who is reticent to try something else, you're doing both yourself and them a disservice.

There are a ton of people who play 5e and essentially don't interact with the online TTRPG culture at all, outside of passing around a few D&D memes and possibly watching a few actual plays. Those people have an understanding of D&D and other TTRPGs shaped by word of mouth and the ambient culture, and those have told them the following things:

5e is a very easy TTRPG

5e is so complicated, they shouldn't try reading the rulebooks and just let their DM teach them

5e is an exceptionally flexible TTRPG that can do anything

The rules of a TTRPG are just suggestions and the DM will overrule them regularly

Trying to argue with the DM based on the rules is Rules Lawyering, which is bad behaviour

Building on 4 and 5, whatever the DM says goes, so if you don't like it your only option is to leave

Now, if you're experienced with TTRPGs, you know that those things are not true and some of them are contradictory. But those are such ubiquitous messages that to someone outside the culture, they just get taken for granted. They don't see 1 and 2 as contradictory, they just conclude that if both 1 and 2 are true, that other TTRPGs must be so complicated it would be hopeless to try to approach them. Add in 4 and it wouldn't even be helpful to engage with rules, since they only exist at the discretion of the DM.

Similarly, if 5e is so flexible and the rules are at the DM's discretion, there's no need for other games, since their engagement with the game only extends as far as doing what the DM tells them. In fact, learning the rules will only incline them towards rules lawyering.

These are bad habits, but they're habits formed by engaging earnestly with the play culture they encounter. The people teaching them the game clearly know more than them, they say this is how it is, all the memes agree with them, why would they doubt that?

But fundamentally, the attitudes underlying this response are good ones. These players are taking in good faith what they're told and trying to behave in the manner they've been taught is socially correct. They've just been given bad premises.

This is why my approach to onboarding 5e players to other games focuses so much on meeting them where they are. I'm not doing that as a reward for being brave and trying something new. I'm doing it to show them that I'm a safe person, someone they can trust to treat them fairly, and to step outside their comfort zone with. I'm showing them that I'm not going to tell them something is easy, then throw an inscrutable textbook at them and humiliate them when they don't understand it. And it's a shame that that's necessary… but it is necessary.

There's some stuff they need to unlearn, and it will take a little bit of effort, but most people are willing to do it. They just don't realize they need to. And I think it's worth extending those people the opportunity to learn.

[wannabespiderman]

Man vs machine

Hello! This is my first fanfic written in English so I'm slightly nervous to post this but I couldn't get this idea out of my head so... I hope you enjoy :)

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Just an old man confused about modern technology.

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.

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You were walking past the living room door when a discontented grunt caught your attention. You took two steps back to crane your neck past the half-closed door. Bucky was sitting on the sofa, leaning over the living room table, which looked like a toddler’s table compared to him, his face illuminated by the bright screen of his new laptop that you’ve bought him not too long ago. His eyebrows were tightly knit together when he mumbled a quiet curse. You turned around, a curious expression on your face as you walked through the door.

"You okay, baby?" you asked and promptly sat down next to him. Bucky gave you an inscrutable look before turning his eyes back to the screen. “Where the hell do I find my emails?” he asked in frustration. A sudden laugh escaped you. You should have realized that a 106 year old man who had little to do with electronics would have some trouble with a laptop. Bucky gave you a displeased look with a slight, unconcious pout appearing on his face. “Click on the internet icon.” You spoke softly, willing to help. Bucky’s brow furrowed. “I don’t need the internet, I need my emails.” You stayed silent for a moment, slightly baffled by his words. Just last week you took the effort to set up a Google account with him and you were pretty sure he had paid attention then. “Bucky.” You said an amused huff escaping you. “Your e-mail is connected to the Internet. Just click on the icon.” Bucky clicked his tongue in annoyance to cover his slight embarrassment and went back to staring at the desktop. He was definitely taking his time, and at one point you doubted he knew what an icon was. “Need any help?” you asked as kindly as you could, though the sight of Bucky squinting his eyes like a real old man made your voice sound rather amused. With an exhausted sigh, Bucky leaned back against the seat back and rubbed his face, his shoulders visibly slumping. “You do it.”

You snort, but immediately apologize after he gives you an exceptionally grumpy look. “You can do it.” You said encouragingly, giving him a small smile. Bucky rolled his eyes, but relented and bent over the laptop again. You shuffled closer to it so you could see the screen properly, and the little orange and blue Firefox icon literally jumped out at you. You pointed your finger at it and looked at it again. “Just click on this one.”

You tried to be patient with him, really, and actually he did exactly what you said, but you couldn’t hold back the little sigh that left your mouth as he moved the cursor over the Firefox icon and clicked. Once. “Okay.” You mumbled, rubbing your eye. Apparently, you needed to be more specific. "This time you click twice." Another brief but piercing look from Bucky before he actually double-clicked and the browser opened. You sent a quick thank you to the heavens before instructing him to type the url into the search tab and cringed silently when he started typing with both of his pointer fingers. Right this second you decided to teach him how to properly type with all ten of his fingers later. A few more instructions later, probably a little more than usually necessary, he reached the Google log-in site.

“I assume you can handle the rest?” It was supposed to be a statement but your voice shifted into a question at the end.

He hummed quietly in affirmation, though his brow was still furrowed as if this whole thing was incredibly complicated which, to be honest… it probably was for him. You pressed your lips together, a slight sting of guilt coursing through you, your previous amusement and frustration about his hardship completely vanishing. One second you were quietly sat next to him and the other you had your arms wrapped around his bicep and your head leaning on his shoulder. “I’m sorry about laughing earlier.” You whispered, almost too quiet for him to understand if he weren’t a Super-Soldier and had enhanced hearing. “I know it’s new for you.” Bucky tried to shrug it off but you saw how his eyes softened when he tilted his head to look down at you. A sudden, quiet chuckle escaped him, making you quirk an eyebrow in curiosity.

“You’d think, as a Cyborg, I’d be better at this.”

[vaguely-concerned]

another really interesting thing in our man bashir to me is that I think this is the point where garak finally mostly relinquishes his self-appointed role as bashir's teacher. he seems to have taken it upon himself early on, for inscrutable but probably partially horny, partially cultivating a promising (and lovely) contact reasons of his own, to imbue julian bashir with some spysmarts and basic bastard thinking literacy skills, in the hopes that he won't go get his bright beautiful excitable ass killed at the first opportunity. there's a lot of mentor/protege undertone there in the early years. (if you want to get into asit stuff, very much in the same vein as palandine and garak's relationship in the beginning.)

but in omb garak really only has one of his little lectures, and it's basically about The thing about being a spy (and a person) that has most shaped his life: That's something else you've yet to learn, Doctor. A real intelligence agent has no ego, no conscience, no remorse. Only a sense of professionalism. There is no joy, no magic, no real delight to this, no winning, no recognition, and most importantly no connection; the reward for work well done is only ever the work itself. You don’t kiss the girl, get the key — you simply get on with turning yourself into nothing as best you can. and julian, who had just been trying to momentarily imagine a world where secrets can be cool and glamorous and for good, meaningful reasons that empower him to help the world rather than shameful and isolating and alienating and like a damocles sword hanging over him and everything he cares about, shoots back with 'well, but what if not that, though? that's the whole point of this game! this is my story not yours, trust me to know it better than you do. (I have more things to teach you too, if you’d just listen. And once he gets shot a little bit, garak does listen.)'

(somewhere beneath all this is almost exactly the same debate they will have explicitly later on -- "Sentiment is the greatest weakness of all"/"If that's true, that's one lesson I never want to learn". Something something the freedom to imagine and play around with different worlds in your head, no matter how cringefail james bond LARP nonsense that world is as long as it brings you hope and joy and new perspectives, kill the part of you that cringes etc. Garak you're allowed to get out of the closet in your head now, Tain is gone, you can imagine different things than what has been and no one will turn it against you. Im… sad)

through most of this episode garak is observing, and when he's not simply bitching about everything from the sidelines (<3), he's tentatively trying to throw in comments to play along, to figure out how the flow goes like he's learning a different language, and he's BAD at it hahaha. he barged in there to put himself in a position to learn something about julian bashir's ~*hidden inner psyche*~, but UH-OH spiritual uno reverse card time he's having to face some shit about his own psyche and the immense barrenness it's been forced to operate under for so long.

The learning between them has of course always been two-way (that’s partially what the whole relationship is built on), but in giving up the more ‘formal’ role — mask — of teacher, garak is also opening up space for realer emotional intimacy, letting one layer of artificiality fall and allowing more realness to shine through. even so he doesn’t let go of control completely until he’s faced with irrefutable (horny) proof that julian’s sentiments and ideals are backed by real conviction — julian knows (possibly better than garak does) what is a game, and what is real, and where he draws the line between frivolous and deeply necessary is different from where garak would and by the end of the ep I think garak trusts julian more, enough to leave the story in julian’s hands without trying to steer or form him even indirectly/sneakily. And to top it all off, the way julian uses his last dramatic speech to signal that he did also listen to what garak told him… augh.  

the teacher role, along with the lies (ever his swiss army knife god bless), has helped garak keep a sort of fine-tuned control of the level of emotional intimacy possible between them, stay in control of what narratives are even on the table. and I think finally letting that fade more into the background transforms their relationship in ways that can pay off big time down the line, for all that it leaves things a bit strange and tentative in the meantime. by garak standards he’s being positively transparent in this episode. for the first time he talks about his time in the order without any coy prevarication, he states his hunger for knowing julian better right down to his ~*hidden inner psyche*~ almost pathetically openly (<3<3<3<3). And this is just my headcanon and definitely not what was meant at the time of airing, the unplanned nature of the augment reveal being what it is, but in context of the whole show as it became it feels a lot like garak offering some of his own authenticity to signal that julian could trust him with his. It feels like garak has figured out at least the rough outlines of what julian has uh got going on and tried to make this gambit, having… perhaps underestimated the extent of the defenses julian has internally/psychologically against Being Known, quite aside from the practical real world consequences of his secret getting out. Anyway. Lots in this episode. Many thoughts.

[charnelhouse]

press the gas and ride

gif by @riley-keoughs pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader (nicknamed Dolly) word count: 2.4k+ summary: comfort in a car warnings: hurt/comfort. smut. angst. A/N: this takes place a month after teacups, but no need to read. tlou ep 3 spoilers. this is really just trash smut. Joel Miller Masterlist

She watched Joel's expression buckle as he read the letter. His brow furrowed, the muscle in his jaw tensing. She looked away, suddenly feeling intrusive. She'd never come here with Joel. His trips to Bill were semi-frequent, but this was the first time he’d brought her. Of course, he hadn't expected this. He hadn't thought they'd be walking into a dead house. 

The fresh air through the open front door bullied the stench of rotten meat and vegetables. The dinner on the table buzzed with flies. There were starched, ironed napkins folded in triangles with lovely patterns of woodland creatures. She traced the tiny squirrel sewed into the fabric before studying the label on the wine bottle. She was intent on busying herself. She wanted to give Joel space, but he'd been more paranoid than usual since the attack a month ago. 

I don't want you out of my sight.

She hadn't stopped aching. Brutal. Horrible. She'd slaughtered two people, and her mind continued to spin with the memories of it. She was unable to remove the taste of blood from her tongue. She could not unhear the shuddering death rattle or unfeel the way the man beneath her had wriggled and then spasmed like an electrocuted rodent.  

Joel had also seemingly lost his cool that night. After he'd tucked her into bed, she'd heard him smashing up the first floor. In the morning, he'd refused to let her see what he had done and when she fell apart again (in the safety of their QZ apartment), Joel wouldn't have it.

He'd crouched so they could be eye-level, large hand cupping the back of her skull. "They got what they deserved. Nothin' more than that."

He was right, but teaching her head to stop was easier said than done. 

She scanned the dining room before settling on the mahogany cabinet full of delicate china. When she noticed the powder blue and white teacups, she winced. She couldn't escape it. Everything triggered her. She needed to learn to grow up and out of her pain because it wouldn't serve her and certainly not Joel. He bulldozed through everything, and she had to follow suit. 

Joel cleared his throat. He had stopped reading and was staring out the window, far away. She intended to bring him back to shore. 

"They have a car?" she asked, and Joel's eyes swept toward her. Inscrutable. 

"Yeah." He scraped a hand over his mouth. "Yeah."

***

Joel guided her to a guest room, instructing her to clean up and be ready in an hour.

He'd found her a box of women's clothes that she happily dug through. The very idea of new outfits felt celebratory- even if they smelled a bit stale.

The musty fabric reminded her of her grandmother's closets. She'd used to hide behind the wool coats and leather shoes, toes snug in the sea-green carpet. She'd get light-headed on mothballs. 

Her family was gone. A long time gone.

She supposed Joel was the only person who really gave a shit about her well-being. If she died, he’d have the memory of her, at least. She wouldn’t be dust.

After she showered, she yanked on a sundress and sneakers. Joel would undoubtedly say something, but she was past caring. She stared at herself in the mirror, petting the floral-print bodice. She twisted side to side, the breeze from the open window licking between her legs and under her arms. 

She thought of Bill and Frank in the next room and abruptly stopped. Morbid. Strange to be so fine rummaging through a house when two dead men were feet away. Their window was open, too, and she wondered if the sweet brush of cool air had cradled them into the next life. She stepped forward, pressing her ear against the wood. She listened, tapping her fingertips over the wallpaper. 

Silence. She tapped again. Waiting.

"What are you doing?"

She whirled around to find Joel standing in the doorway with a towel around his waist. He'd combed his wet hair back, but a single strand boyishly drifted over his forehead. The scars across his torso gleamed white under the naked afternoon sun.

"Nothing." She shifted her weight, the dress swishing with her. 

He frowned as he scrutinized her outfit. "You can't wear that."

"Because?"

"Because you can't do shit in a dress that short," he replied flatly. 

She put her hands on her hips. "Can I just wear this today? It's-fuck-it's the prettiest thing I've worn since-since I don't know." She averted her eyes, feeling childish at her reasoning.

Because I want to be beautiful for once. I want to look beautiful for you and not covered in grime, blood, and jeans, two sizes too big. 

The expression on Joel's face flickered between irritated and puzzled. She thought he might stride across the room and tear it off her. 

Once in a while, he'd give her shit about things like this-pecking at her for enjoying luxuries that didn't exist anymore. He'd call her a spoiled brat when he really wanted to tick her off. Instinctively, she knew he was doing it, so she'd snap at him, deal him back with a rough hand. 

He always won and she assumed he’d win here, as well.

She expected him to say no, but he took a breath instead. Running his hand across his chest, he massaged an old bullet wound hidden in the sparse hair before turning back into the hall. White flag. 

Then, his voice pitched so low it grazed the floor. "Fine."

***

The letter must have softened him. Repeatedly punched him until he was a tender, pliant piece of meat. He hadn't even twitched when she snatched two guns too massive for her off the basement wall or smuggled a box of wine into the car.

His hands scraped over the steering wheel when he slid into the front seat. He stared blankly at the dash and then the manicured driveway. The grass was just beginning to creep away from the lawn, encroaching onto the asphalt. 

She wasn't sure how to deal with this. He usually seemed to take death in stride. His grief was like a chalky, oversized pill, but he swallowed it nonetheless. He'd made it clear that he didn't even like Bill yet...

"I'm sorry," she offered.

"Take your feet off the dash," he ordered stiffly.

She scowled but did as she was told, figuring she didn't need to push Joel Miller’s buttons again today. She settled into her seat, hands prim in her lap as she waited for him to begin driving.

He didn't. 

He continued to sit silently, seemingly unable to turn the car on. The hand around the steering wheel tightened, his scabbed knuckles flexing and paling beneath the windshield. His nostrils flared, and she suddenly knew:

He was going to crack. He was going to burst down the middle, and he needed her. 

Abruptly, she crawled over the console, gripping him by the lapels of his button-up to balance her weight. The fresh clothes looked good on him-the plaid green shirt fit his broad frame like a glove. She nearly toppled into the door before he grasped her wrist roughly. “What are you-"

"Shh," she murmured, straddling his lap. He stared at her. 

Joel wore his grief in the creases of his face. His pain. His anger. He was beautiful to her. Sexy in a way that couldn't be understood. Older, too. Older than any man she'd ever had before, but it wasn't like she'd had that many men, to begin with. 

"I'm here," she whispered, her thighs squeezing around his own. His mouth parted, exhaling. 

She wondered what undercurrents ran beneath his skin-his armor. What did he think about? How did he see her? 

She lifted herself onto her knees, and Joel's hands automatically seized her hips. Unbuttoning his jeans, she tugged the zipper down, and his eyes found hers. Good. Coyly, she licked her palm before gripping his half-hard cock. She stroked him slow, glancing down to watch the blush-red head disappear in the circle of her fist. He shuddered, hips lifting a few inches off the leather seat. 

She intended to be fast about this. Pleasurable consolation was a language she knew Joel understood. 

“I’m going to fuck you,” she said and he shivered under her touch. He remained silent as the grave though his eyes never left hers. Perhaps, he was struck dumb by her forwardness.

She clutched his shoulder as she braced herself before sinking down and guiding him into the heat of her cunt. She'd worn the sun dress for a reason. 

Joel made a gritty, strangled noise as she took him to the hilt, lowering herself until his thighs were flush with her ass. The band of his jeans grazed her skin, the metal of the zipper catching flesh. His nostrils flared as she tightened, walls spasming because he was always a little too big. 

Wordlessly, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, forcing his face against her chest. He sighed deeply as she rocked forward, his fingers biting into her waist. It could hardly be called a fuck, just her grinding down and him pushing his cock upward until he couldn't claim another centimeter. 

She cradled the back of his skull, rooting her nose around his damp hair that smelled like clover and a scent she recalled from before - something generic and artificial like Irish Spring. 

Finding leverage was proving difficult, but she did her best. She rose up, keeping him halfway inside her before sliding down. Repeat. In her defense, she’d never fucked anyone in a car before.

One of her hands snuck out the open window to grasp the top of the car. It was dusty, and she had this ridiculous worry that maybe someone would crawl into the garage and bite her hand. She ripped it back to cup the side of Joel's face instead. His mouth twitched, his lids heavy like he was drunk and dazed. He didn't even care she had smeared old car dust into his beard. He'd have to shower again. She would, too, and she wanted to laugh at the strange coincidence of paving new roads in their relationship through hot showers. After all, he'd wrenched her away from a panic attack in that house outside Boston. He'd held her in the shower, mouth brushing her ear.

"You did a hell of a job."

"You did so fuckin' well, sweetheart."

She swelled from the memory of Joel's praise. She wanted to pay him back.

"I've got you," she murmured against his temple, nails tracing a line across his scalp through his thick damp grays. "I've got you, Joel."

He nodded-or she thought he did. His gestures were always so vague. Sometimes he'd hold her down and fuck her brains out while telling her how much he wanted to kill her for being stupid and acting recklessly. It would then always end with him possessively clutching her body to his.

You send mixed signals, Joel. 

What?

You said you wanted to kill me, and now you won't let me go.

I never said that. 

She felt him twitch inside her, his mouth dragging across her clavicle before he abruptly shoved the top of her dress down and latched to her nipple. He sucked it, tongue darting over the nub and causing her pussy to clench around his length.

"Sweetheart," he mumbled. 

"I know," she said. 

Their grief sat between them - a weight strung about their ankles, dragging them down to the deepest parts of whatever was left. She knew blips of his pain as he knew hers. He comforted her in the ways he understood, not necessarily with words but with actions. She could do that for him now, remind him that he had her.

She rolled her hips, and he groaned, his breath puffing against her sternum. She snagged him tighter and dug her grip into his skin like she was holding fast to a rock in a riptide. The car was so small, the steering wheel bumping against her lower back, and you could hear everything.

The rustle of fabric. The squelch of her sex and slap of skin. 

Finally, Joel planted his feet and began to drive up into her. Short, fast strokes that hit just right. It almost hurt. It gave her a belly ache, but everything else fell away. The car filled with his low, subdued grunts and her whimpers. 

He secured his arms around her waist, one hand sneaking to the base of her scalp to embed his thumb into the muscle beneath her ear. They were tangled in such a way that it would have looked like anything - they could be devouring each other, feasting on the other's throats as they fucked fast and sad.

Somewhere along the way, Joel tilted his head and demanded her mouth.

He kissed her fiercely, tongue hot and aggressive as it wrestled with hers. Exploring. "Baby," he sighed against her slippery teeth. "Fuck."

Joel, her man of few words, but just the right ones. She still didn't call him anything but his name. Nothing else fit him.

"Shit," she gasped as he delivered a harsh thrust. Stay with me. Stay focused.

Her climax paraded around her belly, kicking up dirt and shouting out toward a faceless crowd. It was turning in circles, unable to find the finish line. He was screwing her tectonic plate deep, but the friction wasn't enough for her to get off. It didn't matter. This was about him. Not her. 

He gripped her hip and shoved her down before spearing up, grinding in slow, determined circles. He left her mouth to find her throat, sucking methodically at her pulse. 

It didn't take too long after that. He grumbled something into her jaw (maybe, Dolly) before his hips stuttered beneath her. She felt him fill her, warmth blooming outward. She'd have to deal with that, but for now, she worshiped him. He lifted his face, flushed from exertion - golden, bright, and devastating as his dark eyes searched hers.

“You’re good,” she praised, pressing her lips to his chin.

When she crawled off his lap, she was sticky between her legs. He huffed, tugging at the edge of her dress as if trying to hide her modesty. 

No one's around here, Joel.

No one. It's you, and it's me. It's us. 

She was sore as fuck, like she'd been smacked in the crotch. Her orgasm was lost somewhere, hanging by a few threads, but she didn't want it. Instead, she craved the longing-the lingering frustration of her missed pleasure. She brushed her hair out of her face and smoothed her dress.

"That was-"

She was hauled back over to him. Their brows bumped, noses jamming together before Joel kissed her hard. When he finally pulled away, he asked, "You feel safe with me?"

"What kind of question-

"You feel safe with me?" he urged, hands seizing her cheeks. She wondered if it had something to do with what had happened at that house a month ago. The teacup house. Or was this because of what had been written in that letter beyond Bill and Frank's goodbyes?

She felt that if she probed, he would splinter. It wasn't her business. She told him the truth. 

Smiling, she placed her hand over his. "Yes," she assured him. "I always feel safe with you."

Joel took a breath, nodding once, before pulling away. He stabbed the keys into the ignition, twisting them north, and the car rumbled to life.

When they left the garage, she watched the walls creep over him again. 

[gutsby]

Mr. Dixon

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Summary: Your efforts to seduce the DILF next door have all failed spectacularly, so you decide a wet hot car wash in front of his house is in order. Mr. Dixon is less than impressed with your antics and plans to teach you a lesson in good manners and ‘neighborliness.’

Warnings: NSFW. Dad's friend Daryl! Drastic age gap!! Daryl's a dirty old pervert in this one :-) Voyeurism. Masturbation. Descriptions of oral sex (m!receiving). Dirty talk. Degradation. Slight misogyny. Daryl may or may not masturbate out a window at some point.

You had an old pair of Daisy Dukes and a dream.

Faded, frayed, and two times too small for your frame, the shorts hiked an inch up your ass every step you took across the room. Made it damn near pointless bending over before the man in front of you—he could see every inch of your butt regardless—but you did it all the same.

This was Mr. Dixon, after all.

Cool blue orbs illumined by candlelight took the sight of you in and flitted away just as fast. His hands busied themselves with the gun he was taking apart, while you reached for the bullet that had just rolled onto the floor.

“Here you go, Mr. Dixon.”

Your voice had a charming lilt as you held the round out to him.

“Over there,” Daryl grumbled, jerking his head toward the end of the table, “An’ what’d I say ‘bout callin’ me tha’?”

“I feel weird calling daddy’s friends by their first names.”

You shrugged and chucked the tiny piece of lead into the pile of ammunition like Daryl had told you to. Then you sat down beside it, crossing your arms.

He could be so cruel sometimes. Just fooling with his pistol and barking orders like a drill sergeant. Never looking at you longer than a second, and if he did, just shooting you a glare or wounding you with a scowl.

He’d been the toughest nut to crack out of all your father’s friends. No matter how straight-laced and upstanding the men around Mr. Grimes had made themselves out to be, you’d always found the fault line—the weak spot that got you access to the filthiest parts of each one. You’d teased and you’d flirted, earned a couple groping touches and open-mouthed caresses from the likes of the late Mr. Walsh and many others. But never Mr. Dixon.

Even now, sitting across from him in your skimpy Wrangler cut offs, wedges, and a skintight, starch white tank top stretched so tight over your tits the fabric was practically see-through, it was like you were invisible to him. You kicked your feet out in front of you as they dangled from the table and actually felt yourself pout at the feeling of frustration bubbling in your chest.

“I wanna help.” Sounding pitiful.

“No use,” Daryl said as he studied the barrel of the gun with an inscrutable expression, “Already told yer dad, ain’ no use for little girls on the range.”

Your nostrils flared as you started back on your feet.

“I am plenty useful, Mr. Dixon. And I— I’m not the little girl you think I am,” you fired back, sounding more miserable and juvenile with every word you spoke.

At the last, Daryl looked you up and down. It was hardly more than a passing glance, but deliberate enough to be expressive. Emotive.

He looked repulsed by you.

And, rather than dignify you with a response, he simply discarded his firearm on the table and left the room. You trailed behind him into the kitchen and watched him swing the refrigerator door wide on its hinges. Blue eyes surveying the shelves for a can of PBR, most likely.

“I can do anything you need me to,” you rejoined in a huff, desperate to be heard, “I’m twice the shot my old man ever was at my age, I can track if I need to— hell, I’m always doin’ stuff, Mr. Dixon. Things.”

You weren’t sure what rattling off your talents to a man who clearly had no interest in hearing them would accomplish, but you tried it anyway. You sounded like your father. When both of Mr. Dixon’s eyebrows raised in mock surprise and he plopped down on a bar stool opposite you, you wanted to melt right into the floor.

“Doin’ stuff, huh? Thangs?” he mocked your twang.

You gripped the door frame so tight your knuckles turned white. Daryl took a couple swigs of beer and stared you down through every swallow. He brought the can back to the counter, near-empty now, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I got a couple thangs for ya ta do,” he started, grinning, “Why don’t ya put those pretty hands ta work, throw a little apron on, and just...bake me a fuckin’ cake?”

“Funny,” you spat. You felt a surge of bile rise in your throat at the sight of his smug expression.

“Wash my car?”

“Fuck you.”

Daryl’s amusement only grew as the forbidden F-bomb flew from your lips—a word he knew Rick would never tolerate if you’d been in his presence. Presently, his eyes raked over your slight, shaking form at the threshold of the room and figured himself pretty lucky to have provoked such a strong reaction from you. He polished off the last of his drink in a single gulp.

“No need ta get all foul-mouthed, Ms. Grimes, I only—”

“Fuck. You.” Your reply came slower and a touch more measured than he’d expected. Even punctuated with a hint of a smile, making sure to stretch that Southern drawl when you added, “Dar-yl.”

It was the first time you’d ever used his first name.

You weren’t sure you liked it.

Daryl, on the other hand, felt quite certain the sound of his name suited your mouth just fine. A subsequent stir in his jeans wiped the smirk clean off his face, and he began to shift in his seat.

Before he could speak, you were already turning on your heels to leave. Formalities escaped quicker than your anger, and your fingers seemed to move of their own accord to flip Daryl off over your shoulder as you strode out the door, far out of his sight.

Meanwhile, and much to his chagrin, Mr. Dixon was already growing ill with the sounds of your parting wishes bouncing loud off the walls of his skull. Before the front door had even closed, his fingers, too, seemed to move involuntarily and do a thing they probably shouldn’t have done: touch the mound in his jeans.

He rubbed his clothed erection and groaned.

You were such a fucking brat.

Daryl had always thought with a father as eagle-eyed and attentive as Rick, you’d never reach this level of naughty, haughty, and straight up cunt-like, but here you were. Doing Lori proud the way you’d gotten another one of Rick’s best friends wrapped around your little finger.

You were good like that, and still too dense to understand a fraction of the effect you had on him while you did it. The way you’d been looking at him earlier, Daryl was sure you’d convinced yourself he hated you.

If you could only see him now, spitting in one hand and unzipping his fly with the other, freeing his cock, and finally, finally getting his fingers wrapped fast around his shaft with the sole thought of you on his mind as he did. If you could watch him shudder, close his eyes, draw a deep, jagged breath through his nose to scour the air for the faintest trace of your scent lingering there—maybe you’d get it.

Daryl slid his hand down his cock and exhaled a shaky breath. You would simply never “get it,” because he’d already promised himself he wouldn’t let that happen.

As his thumb grazed the head of his red-hot, leaking cock and imagined it was your tongue doing all the work, he had to remind himself this was nothing but a fantasy for him. There was just no way in hell he’d sink to Shane’s level and actually lay his hands on you, no—he was better than that.

He was a man of principle, furiously jerking his cock in his kitchen with the thought of his best friend’s daughter on his mind. He just couldn’t touch you.

Damn if those tits didn’t sit nice under that top, no bra to hold ‘em in. And those shorts…

Daryl felt his head drop back as a wave of pleasure coursed up his spine. In his mind, you were sucking him now, hollowing those soft, sweet cheeks around his member and bobbing your head up and down, again and again, eyes never leaving his. Maybe you’d know to cup his balls, use your tongue to draw a couple lazy shapes down his cock. Any way you wanted it done was exactly how Mr. Dixon needed it, he’d decided.

He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter and fucked his hand like a man half his age.

Someone like you.

Scarcely nineteen and so oversexed they might burst.

The difference was Daryl would explode any second now; he had only to hunch over, pump himself a few more times, and finally shoot his load, pretending it was spraying your insides and not the floor of his kitchen.

He’d intended to do just that, clenching his jaw at the filthiest thoughts of you yet, when suddenly, a sound shook the house.

Daryl dropped his cock and looked right out the window.

Down below, outside, you’d laid heavy on your car horn. Let the noise blare a couple seconds before Daryl came bounding over to the window.

When he did, the man thought his legs might buckle.

You were standing beside his truck in the driveway, sponge in hand, soaked head-to-toe in water and soap and smiling brighter than he’d ever seen you. The fabric above your tits was translucent now, clinging like a second skin and affording his lustful gaze every inch of your torso. Your free hand was waving up at him.

Daryl inched the window open with trembling hands.

“Mr. Dixon, this truck is filthy!” you shouted from down below.

Swallowing and blinking was all he knew how to do, it seemed. Finally, Daryl managed, deadpan:

“I know.”

You placed your hands on your hips and narrowed your eyes up at him.

“Have you always been such a dirty old man?”

Fuck. It was like you knew what he’d been doing, crouched over in the privacy of his home while he drooled and dreamed of fucking you stupid. He watched you cross the front of the car.

And lean down to start rubbing your sponge across the hood.

Daryl sincerely feared you might hear his loud groan the second it rose to his throat. He gritted his teeth, tried to fight the sound, but came up short with nothing to show for his efforts but a whimper slipping past his lips.

You started swirling your sponge in circles, tits shaking with every movement you made.

“Too bad little girls ain’t good for nothin’,” you sighed.

When you leaned flat across the metal surface below you, Daryl pictured himself standing behind you, taking his dick and shoving it deep between your folds. Stretching you out and making you scream into the space in front of you.

Slowly, discreetly, Daryl’s hand drifted back to his cock.

“Yeah. Too bad,” he mumbled as you bent over to soak your sponge once more. When you straightened up, you made sure to squeeze the thing over your chest so the water would douse your front. Daryl took the window frame in one hand and his cock in the other, leaning out just slightly to ask, “This the ‘stuff’ ye’s talkin’ ‘bout?”

“Thangs, really,” you answered dryly.

The two of you exchanged a brief smile, and Daryl’s hand started stroking his length.

Lucky for him, and unlucky for you, the size of the window wasn’t primed to make you privy to the sight of him pleasuring himself. At most, you saw a forearm moving gently back and forth. You bit your lower lip and kept your sponge moving in loops.

“Well these ‘thangs’ are gonna get ya in a whole heap of trouble with yer daddy if ya keep this up, girl,” Daryl warned, nodding toward your house with a wary look.

“It’s empty, Mr. Dixon. Whole place is mine for the weekend,” you replied with a sly intonation.

Finally, you stopped long enough to get a hand back down to your shorts. Facing Daryl still, you popped a button on your denim cut-offs and looked up at him with a glossy, innocent stare. You pretended to feel for something that wasn’t there, snagged the band of your light pink thong, and lifted it up to Daryl’s hungry gaze. You saw his bicep visibly strain as he jerked his cock even faster.

Back inside, Daryl was panting, groaning, reeling at the thought of you all alone in your house next door, splayed out across your bed in a baby pink panty set. He soaked in the sight of you and curled his toes into the floor as a new jolt of pleasure broke out through his body.

He was closer than he’d ever been. He rested his head against the window and watched you run your hands over your body, down your front, in your shorts. He imagined your fingers grazing your cunt and how wet you must’ve been then, imagining him right back and fucking him steady with your eyes.

For a moment, your eyelids fluttered, and a blissful look crossed your features. Daryl rutted his hips at the thought of you finding your clit in front of him—desperately wanting to be the source of that pleasure himself—and pumped himself even faster.

“Darlin’, I…I need ya. In such a bad fuckin’ way.” He couldn’t keep the tender term of endearment from dancing on his tongue. The sight of you alone had his brain on the fritz.

You slipped your hand out of your shorts and brought a couple honeyed fingertips to the edge of your lips.

“How bad, Mr. Dixon?” you asked, eyeing him intently.

Daryl whined and felt his insides churn with the threat of release. He knew he couldn’t hold on much longer.

“So— so bad. Need to fuck ya so bad.”

That satisfied your affirmation-hungry itch well enough. You pushed two digits between your lips and started to suck.

From that point on, you didn’t need to see him or hear him or be there waiting patiently on your knees to get a mouthful of his cum—you knew it was coming. Daryl’s face contorted with a blissful, fucked-out expression, and suddenly he was pumping that space below the window full of his load, likely spraying the whole damn thing on the wall.

You stood back and admired your work. Daryl had all but collapsed with both hands planted on the windowsill, wet, brown locks hanging low in his face as the aftershocks of his arousal washed over him.

He was panting and barely able to meet your gaze. You couldn’t quite read the expression.

At any rate, you knew your job here was done.

With a hand waving sweetly back up at him once more, you eyed the mess of a man—your father’s best friend—and started to reach for your bucket and sponge. You buttoned your shorts back up and took a step from his truck. When it seemed Daryl was just then starting to open his mouth to speak, you beat him to it and called out, cheerfully,

“See ya around, Mr. Dixon!”

[underdark-dreams]

[Poll results]

A smut piece for Rolan that became a 7k word fic. I don't know what it is about him--I just need him to be happy. 🖤 For anyone else who feels the same!

In Amber

Rolan can't remember what made him this way. Bitter, insufferable. He only knows he wants things with her to be different. A series of encounters between Rolan and the person who is teaching his black heart how to hope.

Tags: Fem Unnamed Tav, Explicit Sexual Content, Mild Hurt/Comfort | Word Count: 7,033 [Read on AO3]

The beloved hero of the Grove has saved them all from the Shadow Curse, apparently.

Word spreads fast, and it's all Rolan hears the Harpers talking about in their rush to take final leave of Last Light Inn. Nearly all had gone to Moonrise Towers with the Druid, but a small group stayed behind with Isobel in case the fight turned to the worst.

Rolan was the first one packed. With the shadows lifting, all he wants to do is travel the road to Baldur's Gate and finally reach his destiny. Leave this hollow place behind him.

At last they are finally moving in the right direction again--the three of them along with Lakrissa and Alfira, led by the Harper rangers.

He glances at Cal and Lia walking beside him. They're in the middle of chatting about the first things they want to do when they reach the lower city. Rolan can't seem to stop checking that they’re still there–as if he might look to find them gone once more.

He hasn't seen their savior since the night she brought his siblings back to him. That made twice now that she'd saved all three of their lives. Few things bristled against his nature more than owing a debt that couldn't be repaid. Rolan didn't like the feeling of being under anyone's thumb.

She wouldn't even accept a reward for saving his brother and sister's lives, just waved him away with a smile on her lips. The memory frustrated him endlessly. He couldn't understand why she took such an interest in helping him and his family. He was even beginning to consider that goodness of heart might really exist…at least when it came to hers.

Half of his mind felt tormented by her inscrutable kindness. The other half thought he'd very much like to kiss her.

Before he could brush away the alarming idea, the Harpers in front threw up a cheer. Rolan looked around to see the commotion.

She and her companions were covered in more blood than he'd seen on them yet, but they were still standing as they led their small army down the path from Moonrise Towers. 

His eyes light automatically to her face–it shines with a radiant smile, but Rolan recognizes the way her shoulders slump under her armor. He is flooded with relief. At least she's alive. 

Their groups converge on the road outside the tower. Everything is a jumble of cheers and shouts as the Harpers jostle forward to reunite with their comrades; a man he's never met claps Rolan’s shoulder hard enough to make him wince.

"Go on, then," says Lia beside him. She's following his gaze knowingly. "While you've got a chance."

He only manages to throw his sister a scowl before she trots away. Is it that obvious?

He decides to take her advice after all. She was right that this could very well be the final time their paths converged. Baldur's Gate was a large city, and whatever grand adventures their savior would face next, he doubted they would involve spending much time browsing magical emporiums.

She gave him a little wave as he approached, the kind one might give an old friend. It pricked his conscience. He'd thanked her for saving Cal and Lia, true, but his mind tossed up all the countless other times he'd been needlessly unpleasant toward her. 

"Seems we owe you thanks yet again," he said, hoping it came off sincere. 

She shook her head wryly. "I've never done any of it alone, you know that. Every one of these people fought like hells in there." 

Standing close, his nose was hit by the thick tang of blood that coated on her armor. How much of it was hers?

"You should go to see Isobel," Rolan insisted. He'd drag her straight to the cleric himself, if she'd let him.

"Do I look that bad?" She was teasing, but there was a strain to it. "As long as I make it to my bedroll in the next hour, I'll be fine. You're sweet to worry, though."

"Stop saying things like that," Rolan snapped, unable to contain himself. "You're so nice, and I'm just a bastard."

Her eyes widened at him, taken aback. "I don't think you're a bastard."

Rolan looked down at his hands. "That's what makes you so nice," he said. He had to get to the point. "Look…I know I haven't been the easiest person to get along with. I've been rude and awful, ever since the Grove, and you didn't deserve it. So." He straightened up properly. "I'm sorry for that."

It's far less eloquent than he'd rehearsed, but she seems to understand the sentiment.

"Don’t worry about it," she tells him. "You feel responsibility for the people you love. That can make anyone forget themselves for a while." 

"I suppose," is all he can manage to say. How well she seems to speak what's in his mind.

Her Githyanki companion approaches with a clear intention to speak with her, and Rolan turns away, not wanting to intrude on the company of her true friends.

"Rolan, wait–" 

The flutter in his stomach humiliates him. Will he ever get used to her saying his name?

She rummages in the pack at her waist. "Almost forgot. I found something–well, stole, but it doesn't matter now." 

A fist is held out to him, closed around something. 

Uncertain what to expect, Rolan offers his hand. Her fingers graze softly against his as they deposit something small and hard. He looks down at his palm.

"A rock," he says, deadpan.

"Not just any rock, it's a topaz."

Rolan blinks at her. "And…what am I supposed to do with this, exactly?"

"I don't know," she shrugs. "Keep it, or don't. It just made me think of you. Matches your eyes." The admission brought a flush of pink to her cheeks. 

He felt his heart skip at the sight, followed by a jolt of fear–as if she might be able to see the hope blooming inside his chest.

He turns away with a tut. "Absurd."

She gave only a satisfied laugh before taking her leave. Once she'd retreated out of sight, he tucked the gem securely into the folds of his robe.

-

Rolan has long abandoned the fantasy that he is his master's apprentice. 

Whipping boy would be a more accurate job description. Perhaps test subject. He is trapped in an impossible game that he can never win, and his highest purpose is to be the canvas where Lorroakan paints his next magical experiment. 

His mind shudders at the way the red wizard's eyes rest on him during "lessons": casually devoid of all concern or care. No matter how hard Rolan concentrates, no matter what he answers, it won't be good enough. And then the pain will follow. 

The mindless Constructs are worth far more to his master than he is. 

There was a time when someone made Rolan feel like he could deserve more, but that time is gone now. All he can hope is to learn enough, train hard enough, and one day claw his way through to something better.

Today, however, will offer the chance of a reprieve. He's been sent to deliver a message on foot across the lower city. Weeks ago he would've seen the task as an insult. Now he wonders whether it might take all morning, if he's lucky. 

If he often feels like a drowning man, these moments of escape are like a sweet gasp of air. He walks with his face tilted up to soak in the sun's warmth. 

The marks of abuse that paint his features have long stopped troubling him. An occasional passerby might stare at the bruises, but since the Absolute army's march, most Baldurians give Tieflings a wide enough berth not to notice. One wearing fine robes is no different to them.

As he passes the bridge to the Counting House, his eyes land on her figure. He stops short in surprise, earning himself a rude remark about clumsy devils from the woman behind him.

Rolan would recognize her face in any crowd. She stood on the bridge in the middle of some kind of confrontation between two women; one of them a beggar, by the state of her, the other finely dressed.

As he watches he very clearly sees her invite the rich one to "piss off", to the woman's indignation.

An affectionate chuckle escapes him. Then he winces, hand rising to the cracked skin on his lip. He tastes a drop of blood.

Swift panic grips his chest. She can't fucking see him like this, not once–more broken and pathetic than ever. Not after how many times she's already played rescuer to him. He cringes in shame at the thought.

At least she hasn't found him trapped behind his desk, there's a chance he can slip away unnoticed yet–

"Rolan?" 

He missed his moment by a hair. It's unfortunate that hearing her voice after all this time freezes him straight to the cobblestones, or he might consider dashing away like a coward.

"I thought that was you! I'd recognize those horns anywhere." 

Resigned, he turns back toward her. But he keeps his face cast down toward the pavement.

"What do you want?" He asks stiffly.

"Hello to you too," she laughs, and he stifles the impulse to watch her do so. "It's been a while. Cal and Lia, they're good?"

"Thanks to you," he concedes. No thanks to me.

"I'm glad to hear it." He watches her boots step closer, tentative. "Everything okay with you?"

She can never just leave him alone, can she. Why does she insist on caring when so many others don't bother?

"Fine, busy with my studies," Rolan deflects. "I've got to get back to the Sundries."

There's a tight pause, and then her voice grows firm. "Look at me."

He curses himself for being unable to disregard her, and for his eyes wanting to take her in despite everything. Slowly, he raises his head to meet her gaze.

Her face is somehow lovelier than he remembered. As he watches, it shatters in shock. He can see her eyes flit from mark to mark as if taking inventory.

"Who did this to you?" She whispers, aghast.

He turns away, unable to hold her gaze. "Believe me, it's nothing that can be helped."

"Rolan–" Her hand extends toward his jaw.

If the thought of her touch thrills him, the thought of being touched by her with pity is unbearable.

"I don't need your help," he spits, slapping the hand away with his own. "And I certainly don't need your damned sympathy!"

The shock and hurt on her face are the last things Rolan sees before he turns on his heel.

-

The archwizard was not pleased with his late return. That night, Rolan comes home with a large fresh bloom of purple over his left eye.

Lia's already limited patience snaps. She flies into his face with angry tears and threats that she'll march straight into Lorroakan's tower herself with shortsword in hand. Cal stands between them, pleading for peace, eyes wide and sad.

"Enough," Rolan orders them both. "Don't you see we're nothing but hellspawn refugees to these people? My position is the only thing keeping us under this roof, the only thing." 

He doesn't stop Lia as she storms out–she didn’t take her sword with her. The door rattles on its hinges as it slams behind her. He pushes wordlessly past Cal to his room, and collapses in a heap against his bed pillows.

His face aches enough that he knows sleep won’t come easy tonight. One hand reaches into the robe at his chest, and he slowly pulls out the small amber stone. His fingers turn it over and over as he closes his eyes once more to escape into imagining.

In some other world, he could've been the one powerful enough to save and protect her. Even be the person who makes her smile. 

He would not be the pathetic, broken man that he is. He could feel worthy to return her tender touches with his own, drawing her close to him instead of pushing her away. Feel her lips on his own…her hands circling his shoulders… 

Rolan rouses himself to stare down at the topaz shining in his palm. He feels his rotten heart crumple. 

He can't remember what made him this way. Bitter, insufferable. He doesn't like the man he is. He wants to be different–he wants things with her to be different. 

The stone grows warm in his fist as he clenches it. She crept deep into his heart a long, long time ago. He'll probably never get the chance to tell her, so he might as well admit it to himself.

And even if he did see her again–what chance did he have that she might feel the same? None. She single-handedly managed to improve every part of his life that she touched. What could he possibly offer her?

In this world, precious little.

-

Lorroakan of Ramazith lay dead on the ground. 

Rolan felt a numb hatred as he stood over his former master, eyes frozen wide in the final shock of death. Months from now the expression might have given him cause to laugh. Today, Rolan can only stare mutely.

One more sick megalomaniac who possessed more power than Rolan could have dreamed of wielding…brought down by his insane, insatiable lust for more. Always always more. For what? In the end, he was just another corpse.

It was she who dispatched him, of course. Why wouldn't it be? 

After all this time, it was perfectly inevitable that she and her friends would be the ones to fly in and deliver him from yet another tragic end. He felt like he was stuck on a wheel going around and around. He couldn't escape her, either in reality or in his own mind.

Rolan comes to himself and looks down at his robes. Blood splatters his front and soaks up to his elbows; a crust of frost coats his boots, from whose spell he can't remember. All at once an overwhelming tiredness soaks into his bones.

The dream of destiny that had carried him here…had it ever existed, really?

He decides to slip away while she's distracted, speaking urgently to one of her companions. Her plans probably extend far outside this room and beyond, but this is where his path reaches a bloody dead end.

He allows himself one last look at her profile before stepping quietly to the portal. He wants only a bath and the release of sleep.

His feet drag along the streets of the lower city as they carry his body home, ignoring any frightened stares at the state of his clothes. Silent as he can, he slips through the front door and down the hall to his room. Cal and Lia's voices carry from the kitchen. He'll face their questions when he wakes. 

In the end, exhaustion and relief overtake him. There will be no more lessons. He falls to bed in a heap and drifts off, still wearing his master's blood on his hands.

-

In retrospect: letting Lia discover him face-down in his bed covered in dried blood was not the smartest decision Rolan had ever made. 

After he'd groggily yelled himself hoarse enough to stop her screams, a sharp pang of conscience drove through him like ice. During the time he thought the two of them were lost to the Shadowlands, he wanted nothing more than to drink himself to an early death.

He never wanted either of them to feel that emptiness. For once, he let Lia hold him tight without protest.

With a few days' rest, and some of Cal's better efforts in the kitchen to date, Rolan's spirits had rallied sufficiently that he felt well enough to leave the house. Even to attempt a cautious return to his place of employment. 

To his surprise and distinct confusion, no one at Sorcerous Sundries had a thing to say about Lorroakan's disappearance, or about any possible employee involvement. 

If anything, the mood around the shop was noticeably lighter. He even caught Tolna humming a soft little tune to her bookshelves. “The tomes never respected him, you know,” she whispered to Rolan.

And once he got over the bizarre sight of Lorroakan's projection, hovering with a vacant smile behind his former desk, he found a perverse humor in it. Who was the fucking errand boy now?

Most of all, Rolan found himself free to finally do what he came to this place for: study magic. He had no archmage master, but he was intelligent, and he now had free access to all of the tomes in the tower library that Lorroakan had enjoyed dangling under his nose.

These days he preferred to spend his days alone in the upstairs, absorbed in theory and practice. His skills grew, and so did his confidence in himself.

If he also felt drawn to the spot because it was the last place he'd seen her…well, he was far too late on that score. He could've finally confessed the feelings that had long been bursting through his chest. 

Instead he had slunk away in silence, too scared to stand in front of her and admit how misguided he'd been all this time. She must think very little of him. She probably didn't think of him at all.

Who knew if she was even still in Baldur's Gate? He searched every face he encountered on the streets, hoping for an answer. It had become a reflex.

At the end of another day, he trudged alone across the twilight square. His hands ached from practicing the gestures for elemental conjurement over and over. One of the Steel Watchers clomped mindlessly past, looking about like Rolan felt. 

The thought of going home filled him with weariness. Cal and Lia's cheerful bickering always annoyed him, in an affectionate way. But tonight, he truly felt he might not be up to it. 

He felt sad. Lonely.

Glancing up, he found that his legs had carried him to the steps of the Elfsong. A drink…that would soothe his sorrows for an hour or two, at least.

The doors swung open to usher a wave of stimulation over his senses. Warm firelight, the smell of roasting venison, tables packed with conversation and clinking glasses. 

He was grateful that many others seemed to have had the same idea this particular night. It made it easier to slip through the crowded taproom unnoticed, catching meaningless slices of gossip and flirtatious banter on his way to the bar.

The surly bartender didn't look overjoyed to be serving a Tiefling. He took Rolan's gold without comment, however, and left him alone with his wine.

As the alcohol spread a welcome relaxation through his limbs, Rolan passed the time by idly watching the groups around him. 

A halfling sat alone with shoulders slumped, staring down his tankard as if he wished to drown in it. Across the way, a large bearded man was leaning across the table in open pursuit of his female companion. Clearly getting nowhere, from her expression. But he looked far too drunk to notice.

In front of the great hall fireplace, a pale elf sat in conversation with a pretty dark-haired young woman. 

Rolan's brow furrowed; he knew those two. His eyes quickly scanned over the room's faces until he found her.

She was removed a ways from her usual traveling companions, seated at a small table in the far corner. He watched her swirl the cup in her hand idly. Her eyes followed the liquid’s pattern, but the look behind them was leagues away.

For the first time in days, Rolan felt his heavy heart lift. She was exactly the person he wanted to be with tonight. Even if it was just sharing a drink.

This was it, he told himself. He had to speak with her or he'd regret it the rest of his life.

But first–he knocked back a very large mouthful.

His heart pounded in his ears as he drew closer to her. With each step he expected she might look up, piercing him with those eyes that visited most of his dreams. But she remained transfixed by the wine even when he drew up beside her table.

Improvising, he cleared his throat. "Hello."

She glanced up at him in pleasant surprise. "Oh!"

They stared at each other for an awkward silence. Then, somehow, he found himself laughing with her.

"Sorry, it's so strange. I was just thinking about you," she said, her face brightening.

The fact that he occupied any space in her brain would consume him later, but he shoved it aside for the moment.

"Mind if I join you?"

She patted the chair next to her. As he sat, he wondered if the spot had been a tactical choice on her part. Their table had a view of the whole room and both exits, yet the wall behind offered a sense of privacy. 

"You're not drinking with your friends tonight," Rolan observed.

"Just taking a little break. We're celebrating another family reunion," she explained, gesturing her glass toward the group around the blazing hearth. 

Rolan looked back over his shoulder. He recognized the one-eyed young man with curling horns, but not the older one whose hand was clasped on his shoulder. Quite clearly father and son to anyone with eyes.

"I'm glad for them," Rolan said. To his surprise, he found he truly meant it. The Absolute had ripped apart so many families in so many ways, including his, leaving the lower streets flooded with the hopeless and broken and displaced. He counted himself and his siblings incredibly lucky, and it heartened him to see another happy scene among so much misery.

“You know–” She eyed him curiously. "I was hoping I’d see you. You ran off before we could talk that day."

He looked down at his drink. "I know. I've regretted it since then. At the time, it was just…a lot to take in."

Her eyes narrowed, but not at him. "I hope you don't mind me saying, but that man can burn in Avernus for all I care. For what he did to you. For what he tried to do to Aylin."

Rolan recalled the runic circle in Lorroakan's library, the one whose mysterious power had at first awed and enthralled him. And then he'd seen the aasimar with the shining wings, and watched the demented hunger in Lorroakan's eyes, and the horrible realization had run through him like a sickness.

"Lorroakan was a monster," he agreed. "I just wish I'd seen it sooner. Or even found the strength to open my own eyes."

He felt a hand rest on his forearm.

"I saw what you went through to get here,” she said. “It’s natural that you thought you had to see it all through, no matter what.” 

Rolan said nothing for a while, just let her kindness soothe into his chest like a balm.

“On the bright side,” he added suddenly, “He did keep an excellent library. I’ve learned more from one of his books than I ever did from him.”

“That’s because you’re a proper talented wizard,” she laughed. “And he was an idiot.”

“A dead idiot.”

“To that,” she said with a lift of her cup, and they both drank. He noticed she used her free hand, not moving the one that laid on his arm.

When he caught her eye after, she was watching him with a smile. "You look so well, Rolan."

He knew what she meant. The last time she saw him, his face had been dappled in marks and bruises from Lorroakan's brutal instruction, with more that she couldn't see under his robes.

Now, the last mark across his cheekbone had faded almost to nothing. He hoped it would take the memories of the meaningless pain he'd endured along with it.

"Thank you," he said simply. "So do you."

He meant it; he realized now that he'd only ever seen her dressed for combat. Tonight she wore soft hide pants tucked into her hunting boots, a linen shirt half unlaced at her collarbones. It softened her. Close beside him and bathed in firelight, she set his heart racing again.

Perhaps it was her closeness or her touch that gave him the courage, or perhaps it was just the wine. He shifted his arm slightly to capture her hand in his.

"No one else has ever shown me the kindness you have. Not even Cal and Lia, though I do love them." 

She watched him speak in silence, and he gazed back at her, as if the answers to everything might be found in her face. 

"I don't understand you,” he said earnestly. “Why you've kept giving me chances. You've been so much more generous with me than I deserve. I've insulted you, yelled at you, I've been an absolute unbearable prick–"

Before he could think, she leaned in to silence him with her lips.

The kiss lasted forever and only a second all at once. Rolan closed his eyes, breathing in the faint smell of lavender on her skin.

Before he was anywhere near ready, she gently pulled away.

"Because," she murmured, "you're a good man, Rolan. And I like you." Her words, the lingering taste of her on his lips, they made his head spin. He felt like he was watching the door to a new world swing open before his eyes.

Before anything else, Rolan had to kiss her again. He released her hand to smooth the hair back from her face, watching the way she tilted into his touch, and gently guided her toward him.

It was deeper this time; he tasted the heady wine on her mouth, her breath a soft tickle against his cheek. As his fingers tangled her hair, he felt her hand wind sweetly over his shoulder, holding on to him.

A wet stripe flashed across his lips. His mouth gasped open in surprise, allowing her tongue to softly meet his, then draw slowly over his pointed teeth. 

The unexpected sensations brought his mind back to reality, and to the fact that they were in a public place. With effort, he wrenched himself out of the kiss. They breathed against each other for a moment. 

"I've got a room upstairs," she murmured. "If you want to?" Her cheeks were flushed from firelight and wine, and possibly even from him.

Whether or not he wanted to was no question: her words sent a fervent rush of blood to his groin. But first, he mustered enough control to hold her back from him for a moment. Her lips were parted in question.

"I adore you," he said. "I think I have for a long time. It's–very important to me that you know that. Before anything else." Even if the anything else was a dream that had kept him awake more nights than he could count.

Her soft hand cupped his cheek; he thought he might combust if she didn't say something. "Thank Gods," she laughed breathily. "I swore you hated me for a while there."

"I had no idea what to do with my feelings for you, I was a fucking idiot." It was all tumbling out of him now. He opened his mouth to continue, but her fingertips went to his lips.

 "Rolan–" Her voice was full of relief, and he was charmed to see the blush across her face deepen. "I feel the same way. I really, really like you."

His rotten heart could have flipped with joy. 

“Now.” She cocked her head askance, and he felt her fingers twine with his. "Make it up to me?"

Yes. Please, please, yes. He nodded in a daze, reeling like he'd sustained a blow to the head. All he could feel was the elation and anxiety swirling around and around in his stomach as he followed her toward the staircase, let her lead him by the hand like a lovesick idiot.

As they passed her companions he pointedly averted his eyes; he couldn't afford to lose any of the nerve building inside him. He'd need every bit of it in a moment.

The dark staircase seemed to ascend forever. Part of him wanted it to–he was no virgin, but the hand she held tight was shaking with anxiety. He wanted to make this perfect.

Overthinking proved pointless. The moment the heavy door closed behind them, he found himself pinned against it with a thud by the length of her body.

His involuntary groan was lost in their kiss. She was everywhere around him at once: hands pinning his shoulders back against the wood, hips grinding into his thigh with no pretense, her tongue pressing against his lips and slipping past his teeth to taste him. She moaned against his mouth, and the sound reverberated from his head to his feet.

His erection was practically instantaneous. He hooked his thumbs over her hip bones, sharp nails finding purchase in her pants, and rolled himself against the yielding softness between her legs. 

Whatever release the pressure provided multiplied it tenfold. Desire coursed through him, burning in his veins hotter than he thought possible. 

The maneuver brought an approving hum from her throat, however. Encouraged, he ground her into him again, and again, as slowly as his body could be convinced to go.

Her hands released his shoulders to rake upward through his hair, pulling his face toward her.

Pulling him deeper into the room, he realized. He stumbled slightly against something; tasting her lips was infinitely more important than breaking the kiss to look where he was going. He trusted her lead, impatient to reach whatever destination she had in mind so he could freely explore her.

Their connected bodies bumped up against the edge of something soft. She pulled away, and his immediate disappointment rapidly turned around as he felt her fingers fumbling with the clasps of his robe. He guided her hands, struggling at the same time to kick off one boot and then the other. 

As his robes pooled on the floor, her palms pressed him away for a moment.

Rolan stood frozen and panting in his trousers. She licked her kiss-swollen lips as she looked over his bare shoulders, his chest. When her eyes reached the obvious hardness straining in his pants, she let out a delicious sound.

Rolan's hands grabbed for her of their own volition. They slipped under the hem of her shirt, against the bare skin of her waist, and wrenched the garment up over her head in one motion.

To look at her directly was almost too much–he felt love and desire churning together inside of him. "Beautiful," was all he could say.

He buried his face in her shoulder instead, fang-like teeth brushing over her skin as he left a trail of kisses along the curve of her neck. She let out a gasp when his hand gently stroked her breast.

"You're so warm," she murmured into his hair. To him, she was pleasantly cool; he shivered when her fingers traced the small set of ridges that ran from his collarbone to his sternum.

But he needed more of her. He hooked both thumbs over her waistband and tugged ineffectually. She quickly took over, shucking them off with a shimmying motion.

The sight of her bare, for him, was almost enough to make Rolan come then and there. He reached out to her hips to steady himself. She was so much more divine than anything his paltry imagination could have conjured.

Through his blazing arousal, he was barely aware of the hands unlacing his pants until she tugged them down to finally let his cock spring free.

A sigh of relief escaped him. He watched her take him in, her eyes half-lidded with arousal. 

"You're incredible," she whispered. Then her arms slid around his neck, pulling him down into a kiss.

He tried to concentrate on her mouth, but the way his cock brushed and nudged against her skin every time she moved was taking over his brain.

With a motion of her hips, she captured his length between her thighs and rocked forward and back, sliding her dripping wet center over his cock. The revelation of her own state of desire sent his mind spiraling with want.

Rolan let out what could only be called a whimper. He clutched her to him, capturing her bottom lip between his teeth as firmly as he dared, as if she might suddenly disappear and leave him in an aching pile.

She made a pleased sound, then gave his shoulders a push. With his pants still around his thighs, he lost his balance–knees buckled as he fell backwards onto the mattress behind them.

He propped himself up on his elbows just in time to see her kneel on the floor in front of him. Her two hands pushed his knees apart, as far as the straining fabric would allow–

Rolan tried and failed to breathe normally, heart pounding in his ears. It felt like time was slowing to a crawl. Her eyes glanced from his face to the stiff erection between them. A droplet of moisture shone at its tip.

"Can I–?" She was asking him for permission, hands poised on his thighs, her expression heady with arousal.

"Anything," Rolan swore, and he meant it. She could do whatever the fuck she wanted to him right now. Before he could prepare himself, her mouth closed wetly around his tip. 

Truly, nothing could have readied him. He let out a gasp–his head dropped back as his hips rose involuntarily to seek more of her soft, cool mouth. 

He had scarcely adjusted before she took him in further, sliding her tongue down along his length to his very base–then slowly, achingly slowly, back up again.

He heard the rip of fabric as his nails gripped the bedding. He gathered the will to raise his head up to look.

Rolan was mesmerized by the sight of her lips wrapped around taught red skin, his length disappearing into her mouth and returning wet with saliva. She was working him over almost reverently slow, eyes closed as if tasting him.

Tasting herself on him. His cock twitched inside her mouth at the realization. She glanced up at him, releasing him from her lips with a soft, wet pop.

He could have groaned at the loss of her. Instead, he used the moment to work off his constraining pants and toss them away. Before she could reach for him again, Rolan pulled her up and onto his lap.

Her knees sank into the bed on either side as she straddled him, but she kept herself hovering well above him without contact. He pushed aside the ache between his legs to focus on more important things.

He leaned forward to press a soft kiss between her breasts, allowed his mouth to explore. She sighed with pleasure as he alternately licked and kissed across each curve, then drew sharp breath as his teeth sucked at the soft flesh under one breast. 

Her hands, at first resting on his shoulders, flew to grab two fistfuls of his hair. The sensation sent a shiver down his spine.

Rolan pulled away for a moment for admire the purple mark blooming on her breast. He glanced up as though looking for approval. She gave it, tugging his hair to tilt his face into a waiting kiss.

Ever so carefully…mindful of his fingertips, he placed the flat of his palm on the heat between her legs.

“Rolan–” she gasped, breaking away. 

The sound of his own name had never been dearer to him. He was run through with a thrill, and a fervent desire to do whatever it took to make her say it again.

  He massaged gentle circles into her, the base of his palm pressing against her clit in slow rhythm. Her wetness coated him with each stroke. She quaked under his touch, eyelashes fluttering, and his other arm circled her back to support her. He felt her lean against him without a second thought. Trusting completely.

“I can’t believe I have you,” he heard his voice say, perhaps to himself. 

As he spoke he felt the core of her tightening under his hand. Abruptly, her fingers closed around his wrist to still his ministrations. He froze, immediately afraid he had scratched her somehow. But her face shone with nothing but desire for him.

"On your back," she directed.

Rolan nearly pinched his tail under himself in his haste to obey. He swept his legs out from between hers and stretched out as she climbed over to straddle him. 

Now they were finally here, she wasted no time leaving space between them. Her hips rolled down onto him and drew the wet folds of her center across his tip. His entire length throbbed at the blessed return of her touch, the head of his cock burning against her. 

Smoothly, simply, she lowered herself onto him.

The shuddering exhale from his lips met against her moan of relief. Rolan willed himself to keep his eyes on hers, even as her inviting walls gripped him, even as he practically felt his pupils dilate with want. Her features relaxed into a state of pure, unadulterated satisfaction.

Then she started to move her hips.

She pushed her palms against his chest for leverage, riding his cock at a steady pace that felt entirely too slow. Whatever will he had to follow her lead was immediately tested; he was overcome with the need to touch her everywhere at once. 

Care forgotten, he gripped the soft flesh of her back with his fingertips. She cried out softly as his nails dragged from her shoulders to the base of her hips, but he felt her walls clench around him in response. His tail curled up and around her waist of its own volition, holding her as she took him in further with each bounce of her hips.

She gasped and fell over him, hands braced on either side. She was already losing control. He felt his own release closing in, used the new angle of her hips to thrust up into her. 

“Oh, Gods, yes–” Her mouth dropped open. She moved her hips back with each of his thrusts to take him more deeply. 

Rolan thought he might shatter apart. Waves of searing desire swept harder and harder through him. She took him so perfectly, his cock almost painfully gripped by her tightening walls, so wet and lush and sweet and for him–

A hand flew up to the back of her neck to grasp and to pull her down so he could taste her as he came. Lips crashed together frantically as the pace of their bodies started coming apart at the seams. 

In one bright concentrated moment, she shook and trembled violently into him as she grasped for whatever part of him she could reach. He managed one last stuttering thrust before his climax was ripped from him by her own, spilling inside of her clenching center, hurling him outside himself and into the wide Astral plane.

They shuddered against each others' bodies as white-hot waves receded outward farther and farther. Her head dropped to his shoulder as though she'd lost all muscle control. 

He felt her slowing breaths fan out across his chest, and he rested a hand on the back of her head to keep her there.

-

As Rolan stared up at the wood-paneled ceiling above them, something cold dripped down at the base of him. He realized he was still inside of her. He swung his free arm over the side of the bed–still woozy enough from his climax that he nearly slid head-first to the floor–and snatched up his rumpled robes to clean them both.

She rolled off him then and cuddled up on her side to watch him. He mirrored her pose, adjusting against the pillows to make a spot for his horns. One of her fingers found the point of his ear and began tracing.

“How do you feel?” She asked. 

Rolan sighed deeply. “Happy.” He could cast around for another dozen words, but he’d rather take her in. He smoothed a hand up and down along the curve of her side.

“So do I.” She leaned over to spread light kisses along his lips, then his jaw and cheek. His tail brushed against her leg in an idle caress. 

She glanced down. “I didn’t actually know about…that.”

“Am I your first Tiefling?” He teased, though the thought genuinely pleased him.

“First and last,” she replied. The words were instantly locked away in his chest. 

She gave a little shiver then, tucking her body against his warmth. He dug the covers up over themselves and wrapped her up tight with his arms and legs. The simple feeling of holding her brought him a deep sense of calm.

“I love this, Rolan.” Her lips moved against the hollow at the base of his neck. “I wish I could take tonight and carry it with me everywhere.”

Something sparked in him at her words. He opened his eyes and reluctantly released her to feel around the floor at the floor for his stained robe.

"What are you doing over there?" She lifted her head curiously to peer over the bedside. 

"Just need to find something." He rummaged through his layers of discarded clothing before finally, his knuckle grazed something hard.

He slid back up under the covers beside her. She propped herself up against him, resting a palm on his chest with an expectant look.

He held out his thumb and index finger. Between them, an amber stone glinted in the dim light.

Her mouth fell open in recognition. For one second, he was afraid she might cry.

Then she buried her head in the crook of his neck, wrapping both arms tight around him. "I knew you were a darling all along." 

[honeyed-latte]

Thinking about a Hiccup that ran away with Toothless after the episode in DoB where Berk thought the Gods were angry at Toothless.

After his electrocution did nothing to prove to the others that it was the metal, Hiccup instructed Stoick to remove the posts- and ran. If Toothless wasn't welcome, then neither was Hiccup, which suits him just fine.

Hiccup spends all his time rescuing Dragons, hoping from island to island to help, and he forms a sanctuary of his own in a way. He and Toothless head it as a two-man defacto Queen.

The island that would have been Dragons Edge becomes Hiccups Sanctuary, this brings his warpath to The Hunters front door and after skirmish after skirmish, hunt after hunt, auction after auction is upended and the dragons all freed. Money and men being lost by the handfuls, Viggos attention is most thoroughly snagged by who his men are calling "The Black Blight".

He doesn't believe them at first, who would? A man in all black on the back of a Night Fury pushing back all their operations away from the east, getting all too close to their bigger centers for Viggos comfort.

He comes face to face with this Blight not long after he confirms the mans existence, he knew where he'd hit next and patiently waited for the mystery man to rear his head and eureka, there he was, right on schedule.

It's surprisingly less violent then Viggo anticipated for a warrior his men had taken to calling such a... resonating moniker, but it was fitting that his guest is so sure of himself.

Hes a tall, slender thing doused in blackened sturdy armour, the kind of creature that moved with confidence and calm assurance even surrounded by Viggos Hunters. He was impressed by the candor and the mind that lurked beyond the empty, inscrutable eyes of the sleek helm, but they have mush to discuss if this was going to end in a way that favoured them both.

Viggo isn't surprised when the Dragon Master agree's to talk things over as opposed to battling it out, neither of them are unreasonable after all, but he is surprised when he takes off that intimidating (and beautifully crafted) helm and the man under it...is hardly a man at all.

A boy, rather, a feral and beautiful boy with eyes as quick and green as his Night Fury's.

Once they're properly introduced, they talk.

And talk.

And talk.

And drink.

And talk...

Until they find common ground, until they find agreement; Viggo will learn how to more reliably supply his economy with trade, non-lethally and without the selling of dragons while letting the dragons he currently housed free, and in return Hiccup will help Viggo expand his reach to make up for the gap in his gold and stop attacking all Hunter ships.

The sun is high up when they sign their names to the document outlining the agreement, its a thing that makes the feral scoff, what good is the name of an Exiled viking really, but who cares if it makes Viggo stop hurting dragons.

They work together, closely together, to make sure neither of them goes back on their word. True to form, Hiccup teaches Viggo how to appeal to a dragons gentler nature, and Viggo opens up Trade in the east- scaled armour, recycled metal and scrap from traps, Gronkle Iron, weaponry.

They help eachother scout new dragons, forge new inventions to trap and release them. They end up being a Team more often then not as the Hunters undo their years of harm, and Hiccup undoes years of loneliness (in Viggo and himself.)

Slowly, Hiccup and Viggo enter a more romantic relationship as well, they're a perfect match and together they build a stronger empire. Hiccup is free to come and go as he pleases, he saves even more dragons with Viggo as his partner, and having Hiccup around further soothes Viggo's people- he's a kind man after all, helpful. Even if Ryker loathes him, even if Viggo is at risk of assassination at the hands of old allies, even if Hiccup see's Berk less and less. Its all worth it, because they have eachother and they're making the world safer for dragons.

[yuurei20]

Malleus Facts Part 15: Malleus and Cater (pt1)

Cater is one of several characters on the main cast who shows no fear of Malleus, treating him like a normal student the majority of the time.

He teaches Malleus about toasting for small celebrations during Firelit Sky, saying he is proud of him when Malleus proposes a toast on his own.

There is an ongoing theme of Cater trying to get a picture of Malleus for his Magicam account (fore which he also pursues Vil and Epel, with all three characters consistently turning him down).

Cater spends an entire vignette trying to take a photo of Malleus.

Malleus seems willing, at first, but then Cater comments about his “hard to approach,” “otherworldly” and “terrifying” vibe, which sours Malleus’ mood.Malleus gives Cater permission to photograph him only to intentionally move too quickly for Cater to get a proper shot, saying, “Perhaps because I am an otherworldly ‘mystery boi’ whose thoughts are inscrutable and hence terrifying, I do not show up in picture at all?”

Cater calls Malleus out for holding a grudge (“Why would I be upset over that? Go on and take as many photographs as you like. If you can, that is.”), saying he will beat the odds and get a perfect shot of him.

Riddle references this interaction in Malleus’ second birthday interview.

Cater goes to Malleus’ rescue during Beanfest, advising him to avoid the opposing team, but Malleus says he “was enjoying a rare bit of excitement.”

Cater attempts to “snap a pic for good luck,” but Malleus leaves before he can.Grim tells Cater he should have invited Malleus to join their group but Cater explains, “there would have been too many cons” with how he stands out and attracts enemies.

Malleus says that Cater showed him how to take photos during the Firelit Sky event.

[wild0moon]

eating up ur captain design............ /pos

can i ask how pico and captain met in your au (i think its an au anyway)?

very canon adjacent, but it's an au, yeah. my friend and i's funky little universe just to the left of canon where we take things too seriously, you feel me

short version: they happened to meet at a cop shop while pico was waiting for (yet another) police interrogation, weeks to a month after the events of pico's school. john took an interest in pico and offered, mostly as a joke, to teach pico how to handle a gun properly. what was supposed to be a one-off lesson for a quick bit of entertainment turned into regular practice sessions and accidental (but immediate) emotional attachment from both parties. whoops!

and if you'll indulge me, here's the long version, because it's been brewing in my brain recently and i guess my hand slipped

(WARNING: descriptions of and vague flashbacks to the events of pico's school)

💚💚💚💚💚

The police station was usually quiet at this time of day. Idle tapping of fingers against a keyboard, muffled sounds of cars passing outside or of people talking in another room, none obtrusive enough to disturb the thoughts swirling in his head.

Now though, he was entirely preoccupied by annoyance.

Shut up. Why are you so loud? If you don't like pigs, why did you even come in here?

Pico had seen the strange man in black from the corner of his eye, swaggering in like he owned the place, only to start chatting to the receptionist with all the warm familiarity of two former classmates who never really liked each other very much. Derisive whispers in Pico's head grew louder in concert with his rising stress, adding to the noise, birthing a cacophony he couldn't escape from.

The man went quiet, and for a brief moment, Pico was sure he felt eyes on him. His own gaze stayed firmly on his sneakers.

The receptionist finally piped up with something other than a disinterested hum. "That's, uh, that Pico kid. Pico Fulp?"

"Ohh, so you're the kid who shot up his school."

Pico's head snapped up.

In an instant, his vision was dyed red, blood running so hot it threatened to burn him up from the inside. He didn't know when he got to his feet, but he was already taking steps toward the man.

"It wasn't me!" he snarled, words bubbling up and bursting out before he could stop them. "It wasn't! Watch your fucking mouth or I'll break your jaw, you stupid—"

"I got it, kid, calm down," the man talked him down, in a far more stern tone than Pico had been ready for, stopping him in his tracks. Matter-of-factly, he added: "I don't care how tough you are, you've got another thing coming if you think you can break any bone in my body."

Pico grit his teeth, fists clenched at his sides.

The white-hot fire of rage burnt out almost as quickly as it ignited, his little body only growing colder as he actually looked at the man standing before him, red giving way to black and white.

Tall and broad-shouldered, wearing sunglasses so dark it was almost impossible to see the inscrutable eyes behind them. He was uniformed — the army, not the police. Which rank was the three stripes for? Was the 'Captain' on the tag his rank, or his name?

Pico dared to speak up again. "It wasn't me," he repeated, far softer than before.

Captain turned bodily to face him. "I heard you the first time. So, what did you actually do?"

He looked away again, wringing his freshly scarred hands. "I... I stopped it, sir. I killed the shooters."

The slight movement of Captain's eyebrows snared the corner of Pico's vision. "Really now?"

"I... I found a big gun in the janitor's closet, they must've stashed it in there," the words spilled forth, as if he were back in that vile interrogation room already. "So I took it, and I shot them. All of them. There were four, a-and I didn't even know what I was doing, I was scared out of my mind, I'd never held a gun before in my life, I don't know how I—"

"You've never used a gun, but you still managed to take down four armed threats all by yourself?" There was a note of interest in Captain's voice, despite him crossing his arms.

Pico swallowed thickly.

"Please leave me alone!"

"I was told to just scare you! I wasn't gonna kill you!"

"...Two of them weren't moving, sir. I'd disarmed them, and they were afraid..."

Captain hummed. "Right. And the other two?"

No answer. Memories of callous men in blue giving him withering looks or laughing in his face when he told the truth kept his jaw clamped shut.

Captain lifted his head, looking around the otherwise empty room. "Where are your parents?"

A half-hearted shrug. "They don't want anything to do with me right now, sir."

They never did in the first place.

The soldier's thick eyebrows furrowed, but for the life of him, Pico wasn't sure what it meant. The man was as easy to read as a book with all its pages glued together. That, or he was just illiterate.

"I probably only lived because we were all just kids who barely knew what we were doing," Pico found himself saying, as if he hadn't also slaughtered a giant alien that day — Cassandra had been young and inexperienced in her own way, too. "If something like that happened again, I… I dunno."

Captain said nothing, just staring down at him, seeming thoughtful.

Silence fell over the room for a long moment, disturbed faintly by the nasty voices Pico had learned only he could hear. When the man's voice broke through the murmurs again, it hardly sounded any kinder.

"Look, if I were you, I'd stop pissing myself and go get some actual experience under my belt."

"But—"

He wasn't done. "You know where the gun range is, right? The one five minutes north of here? Meet me there at thirteen-hundred tomorrow. Even a minute late and the offer expires, got it?"

…What?

Pico lifted his gaze to meet Captain's, incredulous. "You mean... But, why would you help me?"

It was Captain's turn to offer a lazy shrug. "I'm bored outta my skull, and this is the most entertainment I've gotten in months."

He said that, but he didn't look very amused. Besides, a soldier like him surely didn't have time to waste on such petty entertainment as watching a child grappling with fear. Pico tried scrutinizing the man's face for a moment longer, unsure what he was even searching for, but quickly found himself at a loss.

The easy answer was that it was a genuine offer to help, to teach him how to properly handle a firearm and put that aspect of his trepidation to rest. Pico wasn't sure if he believed that, but for some reason, he really hoped it was true. That would mean that Captain saw something in him, something more than the unfortunate kid and murderer that the other adults saw, something worth taking a chance on.

Nice. This man, a total stranger, was being nice.

When was the last time anyone said something nice to him?

(Weeks ago, in a sterile hospital room, two hands gently clasping one of his own, their owner smiling in spite of the anxiety behind those pretty black eyes, the sweetest voice Pico had ever heard telling him over and over how everything was going to be okay—)

Pico shook his head, as if he could physically clear the memory away.

He's gone now. Stop thinking about him.

By the time Pico dragged himself back to the present, Captain was already on the way out, muttering something about the stench of hogs. Pico watched him walk away, until he disappeared from view.

"Prick," the receptionist muttered, returning their attention to their computer.

With little else to do, Pico returned to his seat. His own thoughts quickly took center stage as usual, but they were different now, looking tentatively to the future, rather than the bloody memories that tugged insistently at his back.

It had been a while since he had something to look forward to.

[riggedbones]

making a dashboard simulator post from my octopus world that is so inscrutable .

2 notes

🐕 themodernwisdom

stop fucking telling me it’s problematic to have “humans dni” on my carrd none of you understand how traumatizing a symbiosis breakup can be.

👨‍💻 typical-hue-man follow

traumatizing for who 🤨 lmao you weren’t even the one dependent on them for survival

🐕 themodernwisdom

do you not know what dni means.

#blocked. #youd think after all these millennia they’d evolve some reading comprehension

52 notes

⚡️ psychiclesbian

like i don’t esp like how often were asked about our sex life but like yea i mean they’re right. tentacles 👍👍

#minors dni #like if they rly want to know just find an octopus whos dtf not that hard #i mean. okay maybe a bit hard. but idk they’re online sometimes?

3 notes

🎛 oldstructuremusings

just got the most insane piece of fanmail what the fuck. why is this child learning local human language from my radio show. in the middle of the fucking ocean. apparently they can’t pick anything else up that isn’t the occasional raven station but like i feel like i have some sort of responsibility to not teach this kid how to say fuck every five seconds.

#text #its probably too late tbh #if the kid is seeing this. get off of tumblr

12 notes

🦋 lonesomedreamer 🔁 why-no-pigeon-emoji follow

🐦 why-no-pigeon-emoji follow

does anyone know how human symbiosis works i saved this guys life right after his cat friend died and i think he is getting attached. or something.

🚧 mazemaster follow

ur not a dog or cat ur fine.

🦋 lonesomedreamer

it’s a common misconception, but humans can actually form symbiotic bonds with any sapient creature, actually! the relationship mostly helps with their social and mental requirements, and if there are enough humans in an area to form a community, they’re actually not at all reliant on forming interspecies symbiotic relationships! doesn’t really happen where i’m from though, i think last i heard there are maybe 6 humans in the area max 😅

🐦 why-no-pigeon-emoji follow

everyone stfu he made us matching outfits im gonna cry

#omg this is so cute 🥺 #i'm glad things worked out

5,923 notes

🌿 grasstoucher 🔁 toogenericusername follow

🐚 molluskfan12 follow

currently keeping some smaller snails atm after you-know-what >_> their shells are a more fragile but the meat is better imo. hope it'll work out still!!

🪶 aviandinosaurs follow

cottagecore bloggers off the shits lmao what is this

🐚 molluskfan12 follow

what the fuck is a cottagecore

10,239 notes

⚡️ psychiclesbian 🔁 undereclipse follow

🗼 prehistoric-structures follow

i'm curious!!!

🌅 sundownscare follow

op i appreciate the button for humans in theory but are you under the impression that we don't show up in our own creation myths???

🕸️ veryseriousmonkey follow

maybe they just want to know about other species, like humans appearing in their own myths is p much a given lol

🗼 prehistoric-structures follow

oh yeah thats... totally why that's there

#they forgor 💀

42,143 notes

🌿 grasstoucher

do you think they had discourse like this pre climate disaster like it was just humans at that point how bad could it rly be

[foone]

Not exactly goncharov but a funny prank to play on Tumblr as a whole would be to make up an acronym by just throwing some letters together and have a bunch of coordinated people post about it like it's new show. Each post would refer to some names others have posted, and maybe add some new ones. Like:

"omg, the whole thing with Linda & Claire in the last episode! I didn't think they were gonna do it, but that'll teach me to not believe in the show makers! #KLFD"

It'd be funny because half the time that's exactly what fandom posts on this site already look like.

(The other half of the time it's exactly the same except you don't tag the inscrutable acronym)

[midnightsun-if]

the last scenario ask... really ruthless, but all it made is make me even more obsessed with the ros fr fr.

thinking about other classic asks, what about the ros' reactions if when they're on the verge of kissing mc, mc stopped them, blushes hard and tells them 'wait! i don't know how to kiss, i might be bad at it...'

Koda: He tilts his head, a gentle smile upturning his lips. “Why would that matter?” Strong arms flex around your body, tugging you impossibly closer. You could tell that he was confused— whether it be by what you had said or the fact that you felt like he cared about something that didn’t even seem to have crossed his mind— but the continuous support he always offered, overt or not, fills you with the warmth of a thousand suns. “You don’t have to worry about that. I’m sure you’ll be absolutely perfect.” His smile grows into a grin. “Just do what feels right and go from there.”

Scarlett: Emerald green eyes assess you with an inscrutable gaze, crimson painted lips allowing the ghost of a smirk to flicker across before it settles into something soft— no, not soft, as you take notice to the faint touches of darkness that lies just out of reach within the viridescent expanse of her eyes. Adoring. Adoring would be the better word. “Is that what you’re worried about, my heart?” Scarlett inclines her head, threading slender fingers through the locks of hair nearest to the base of your skull, the slightest of pressure maneuvering you in the direction that she wished. Pressing her body closer, allowing you to feel every elegant dip and curve, Scarlett’s lips ghost over yours, just out of reach; the earlier darkness returns, changing enchanting emerald to alluring jade. “I guess I’ll just have to teach you then.”

Cyrus/Cyra: Multicolored eyes, predominantly a shimmering gold at the moment, soften completely at your words. Their hand, that had previously been placed on your waist, rises to gently cup your cheek. “Don’t overthink anything, my flame.” They tap your cheek, a supportive smile on their lips. “Isn’t that what you always tell me? Don’t let your mind take over a matter of the heart. Let yourself be in the moment, with me, and we’ll worry about everything else as we always do.” They step impossibly closer, welcoming warmth encapsulating you completely, their forehead presses against yours, hand still steadily on your cheek, keeping you centered. “Together.”

Quinn: Their wolf almost shrieks at the insinuation that you could be anything less than exactly what they need— something that Quinn wholeheartedly agrees with. “That’s okay, sweetheart,” they murmur, offering you a gentle smile. “I don’t think you’ll be bad. Inexperience is just that inexperience, nothing else.” They pull you closer by your still connected hands, fondness tinged across their warm expression. “Though, and this is something I’ve always believed, practice does make perfect.” Quinn leans forward, their nose gently nuzzling your own. “Want to give it a try?”

Caden: “Oh?” Their brow furrows for a moment, confusion evident, and you can see the exact moment your words seemed to click in their head. Silver eyes widen, a red hue takes over their cheeks, and they cough out their next words. “Oh!” Caden rubs the back of their neck, an almost amused smile beginning to take over their shocked one. “I-I wasn’t expecting that, I admit.” Their shoulders hunch, suddenly shy, but they never move away from you, as if they were caught in your orbit. “I’m sorry if my reaction seemed off putting, I just couldn’t imagine someone being next to you, getting to know you, the real you, and not wanting to kiss you.” An argent gaze meets yours with a reverent fondness. “Would you give me that honor now?”

Sloane: Their hands, that had been firmly on your hips, slacken completely as your words register in their lust-addled brain. “Ah, shit!” They mutter, dropping their head to your shoulder, strands of messily tousled hair obscuring your view of their face. You don’t feel like panicking, although the thought did cross your mind, as their thumb gently runs across your hipbone in soothing circles— a gentle reminder that they were still there, still with you, they were just processing something that they needed a moment to get through. With one final huff, Sloane straightens, hazel eyes observing you with exasperated fondness. “I don’t think I deserve to be your first kiss, but I’m a selfish bastard—” They step closer, somehow in the already enclosed space, their breath whispering across your lips. “I don’t want anyone else to have it either. Will you let me?”

Blake: “I know that, angel.” Sliding their hands into your hair, Blake presses flush against your body. Violet eyes observing every minute expression that flickers across your face, keenly aware of what they all mean and how to react accordingly. “It makes this moment all the sweeter, don’t you think? It’ll be your first kiss and, in a way, it’ll be mine too.” A beaming smile curls their lips upward, no doubt in response to your own dubious expression in response to their words, but they don’t seem to take offense to it in the slightest. Instead, Blake huffs out another laugh and tugs your head closer to theirs, forehead to forehead. “I’ve kissed a lot of people, I know you’re aware of that, but I’ve never kissed anyone I’ve truly cared about. Not until now.”

Reginald/Regina: “Really?” Their eyes widen in surprise, clearly in shock, but it wasn’t an expression that caused you to bristle— as they did seem genuine in their amazement; like they couldn’t believe someone could ever resist your pull— but an apologetic look quickly follows regardless. “I didn’t mean it like that.” They rub the back of their neck, a rueful smile tugging at their lips. “I-I guess I’m just surprised that I have a bit more knowledge than you in something.” They tilt their head. “Granted it’s not a lot more, but it’s something.” Blue green eyes turn down to your still interlaced hands, shyness prominent by the growing redness across their cheeks. “Would you like me to share it?” They peer up at you through their lashes. “My knowledge I mean.”

[salteytakesonmanga]

This scene shows the way “inherited will” is not just doing the same thing as the one you inherited the will from, but understanding the true meaning of what you accept.

Instead of devoting his life to mimicking Hiriluk in creating a single panacea, Chopper said he would become the panacea himself. Because Hiriluk saved Chopper’s life and gave him direction and hope, if Chopper can accomplish this dream it will still be like Hiriluk created a panacea.

Kureha’s inscrutable expression here is interesting. It’s hard to tell exactly what she thinks of Chopper’s declaration. Was she moved by Hiriluk’s death, or is it Chopper’s reaction? Is she doing this because she believes in Chopper’s abilities, or because she’s worried what he’ll do if she leaves him alone, or because she wants to refute something about Hiriluk’s crackpot ideas?

Dishonorable mention again for erasing Kureha’s nickname, Doctorine. I’d forgotten that she took this name when she agreed to teach Chopper. It wasn’t one that appeared in the flashback before now, and it wasn’t something Hiriluk called her. It’s never clarified whether it carries some special meaning for her, if it’s something she uses only with Chopper or it’s a name from her past. By having her make Chopper call her by her title it makes her seem colder and stricter, when maybe it was supposed to show that she was softening towards him.