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syoddeye · 2 months

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the dinner

ceo!price x reader / ~4.4k words

Parts 1, 2, 3, 4 Very special thank you to @sleepyeugene @greatstormcat and @mortuarywriting for beta-ing ♥️ Tagging: @sweetspicynoodles

CW: alcohol, oral sex

Straw. Actual straw. Collected, cut, snipped, and arranged by careful hands to ring a porcelain plate to resemble a bird's nest. A piece pokes the chicken egg in the center, and a thin drizzle of black truffle sluices from the puncture and soaks into the dry, flat bed of mushrooms.

You would do unspeakable things for a lamb samosa.

The drinks are delicious, though the service, along with everything else, proves an adjustment. Two sips into a kir, savoring, the waiter clears the glasses, moving you into the second dish without a word. Each course you pick through transitions the same: with a person clad in a fancy little vest ferrying away three-quarter full glasses and disassembled plates you ruined in search of flavor.

Baffling. Pompous. Wasteful.

Your work anniversary dinner. Your date with John Price.

Across the table, he dines in his own world. He methodically pierces the egg on his nest-plate-thing, peppery black truffle oozing more neatly than your own onto the mushrooms. He prepares a bite, and you trail it to his mouth. His eyes close briefly, and your lip twitches.

Holding back a sigh, you mirror him as you have the whole dinner, a plebeian to his patrician.

The conversation lulled when a former business associate of John's, wife in tow, briefly stopped at the table. You don't remember either of their names, only that their intrusion was the killing blow. Although introduced, the conversation remained limited to the three. By the time they departed for their table, the plates had changed.

John did not help the silence, seemingly content with it. While generous in material ways, the Moynat proof of that, he was stingy when it came to speaking about himself. He masterfully keeps the focus on you, with a special interest in your time at The 141 Group.

But as you reluctantly dominated the earlier conversation, you were not keen to restart it. You let the quiet continue to hold you hostage.

The server takes the remains of the cheese course, the most palatable and normal by far, and he finally speaks.

"Not a fan of French food?"

Your eyes flick up from the napkin in your lap. Unfazed, the server arranges another clean set of flatware. John's elbows rest on the table, poor etiquette for a man of his station, leaning forward until his breath makes the candle flame flicker. He doesn't move to make the server's job easier, forcing them to work around him.

You glance to the waiter, mildly comforted they seem unperturbed, then return to John's question. "I don't mind it."

"You hardly ate."

"I don't think my palate is refined enough for this," You carefully explain. This is a free dinner. This is the head of your company. You're neither impolite nor stupid to accidentally insult the man's taste.

"I doubt your tongue's the problem," He smirks, then lowers an arm to the table and extends a hand, palm up, expectant. Grins when you take it, thumb dragging over the skin. "I'll let you pick dessert."

The profiterole is an olive branch. A delicious one, vanilla cream and chocolate exploding over your taste buds, erasing the earthiness and grit of the earlier courses. Fingers pinching the dessert's accompanying demitasse, you find John studying you. His choux untouched.

"Not a fan of sweets?" You ask, echoing him.

"Not particularly," He pushes the saucer around the candlestick.

You take the pastry. With so much food wasted already, it'd be a shame to let the taste of paradise slip past.

The server never returns to the table. The meal ends when John informs you the car is waiting out front, and he herds you to the coat check with his hand on the small of your back. He helps you into your wool coat, murmuring, "Pity it's cold out."

You know what he means. It took hours and a FaceTime call with Jordan to pick a dress. Your friend wasn't so much of a consultant as she was a soundboard, reassuring you looked good over and over again.

"He said he liked the green," you explained.

"Told you, big sexy pine tree," Jordan teased, voice crackling through the phone speaker.

You wore the dark emerald dress to a wedding years ago with good results. It's formal enough the maître d' didn't stop you at the door, yet simple enough in its construction that you don't feel like a peacock or a tryhard. The silky material clung comfortably to your frame but wasn't too snug and fell to your mid-calf. The slit that cut a generous distance to your thigh invited John's eyes when you slid into the car upon pick-up, followed by his hand. The dress dipped beneath your scapulae in the back, the scoop neckline traveled straight across your cleavage, and the thin straps exposed your shoulders. You feel sexy, and you know you look it, too.

The coat's lining is cool on your skin, contrasting with the heat of John's breath on the back of your neck. Your things back in your possession, he steers you to the exit.

John pulls Alex aside when you duck into the car, and the bodyguard glances over his employer's shoulder. His attention returns within the second, but a smile forms under his neatly trimmed mustache.

With that furtive look, it occurs to you you don't know what's next on the agenda. Given the lack of edible food and stilted conversation, you'd prefer to head home and tuck into the samosas you've dreamt of all evening. Bid adieu to this alternate universe where you kind of date CEOs and own expensive purses. Yet, from your limited experience with John, leaving the man's company is easier said than done.

It's as if he reads your mind.

"Night's young. Thought we might have a drink, if I haven't completely mucked this up."

You frown. "You haven't," It's unfair he gets to self-deprecate, and your immediate inclination is to comfort and dissuade him. Knowing the man could buy your building with pocket change grates against the simmering frustration in your chest. You want to go home and ditch the date, as you have others, but instead, you are agreeable. "I could use a drink."

If he registers a hint of your inner turmoil, he does not show it. The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile. "Good. Somewhere we need to stop first."

He looks out the window and settles a hand above your knee again. You should break the habit, even if his palm is warm and the gesture scratches an itch you don't want to acknowledge.

You observe him in the periphery. Since this situation began in the copier room, you look up John Price online every few days. He's constantly in the news, whether by mention or for a quote. Each story uses one of three photos, all from the same batch of headshots. Interestingly, he seems to avoid video interviews, though there are three or four soundbites where he's been invited to chime in by a network.

His Wikipedia page contains more information on The 141 Group than his personal life. The section itself is a measly three sentences covering his birthplace, heritage, and when he founded the company. And although you knew it was a long shot, you searched high and low across every social media platform you could think of, reactivated your Facebook, and everything. Nothing. His control over his public image seems as ironclad as his control over the company. You count yourself lucky his command extends only to work. If you wanted to exit the car at the next traffic light, you're sure he'd let you out and wish you a good night.

An idle flex of his fingers on your leg, as if he really is a mind reader, extinguishes the thought.

Neon light punctures the tinted windows of the car. Your head swivels, and you scrunch your nose in recognition. John's brought you to a popular row of nightclubs, and fuzzy memories surge to the forefront of your mind. The taste of cheap tequila on your tongue and playing drunken therapy in crowded bathrooms. It's beyond you why John needs to stop here, but you're not opening that can of worms.

John reaches for the door handle, and your arm shoots out without thinking, curling over his forearm.

"John, wait."

He stops immediately. "Something wrong?"

"Can I stay in the car?" You ask, eyes moving past his furrowed brow to the few clubgoers outside. "I'd prefer to stay here."

John's face slackens, and then he turns away, his shoulders heaving with a short laugh. He shakes his head and pats your thigh. "Alright, but I'll need your order."

Confusion finds its home on your face this time until John gestures with a thumb over his shoulder out the car's rear window. A bright red food truck sits behind the private car, warm light spilling onto the sidewalk. You watch a woman claim a paper tray cradling a doner kebab. The sight sinks claws into your belly.

The want must be plain on your face as John chuckles and cracks the car door open.

"C'mon. Two tiny pastries is a poor meal. I cannot, in good conscience, take you for a drink on an empty stomach."

When you order, and he reaches for his billfold, you quickly tap your phone to the register. Thanking the truck owner, you delight in the cross expression on John's face.

"You covered dinner, I assume, unless you've made an accomplice of me," You joke as you step to the side of the line with the man, your souring mood remedied with the promise of Turkish food.

John's eyes pinch as if trying to sort you out, and then his face drops into a feigned solemnity. "'Fraid so. We'll never be able to return."

"I'm gutted."

"I can tell."

The two of you stand out of the way of the groups loitering outside of the clubs. Alex hovers nearby.

You watch the short lines with a mixture of admiration and worry. It wasn't too long ago you were one of the giggling young women forgoing proper attire to stand in lines to dance and drink. Arms linked with friends, buzzing from the pre-drink, and making eyes at whoever caught your fancy. It's surreal to be back here with John, of all people. He'd look like an ordinary man if he wasn't in a bespoke suit.

A booming voice calls your number, and you retrieve the food. His serving is massive, tricky to transfer.

"I'm starvin'," He mutters, tucking in like a dog gets after a bone.

You, no better, are two big bites into your kebab. You swallow, shielding your mouth with a palm. "I thought you liked dinner. Our first dinner."

John considers you a moment, cheek bulging slightly with a bite. Before he takes another, he smiles sheepishly. "I hate that restaurant."

The admission poleaxes, and you nearly drop the kebab back into its flimsy tray. "But…I saw you absolutely relish that egg dish. With the truffle?"

"I was keeping the sea urchin down."

"That's what that was?" Your stomach twists, suddenly persnickety, recalling the slimy, coral-pink dish preceding the egg and mushrooms. It tasted salty, but you assumed it was another type of shellfish. Mildly scandalized, a bite finds its way to your mouth, but you pause, shy of the target. "If you hate the place, why did you take me there?"

"Thought you might like it."

You snort, wiping the corner of your lips with a disposable napkin. "Well, I didn't," Despite the lightheartedness, a sliver of asperity threads through your tone, and you swipe your tongue over your teeth. "You didn't ask what I like to eat, or where I might want to go for my anniversary date."

"So this is a date."

You glare, thinking how fast Alex might react to you taking a plastic fork to your employer, shelve the twinge in your chest and settle for pointing the prongs accusingly. "You have some nerve, Mr. Price. Taking a young woman, an employee, to dinner without consulting them."

The glint in his eye sharpens in the kaleidoscopic light. "You didn't complain earlier. You didn't ask."

You rapidly lose patience. "Should I ask next time?"

His mouth curls beneath his beard. "Next time?"

That’s it. You pitch the scraps of your food, dab your mouth again, and head for the car. With a huff, you bypass a hesitating Alex and wrench the car door open, your face flaming with embarrassment and irritation. Head of the company or not, he's an ass, deliberately riling you up. When you turn around, mapping the route home in your head, John's broad form cages you between the open door and the car. A quick glance at the American, and Alex turns away, forcing you to focus on the man before you.

"John." You state simply, hoping his name's magic enough a word to compel him to step aside.

"Didn't mean any harm, doll," He rasps lowly, a hair above a whisper. "Thought the place would impress you. I should've asked, I know, but I've made up for it, haven't I?" This close, his eyes appear darker, overcast with how he's backlit.

Lump in your throat, you exhale through your nose and lick your lip, tasting paprika. "I don't appreciate being teased."

John hums. "No?" His eyes switch between yours before giving a nod of understanding. "Noted. Then I'll be direct. I'd like to take you back to mine for a drink, so we can have some privacy," His hand lifts, palm cupping your face, thumb sweeping a cheek. "Get to know each other. Talk."

Talk. Uh-huh.

It's another precipice that every bit of reason in your bones tells you to step back from. Abort, abandon ship – this man is your boss's boss. No, higher than that. A man whose net worth is a question mark in every record you find. A fragmented exasperation comes out in a sigh, more surrender than defeat. As you mused earlier, leaving the man's company is easier said than done.

It's terribly stereotypical – the sleek high rise, the terse doorman, the private lift, all down to the echo of your heels clicking on dark parquet floors leading to his door, the penthouse, naturally.

However, John's home is warmer than you thought it would be for the owner of a company. A mixture of contemporary artwork hangs throughout the foyer, living, and dining area. Designer fixtures and hardware, clean lines melding with traditional pieces, and a color palette trending darker yet somehow rustic. Despite the company's technological bent, you have yet to spot a single smart home device. Whoever he paid to design and furnish his place, you figure they made out like a bandit.

Eyes cast out of floor-to-ceiling windows, you hold a glass of a Grand Cru, a Bordeaux whose name you immediately forget when you clap eyes on the year. The taste of dark cherry and smoke feels like silk and velvet on your tongue, and you savor it. The view's not too bad, either.

"Like it?"

"It'll do."

It's maddening. Going from barely looking the man in the eye in the line for a themed cocktail at a company party to standing in his home, drinking his expensive wine after he's paid for dinner and the purse currently on his dining table. As you take in the skyline, you hold on to that thought. The umpteenth time, you ask yourself, what the shit are you doing here? This is bad. There is no rationalization. The facts are laid bare in your mind: You are younger than him, not indecently so, but enough that your parents and friends would raise a brow. You are his employee and well on the way to breaking half a dozen more rules. You are an average person with bills and debt and stand to benefit from his generosity. You see it coming, the belated realization that hits like a pile of bricks.

The words slip out. Part declaration, part self-reassurance, wholly unformed. "I'm not going to be your…sugar baby, or whatever." You take a swig, fighting a wave of embarrassment.

In the window's reflection, John rocks on his heels. "I didn't think you were. I don't want you to be."

You turn, meeting his gaze when he mirrors you, squinting at the amusement written clearly on his face. "Then why the drinks? The dinner? The purse?"

"You deserve to be rewarded."

"No, no," You insist, shaking your head and lifting a finger. "You don't do this for other employees."

"Who says I haven't?"

"Have you?"

"'Course not."

You snort into the glass and drink deep. "You're impossible. How do you run a company with that attitude?"

John grins wryly in his own glass and ignores the jab. "Mm. Is this you askin' what we're doing here?"

Usually, eye contact is easy. Now, it's a challenge. "I suppose so, yes."

"We're two people enjoying each other's company," John's eyes drag down you shamelessly, ending back on your face with a polite smile as if he didn't blatantly ogle you. "One of whom happens to be in a position to give presents, and possesses the inclination."

It's an intentionally obtuse answer. "You know what that sounds like."

"It bothers you that much? To leave things as they are?"

"'As they are'," You repeat, then venture, "Casual, then?"

John faces you completely, looming. "I prefer to call it friendly."

Your chin lifts. "And you know what human resources would call it?"

"I might have some sway there."

"You'd abuse your power for me?" You scoff.

"I'd do worse, if you asked, sweetheart."

There’s a pause, an opening, and to your surprising delight, John takes it. He leans down for a kiss.

It's a mix of restraint and fervor. John's hand cradles your jaw, deepening the kiss when he realizes you're not running for the exit. His mouth's clearly the dominant player when yours opens without prompting. Any trace of stiffness in your posture melts, and it's a good thing you're holding a half-full glass of wine because you don't know what else it would reach for or where else it would head.

"Get to know each other. Talk," John said. If this is how he wants to get to know you, you accept it, and let him take you to his bedroom.

"This'll wrinkle," John rucks the sheath of your dress up to your waist, fingers appreciatively trailing down your hips until they curve beneath your knees. His eyes follow a similar path, albeit starting from your face.

"I'll bill you for the dry cleaning." You murmur, biting your lip, watching him take in the view. It's intoxicating, the shift in his breathing, the narrowing of his eyes when it reaches the pale gold silk of your thong. It's as sheer as gossamer and carefully stitched with a pretty floral design, the gusset the only solid strip of fabric apart from the band.

The look on his face makes the bit of debt it put you in worth it.

Your smug grin collapses under the crawl of a knuckle down your covered seam, featherlight.

He hums, hands sliding beneath the band. His eyes flick to yours, the blue cloudy with want. His turn to smirk. "This too?"

"John," You warn half-heartedly, knowing what he's actually asking, lift your hips a little, and plant your hands on the bed.

Slowly, John pulls the garment down your legs. A sharp, audible inhale escapes him when his eyes snap to the apex of your thighs, and he tosses the piece of lingerie aside.

John sinks to his knees at the edge of his bed, unhurried, clearly content to observe your sex like it's one of the expensive pieces of art in his living room. His hands return, gliding up your legs to draw circles into the patches of skin on either side of your pussy, smirking again when he hears you gasp. He remains fixated. "Look at you," he purrs, a thumb brushing through the wetness, spreading it deliberately over your clit.

His thumb continues its lazy swipes while his mouth starts kissing a trail up your thighs. You tremble head to toe, anticipation painting everything in a lush haze.

"Fuck," The curse slips out in an aborted hiss you bite back. It's annoying how easily John works you up, his nettling at the food truck to this – he's barely touched you, and speech is suddenly a weakness. Has it been so long since you last saw some action? The brief, scalding memory of your last romp in the sheets plays in your mind. Freshly broken up with, it was a half-baked rebound with a man from a bar you went to alone, stupidly, and took in like a stray dog. Rutted like one, anyway. Come morning, he'd gone, having apparently found the cash in your wallet but not your clit.

A nip brings you back to the present.

"Still with me?"

How many times could you make a rich man doubt himself in one night? Quite the undiscovered talent to discover. "Sorry, yes," You breathe, words working their way out through a shudder, "It's been awhile."

His stroking slows, eyes narrowing at your admission, mouth tracking to its north star.

For a moment, it seems like he might stop or, worse, ask about it. You reach a hand toward him and stop short. "Can you, just–please?"

Without another word, John parts your thighs further apart, fingers digging gently into the sensitive skin. He dips his head lower, warm breath fanning over your pussy. His broad tongue flattens and drags one long lick from your hole to your clit, circling the sensitive bud. He groans, lapping up the first droplets of arousal, huffing your scent with his nose pressing to your curls. One of his hands makes for your ass, holding you in place when you inevitably jerk from the sensation.

His tongue is a wicked thing. Fitting, given his predilection for banter.

You involuntarily cant your hips up to his mouth, his beard scraping. "John!"

His smirk stretches across his lips, and he chuckles. For a second, he pauses. It's deliciously agonizing, the sight of him licking his lip before he returns back between your legs. The delay is long enough to make the next touch of his tongue a pleasant shock.

But he stops again. "Yeah? You want more?" The question is punctuated by a swipe.

You clench at the sheer arrogance in his voice. Maybe you did like being–

"What was that earlier?" His teeth gently, gently rake over your clit. "Something about you not appreciating being teased?" His laugh is downright mean when you practically squeal.

Your face burns, leaning back on an elbow, unable to remain seated with how you shake. "John, please."

Every word laces together with amusement. "Impatient, aren't you? Just want to make this last, sweetheart."

He delves back in, and in the process, he hauls one of your legs over his shoulder. You drop the other arm back to hold yourself up. His hand on your thigh leaves its post to join his efforts, and his middle fingers slide in without preamble - no need, judging by the obscene squelch.

Your head is the next to fall back at an angle, eyes squeezing shut at the slight stretch, hips bucking when he thrusts them shallowly. Gradually pushing deeper, stroking you from the inside out. His tongue makes a slow pass over your seam, licking over where his fingers disappear, and his mouth seals over your clit.

Again, language fails. The incoherent, shattered pleas and curses erupt out of you seem to spur John on. He groans when your cunt tightens its grip on his fingers, the heat in your belly skyrocketing to the peak at a dizzying speed. You know the orgasm will hit hard if it really has been over a year since someone assisted you in reaching one.

"John, please, John," you hurtle towards oblivion, leaving human resources in the dust. You fist his bedding, knuckles flexing, and force yourself to look at him.

John's eyes are open, pupils blown, zeroed in on your face with an intensity that makes you clench once more. He grunts something in response, vaguely encouraging with his big palm on your ass, squeezing and keeping you in place.

When it crests, your back meets the mattress with a cry. John rises slightly to follow your body's momentum, tongue still working fervently, though his fingers stop. He pulls out the digits to grab the ankle of your leg over his shoulder, your own wetness painting over the joint like a brushstroke. He gently removes the limb from its perch, and his mouth slows.

The first hints of overstimulation make you whimper and clumsily reach for the crown of his head, fingers threading through short hair to pull him off.

John detaches himself from your pussy, but not without a few parting kisses.

While you try to gather the pieces of your consciousness flung about, John retracts and stands, rubbing one of your calves. You nearly short-circuit when you meet eyes at last. He's sucking his fingers with the same care he showed at dinner. The first one. He grins.

"My dessert."

You consider chucking his own pillow at his face. The crime of a rich man using a cheap line. It's annoying you still want his cock. You reach for him, fingers hooking around his belt to pull him forward and down, a knee landing between your legs. He ducks his head to meet you halfway for a kiss, your tongue licking over the seam of his mouth, tasting yourself. You kiss and kiss and kiss until your lungs hurt. Now that he's broken your dry spell, it's open season.

Only, he puts a stop to it, pulling back when you unfasten his belt buckle. He cups your face. "I'd rather focus on you right now, sweetheart."

Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline. "That's not–You don't have to…"

"Hm, I want to see how many times I can make you come tonight." His other hand toys with the thin strap of your dress. "Should get this off you, before I ruin it."

The dress is a lost cause, as with any intention you had of sneaking out in the middle of the night. The dress joins your underwear, and you spend the rest of the evening learning just how generous John Price can be.

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villainology · 8 months

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i feel like a kid running around with their drawing to show everyone else in the room bc i've already told like 2 other blogs about this scenario i had while i was trying to sleep but can you IMAGINE being a family friend of the sawyers? maybe your grandparents knew theirs before times were tough and cannibalism became their means of survival, and your family's died off and left you the little farmhouse and patch of land a few miles outside of the sawyers' boundaries. drayton's clarified you're off-limits (through some honorary family-friend ideals, or as not to upset grandpa 'cause your folks were always kind to them) and you're none the wiser to their true savagery they get up to (you can hear a scream once or twice, when you drive your dad's old beat up truck near their land sometimes, but you always think they've got really rowdy and funny sounding goats). but you've inherited your family's farmhouse and poor little you just doesn't know anything about farming and fixing up the house! no matter how hard you try, nothing grows, so one uneventful day you drop off some seeds as a gift for drayton since, well, they're not getting any use with you, and you mention a problem that needs fixing. maybe it's a rusty shed door you can't get open, or a busted roof. either way, drayton's always liked to keep up apparances and you haven't had a chance to meet the new additions of the family, so drayton sends johnny back with you (after giving him thorough lecturing about how no, you are NOT a potential victim, you're just a little oblivious, and plus johnny's the most... convincingly normal one out of all of them, arguably) to fix something up for you as thanks for the seeds. so now there's a sweaty, attractive, pretty charming (and maybe a little subtly condescending) guy fixing up something because you hadn't the slightest clue how to fix it, so you might as well make him some lemonade or tea and thank him! and, well, johnny might think you're amusing. pretty sweet, pretty cute, pretty *airheaded*. drayton said you were off-limits for anything violent, of course, but that didn't mean he couldn't test any other limits, right?

aaaah~ no bc wait I think you’re onto something here!! you got me thinking so many filthy thots rn, so I made a lil drabble, hope that’s okay w you? 😭❤️ sjdbdjdndnfnf I hope it’s written okay, I wrote this half asleep in bed but I couldn’t stop thinking abt it!

warnings — slight dub-con, light smut, Johnny being Johnny!

“Here you go, Mr Johnny,” you smiled up the ladder toward him as you walked out with two glasses of lemonade in hand, “where’d ya want it?”

“Just set it down on the table there.” His voice was stern, a tad hint of annoyance laced into it, not that you noticed.

Johnny stood at the top of the ladder, nail in mouth as he hammered another into roof of your porch, closing off the gap which would hopefully stop the rattling noise anytime there was a gust of wind. He slipped the hammer and last few nails into his work belt before looking down at you stood below him, so innocently sipping through the curly straw in your lemonade glass.

The Texan heat wasn’t good for much, but the way it made a light coat of sweat glisten on your body as the sun began to set was enough to make him appreciate the summer weather. Your denim shorts just a little too high up and your white vest top just a little too low, but from where he was stood he got to have the perfect angle down your shirt, and you were none the wiser.

Johnny carefully came down the ladder before picking his glass up off the table, his eyes never once leaving your body. He couldn’t help but chuckle to himself, you really were oblivious, so innocent and air-headed that he wondered how you survived off by yourself all these years before coming back to the farmlands.

The way Drayton sent him out here with you alone, like sending a lamb off to the slaughter — an adorable, pretty little lamb making lemonade for a starving lion. Johnny wondered to himself what you’d think if you found out what they were really like, just how savage and dangerous they were, would you run scared from him, give him chase to hunt you down on acres of land?

“Sorry about you having to come out here, I’ve clearly got a lot to learn about all this type of stuff, huh?” You laughed as you gestured toward the house and the land surrounding it.

Johnny was snapped from his thoughts, a fake little smile crossing his face as he nodded, “don’t sweat it, darlin’, friends helping out friends, ain’t that right?”

He knew that Drayton said you weren’t to be a victim, that you weren’t some prey to be chased and hunted down, butchered just for the hell of it, but what about anything else? After all, this was Drayton’s way of saying thanks to you, but what did Johnny get out of this? Where was his thank you for fixing up your roof free of charge? If you weren’t going to be Johnny’s victim then he’d sure as hell find away for you to give him thanks.

“Say,” he placed his half empty glass down on the table beside him, “you moved back up here all alone, not got a boyfriend following you here?”

“Oh, heh, no. Haven’t had one of those in a long while, Mr Johnny.”

“Huh, well that’s just peachy, darlin’.”

He walked from the table and closer to you, his hand stroking up and down your arm as he worked his way behind you, his warm body pressing up against yours as he leaned down to your ear, “how about a thank you for all my hard work, hm?”

His hand snaked its way around your waist and played with the button of your shorts, his lips grazing across the delicate skin of your neck, gently kisses to distract you from what his hands were doing. Truth be told you didn’t want him to stop, and he could tell. The way you let him unbutton your pants without a fight, his fingers working their way between your legs and tracing a line back and forth against your clothed cunt.

“Mr Johnny, I don’t think—”

“That’s alright, baby, you don’t gotta think,” his free hand wrapped around your throat, tilting your head to the side so he could more easily bite and suck at your skin, “just gotta do whatever I tell you to do.”

After all, Drayton said you couldn’t be slaughtered like he did the others, but he didn’t say anything about Johnny not being able to fuck you til’ you couldn’t walk no more.

#➳ : messages #lambofjudgement #your brain works in wonderous ways sjdbejdnef!!!#I couldn’t stop thinking abt this like??? it’s so hot omg #anything abt johnny got me going FERAL!!#johnny slaughter #johnny slaughter x reader #tcm x reader

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sky-kiss · 6 months

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Raphael x Tav: Coffee Shop AU Pt. 2

A/N: Continuing from this, because someone wanted Raphael's POV and I wanted to goof off instead of writing serious things.

______

She’s a Barista. How Did it Come to This?

______

As a professor of the English language and literature on the whole, Raphael has no small amount of experience when it comes to divining an author’s intent and reading subtext. Years of honing these talents allow him to translate Haarlep’s intended message: ask the barista out.

What he actually says is, “It’s been seven months, old man, is this a joke? Skip dinner and fuck the poor thing sideways.” Which is uncouth, uncivil, and utterly par for the course for the younger man.

“Why are you here?”

Haarlep shrugs. He’s currently sprawled out across the only sofa in the teacher’s lounge, both monopolizing the space and looking too cramped on the loveseat. Korilla rolls her eyes, leaning over his feet to pluck another paper from the pile. The University has afforded him two assistants this semester. Only one is pulling their weight. But Haarlep’s is not without use. Between himself and his assistant, he has never seen:

Such positive class reviews.

So many female students with a vested interest in classical literature.

It’s frankly uncanny.

“You’d be happier for taking my advice.”

“Not everyone is playing ‘catch the venereal' disease, Haarlep,” Korilla mutters. Haarlep shoots her a look. Something unspoken passes between them. In the absence of words (and Korilla’s repentance), Haarlep digs their heel into her thigh before sitting up.

“Oh, take me with you. One evening, Raphael. That's all I need. And you and your sweet barista will be happy little lambs.”

“Aren’t you busy?” Raphael eyes the essays.

Haarlep waves him off. “Unimportant. I hate to see you so solemn, dear. Please.”

And unfortunately, there’s no denying Haarlep anything once they’re in full flow. Gods save them all.

_________

Fifteen minutes into the drive, he insists on silence. Raphael is always one for a good discussion, but Haarlep is a peculiar breed. He whiplashes from topic to topic with an alacrity most find disorienting and asserts opinions so occasionally outlandish that Raphael wonders if he believes them. The smirk says he doesn’t; half of what they do is for their amusement, the little shit.

“You must like her,” Haarlep mutters. “The cafe might as well be in a different city.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. We’re half an hour from campus.”

“Mmm.”

He doesn’t like that sound one bit. Or the look his assistant is giving him. Raphael grumbles, motioning for the younger man to go ahead of him. The bell on the door chimes when they step inside, and he’s overcome with that feeling of peace.

Tav’s shop smells equal parts coffee shop and bookstore, the slightly spicy scent of old paper lingering on the air. He associates the smell with snowy mornings spent indoors, curled beneath his covers, safe and comfortable. There are seating areas and tables, yes, indicative of any metropolitan cafe. It’s the books he fell in love with. Shelves and shelves of books, of all genres and ages. You were as likely to find a history of naval battles as you were an airport bestseller or romance.

Haarlep pulls a face. “It smells like a library.”

“That will be the books, you troglodyte.”

They accept the gibe gamely enough, stuffing their hands in their pockets. Haarlep scans the place with their frankly unsettling, at times preternatural, gaze, weighing every barista. They linger on Tav. “That one?”

“How…”

“Raphael, you are aware of what attraction looks like, yes? Do you have some cursory awareness? That girl looked at you with the stupidest doe-eyes when you walked in. It made me a little upset. Or nauseous.” He waved a hand. “Hard to say which.”

“Your dramatics are noted, Haarlep. Find a book. I’ll order for us.”

“Oh, good. More reading.”

He is very aware of Haarlep’s eyes on him as he approaches the counter. It pales in comparison to the roiling feeling in his gut. The voice in his head (sounding too much like his father) screams every time he gets close. She’s too young; they’re from different worlds. She won’t look at him. If she’s polite, it’s because she’s paid to be polite, Raphael. Tav smiles at him; the expression lights up the entirety of her face. He thinks, in that moment, that she is one of the most singularly lovely creatures he’s seen.

“Raphael!” She uses his name. Tav leans forward on the counter, beckoning him nearer. Her little friends behind the counter share a look among themselves, snickering. “I took your advice.” She points to a shelf on the left side of the store. He recognizes the book: one of his recommendations. “You were right. I couldn’t put it down. I figured others might enjoy it too. If you have any more suggestions…”

“Of course. Of course! It’s…very nearly my profession!”

“Isn’t that your profession?”

He smirks, dipping into a half bow. “Among other things. You’ll find me a font of philosophy and tired rhetoric. Should it ever strike your fancy.”

“Mmm. You do know how to sweet talk a girl.”

He thinks he hears Haarlep groan from across the cafe. Tav is looking at him, and the weight of that stare leaves him parched or hungry. Raphael clears his throat. “May I ask how you found the ending?”

“Why doesn’t she explain it to you,” Shadowheart says, sliding a coffee to him. “Over dinner? Say six?”

Haarlep winds an arm around his waist, resting their chin on his shoulder. “Six is perfect, my beauty. He can’t wait. Italian?”

“Her absolute favorite. Passatempo?”

Haarlep reaches out to shake the she-elf’s hand. “He’s never been. But he’s so eager to try.”

It is, perhaps, the most surreal way he’s ever gotten a date. Tav stares at him in sputtering horror, her face a vibrant red. Raphael saves her, writing his number on one of the cafe’s business cards. He hands it to her. “My number. I look forward to our…”

“...date.” She finishes, so conclusively, so resolutely, that he laughs.

“Yes. Of course.”

#bg3 raphael #raphael x tav #shadowheart #haarlep #au: coffee shop #my writing #got that idiot brain #got everyone a job at Raphael's university #someone save me #its terrible #fluff #horrible tooth rotting fluff #remind me to kill them or something next fic

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kingkatsuki · 3 months

Text

— addiction

Yep, so he got me. I’m already obsessed, cannot be saved.

Warnings: 18+, friends with benefits, public sex, unprotected sex, creampie, not proofread.

Pairing: Engine/Enjin x f!reader.

Word Count: 2k.

“Smoking is bad for you, you know.” You smirk at the irritated expression that appears on Enjin’s face as he cups his palm around his lighter, flicking his thumb over the spark.

It takes a few times for the battered zippo to start, the engraving on the worn silver not even to him. Another prize picked out of the junk thrown into the Abyss.

He ignores your teasing as the stick illuminates, pocketing his lighter as he inhales deeply. Catching it between his thumb and forefinger as he blows a thick plume of smoke into the evening air, watching the silvery wisps disappear into the atmosphere.

“You don’t say,” Enjin plants a booted foot against the wall behind him as he leans back, bringing the cigarette back to his lips to take another long drag.

It’s moments like this you cherish the most, one of the simple frivolities of the Abyss— the times you get the leader alone.

“Could kill you.” You move closer now, invading his personal space like you often do. Surrounding yourself in the scent of him, a mixture of smoke, sweat and the drugstore aftershave that would’ve been cheap in Heaven but is premium below.

“There’s a lot of other things that could kill me down here first,” He scoffs, blowing another cloud of smoke directly into your face, “Oi—”

You catch him off guard as you snatch the cigarette that’s dangling between his lips, smirking at the wide-eyed look of annoyance on his face as you drop the stick to the floor. Your heeled boots quick to stomp on it, extinguishing the flame as he practically lifts you off the ground to try and salvage it. Hands firm on your hips as he looks down at the broken, mangled tobacco.

“Do you know how much that cost?” He groans.

“You get paid well as a Janitor, I’m sure you can always buy—” You begin to tease, but before you manage to finish your sentence Enjin’s grip on your waist tightens as he shifts positions to press your back up against the cold brick wall.

He knows your games all too well, and knows how to beat you at them. Your taunting no match for his sheer display of strength as he turns the tables, caging you between him.

“You’re such a brat,” Enjin growls, his lanky body towers over you as he corners you like a hungry wolf. The poor little lamb can do nothing but stare up at its captor as your eyes meet his burning gaze, the fragments of smoke still seared into his lungs pepper your face as you fist the hem of his trench coat.

“But isn’t that why you like me?” You coo back, and it’s enough to have Enjin seeing red.

His lips meet yours in a kiss that’s almost bruising, teeth clash as your hands tug him closer. Trying impossibly to deepen the kiss as your tongue lashes against his incisors, swallowing the final bits of smoke that leave his lungs.

You always claim he’s addicted to the drug, when Enjin refutes he could go cold turkey at any time. But truth be told, you were the real drug he was addicted to, and there was no way he’d ever want to quit.

Deft fingers search a path they’ve followed a thousand times before, disappearing beneath his red vest as you scratch against the blond hairs that rest below his bellybutton. Feeling his chest concave as you raise goosebumps against his skin, teasing touches are no match for Enjin’s brute force as he copies you in this dangerous game of cat and mouse. Slender fingers push your shirt up over your chest to reveal your naked breasts to his hungry gaze, completely unbothered that anyone could see you like this. His fellow janitors, his team, barely a few meters away as they settle inside the rowdy dive bar. Other punters could step outside and look down the shrouded alley to see you in such a compromising position, if any of them were to desire that sudden burst of nicotine.

“Fuck, I missed these.” Enjin groans as he massages your breasts in his hands, rough thumbs flicking over your puffy nipples as he turns them into stiff peaks. Circling your darkened areola as he bends his body to latch on, tonguing the sensitive skin before pulling it between his teeth.

You’re desperate now, even more so than when you entered the alleyway in search of him. Following his footsteps as he stepped outside, the throb between your thighs guiding you on your way as you longed to feel him buried back inside you.

“Don’t tease me,” You beg, pathetically tugging at his belt, but the plea falls on deaf ears as he pulls back from your chest with a satisfied smack. The cool evening air dries his spit against your skin, causing you to shiver as Enjin’s hand disappears beneath your skirt to cup your wet heat.

“Fuck,” He groans, palming the sopping material of your panties as you shamelessly grind yourself down on him, “This all for me?”

He asks the question as though there would be anyone else that could make you feel like this, anyone else that would have you standing exposed in a dingy alleyway outside a rowdy dive bar.

“It’s you,” You hum, “Its always you.” And it’s the answer he covets as he hooks his fingers in the hem of your panties to tug them down your thighs in one swift motion.

He’s always so kind and considerate as he helps you step out of them, leaving the fabric dangling daintly around one ankle as he raises your thigh against his hip. Pressing his hard cock against you, and you can feel how desperate he is even through the layers of clothes. Just like Enjin can feel your heartbeat pounding through your clit as his rough trousers catch against it, leaving silvery lines of your slick against his crotch as he grinds against you.

“Look at the mess you’re making,” His voice rumbles, “Barely even touched you.”

“Please, Enjin.” You whine, the sound of his name uttered from your lips is almost enough to have him seeing stars. The desperate lilt to your voice paired with the saccharine look in your eyes is enough to have him tugging at his belt as he tugs his pants down just enough to free his aching cock.

The sight of him is always enough to make your mouth water, licking your bruised lips as you reach out a greedy hand his reflexes are fast enough to bat away.

“Behave,” He responds curtly, as if he isn’t the one that has you in this position.

It’s erotic the way he wraps a palm around himself, rolling his wrist over the bulging tip as he smears pre along the length. Canting his hips forward to drag his cock through your messy folds, disappearing between them as he coats himself in your slick. The moment he nudges your clit has you mewling pathetically, ashamed that someone— a man, no less, has reduced you to this.

But it’s not your fault, it can’t be when he’s built like this. Intimidating tattoos and piercings that mask the warmth hidden beneath them, the way he guards you with such love and care even when his grip against you is lusty.

“If you don’t fuck me now I’m going back inside.” You gamble, knowing all too well that he’d see right through it.

You’d have to rub your clit raw to even come close to feeling the same euphoria Enjin had you feeling with minimal effort. Many nights spent alone touching yourself to the thought of him couldn’t compare to the way his hands felt as they explored your body.

“Liar.” Enjin grinned, pushing the fat tip of his cock against your tight entrance just to watch the way your body keened. A silent gasp from parted lips as you tried to roll your hips to draw him inside, his grip tight against your waist as he held you steady, “Well go on then.”

Enjin knew you weren’t going anywhere, not when your body was crying out so perilously for him. It was always a playful game of who would break first, and he’d always swear blind it was you.

“Watch me— oh, shit.” Your eyes rolled as you felt the blunt tip of his cock breach your tight entrance, his forking veins catch against your spongy inner walls as he moulds your cunt into the shape of him. Creating a delicious friction as he gives you a fleeting moment to adjust to the size, especially with no prep as he presses a lingering peck to your parted lips.

“Yeah?” A smug grin appeared across his cheeks like the cat that got the cream, “Didn’t think so, pretty.”

Enjin set a rough pace, yellow eyes glancing towards the entrance to the alley to check for unwanted voyeurs as he fucked into your pliant body with vigour. Each harsh thrust had his hips snapping against yours, the smack of skin against skin a constant rhythm as you clung to his broad shoulders. Pulling him down into another sloppy kiss to try and mask the desperate moans that poured from your throat, sharp nails digging into his skin as he fucks into you.

“I’ll never get tired of this sloppy pussy,” He whispered against your lips, catching his bottom one between your teeth as you tugged. Drawing a debauched grunt from deep in his chest as your cunt pulses around his cock from his words, pressing your body against the wall with more power as he carried you both towards your bliss.

The messy hairs at the base of his cock tickle your clit with each forward motion, enough to have you seeing stars as he wills your body to cum for him. Pulling back to stare down at you through half-lidded eyes as he snaps his hips, his cockhead kissing your cervix with each thrust as you begin to tremble in his arms. Your leg turns to jelly as you try to keep yourself upright, his body the only thing stopping you from tumbling to the floor.

“I know you’re close, sweetheart.” He croons, “I can feel you squeezing me.”

You are. The coil inside you dangerously close to snapping as he reaches between your bodies to press a calloused thumb against your puffy clit, rubbing messy circles against it as you succumb to the pleasure. Fat pearly tears cling to your lashes as you cry out for him, his name tumbles from your lips as your orgasm crashes over you in harsh waves coming into shore.

“That’s it— good girl,” He feels it before you do, the telltale sign of your climax as your walls begin to pulse around him in a greedy attempt to milk him of his release, “Good fucking girl.”

He doesn’t stop, even when you’re gushing around him as he fucks into you with renewed vigour, hungrily chasing his own release as you will him to cum. Nails drag through the messy hairs at the base of his undercut as you scratch at his scalp. His nose scrunches as he meets his own end, burying hot ropes of cum inside your wet cunt with a groan of your name.

It’s enough that for a few simple moments you can picture yourself somewhere— anywhere else with him. The perfect dream you’ve conjured in your mind as you get to lay together without dealing with the harsh realities that come with fraternising with a Janitor.

You both linger in the alley, Enjin’s face buried in the curve of your neck as he breathes in the scent of you. His tongue peeks out to taste the thin sheen of sweat that coats your skin as you shudder beneath him, your cunt pulses around his spent cock in retaliation.

“Fuck,” He reluctantly pulls out as the mixture of your release follows, leaving silvery strings against his cock while it drools out of you and coats your inner thighs, curving his back to get a better look at the debauched sight, “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Not if the cigarettes don’t get you first.” You grin.

#engine x reader #Enjin x reader #engine smut #Enjin smut #gachiku #gachiakuta Enjin x reader #gachiakuta engine x reader #gachiakuta engine smut #gachiakuta Enjin smut #gachiakuta x reader #gachiakuta smut

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storydays · 2 months

Text

I’m making a Hazbin Hotel male reader insert!

Name: (Y/N) Morningstar (Prince of Hell and Heir to the throne of Hell)

Pronouns: He/Him

Wears: a red suede double breasted vest with a gold tie over a white collared long sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

Bottoms are black jeans tucked into red slightly heeled boots that fade into black at the bottoms.

He wears red and gold wristcuffs on his wrists.

In his hair, he wears his black crown.

Age: 225 years old

Personality: Quite, gets flustered easily (particularly when Angel Dust is flirting and making sexual inneduos towards him) , protective of Charlie, cunning, mischevious, slightly sadistic, sarcastic

Eye color: Heterchromia: right eye red iris with yellow sclera and right eye is violet with a black sclera

6’5” he’s taller then most of his family but 2 inches shorter than Angel Dust

Hair color: same hair color as Lilith

Skin color: pale lilac like Lilth

Mother: Lilth (Queen of Hell)

Father: Lucifer Morningstar (King of Hell)

Sibling(s): Charlie Morningstar he's 5 years older then her. (Princess of Hell) (She's 220)

Hair length: A low ponytail with his bangs curled to the right side of his face

Other information:

Like the rest of his family, he has horns that he keeps hidden in his full demon form, but like his father, he has a pair of wings, resembling that of a nightwing.

He has sharp canines like Charlie and they both have that little lamb nose. (Y/N) has more of Lilth's human characteristics, with subtle demon characteristics from Lucifer

Absolutley adores Charlie. Took care of her when their parents disappeared.

Most def gave Vaggie the shovel talk, even more so when he realized she was an exorcist.

Unlike the rest of the family, he wears black rimmed horned glasses.

(Y/N) has magic like his father and sister.

Favorite color: (f/c)

Likes: singing, read, pissing Alastor off, most of the Overlords, (whatever else you like)

Friends: Velvette, Husk, Nifty, Cherri Bomb, Sir Pentious, occassionally Alastor, most of the Overlords

Love Interest: Angel Dust 🕷️ 🩷 🤍

Dislikes: Adam (the prick), the truly unreedemable: R@pists, p3dophiles, etc. VALENTINO, the exterminations (unless he's doing it) Lute (the crazy bitch)

Will update as we go ❤️

Down below is a pic of how I imagine (Y/N)'s shirt.

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin angel dust #hazbin hotel charlie #hazbin hotel lucifer #malereader #viziepop

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crepesuzette2023 · 7 months

Text

“To the best of our ability Paul!”: The Paperback Writer session [and fashion show]

By Johnny Dean. From: The Beatles Book Monthly, Issue 35. June 1966.

As we walked down the corridor towards E.M.I.’s No. 2 studio (where else would one go when sitting-in on a Beatles recording session), the commissionaire pointed out to us that the boys were in No. 3 instead. So we made our way back to the front of the building and as we approached the studio door, the red light went on—which meant that they were recording. So we waited for them to finish. Three minutes later we walked in.

On entering the studio, we found John and Paul surrounded by a mass of equipment—most significant of all, were their new massive amplifiers. Paul was clad in his distinctive casual recording gear of black trousers, black moccasin-type shoes, white shirt with fawn stripes, a black sleeveless pullover and to top it all orange—tinted specs. John sported green velvet trousers, a blue buttoned up wool vest and black suede boots.

The basic track of "Paperback Writer" had been recorded the previous day, and now John and Paul were working out a detailed backing. Paul was perched on a stool thumbing away at a red and white Rickenbacker guitar, (moving with the music as he does on stage) whilst the Iyrics boomed through the studio speakers—so we were very honoured at being the first to hear their new single besides George Martin and of course, the Beatles.

We then spotted Ringo's head behind the screen in the far corner—he was playing chess with Neil. So we walked over. "Who's winning?", I asked. "Neil's the expert”, Ringo replied, and went back to the chess board to concentrate on how to get his king out of danger from an attack by Neil's bishop and castle.

The music stopped. George Martin came into the studio from the control room to have a tete-a-tete with Paul as to what they could do to improve the backing.

"What are you trying to do with this one?", I asked Paul. "Have you heard the lyrics?", came the reply. "Yes, I think it's very unusual”. "The trouble is", said Paul,"That we've done everything we can with four people, so it's always a problem to ring the changes and make it sound different. That's why we have got all these guitars and equipment here." That must have been the understatement of the year, because the studio was littered with pianos, grand pianos, amplifiers, guitars, percussion instruments, and other odd bits and pieces which were strewn over the studio floor.

The studio was sectioned-off with brown canvas screens and what seemed like thousands of black cables running from the amps and other electrical equipment to the control room over the heavily marked wooden floor. To stop the echo, E.M.I. have covered some of the floor with old carpets.

The big heavy sound-proof door which stops any of the noise of the outside world seeping into the studio, burst open, and in strolled George looking very elegant in his Mongolian lamb fur coat with black cap and oblong metal specs.

He was obviously on top of the world and bubbling over with enthusiasm, ready to record a dozen numbers. He threw his coat along side Paul's fur jacket and got down to work out the backing with John and Paul.

John, George and George Martin huddled round Paul, who was seated at the piano trying to work out a bass bit, before asking George Martin to play it. John leaned on the piano while he listened to Paul's ideas for a while. Then he picked up his orange Gretsch guitar and proceeded to pick away at it. At the same time Paul transferred to a Vox organ.

Although John and Paul were both working on the song together, it was originally Paul's idea. He asked the engineer to play it back at half speed so that John and George could do some vocal bits.

They were now all set to go. George Martin gave the O.K. The recording light went on and the basic sound track was played back through the "cans" they each had clamped over their heads. They did several takes. John and George hit some very high notes, but their voices kept cracking. "I don't think I can make it" said George, "unless I have a cup of tea. Where’s Mal?”

Right on cue at the end of the fourth take Mal emerged into the studio laden with tea, biscuits and something very special—toast and strawberry jam. Everything was immediately dropped and a sudden swoop was made on the toast and jam. Ringo, who was still in the corner trying to work out his next move, only got one piece of toast, so Mal offered to make another batch as it had proved so popular.

Meanwhile Beatles Book photographer Leslie Bryce was clicking away.

After the toast and jam had been devoured it was back to work. Paul suddenly got an inspiration he dived across to the piano and started playing bits of "Free Jacques" he was highly delighted at the thought of having it in the new single.

"O.K. let's try it", said George Martin. So John and George gathered round the mike and off they went. But it was a false start. Paul's head appeared over the top of the piano and he queried "Did you come in at the right place?". "We can't hear it properly" , said John, "anyway I thought that was the end of it.” George promptly told him it was the beginning!

After they had finished taping these bits, the tracks were played back into the studio while everyone listened in silence. George Martin was the first to speak-"I think that the best thing we've added are the 'Frere Jacques’ bits. Ringo who had finally beaten Neil at a game of chess by check-mating him in several brilliant moves involving a queen, a bishop and a castle, said that he thought John and Paul sounded as though they were singing through water! Highly uncomplimentary, so Paul then made for the organ once again and started to work out a sound which resembled that of Scottish bag pipes.

John then came swooping across the studio and shouted out—“You've got it. You've got it". Paul then started dum-dee-dumming away at everyone else—it was just like a scene from "My Fair Lady”!

George Martin appeared over John's shoulder and said "I see what you mean”. Paul announced that someone else should play it—meaning George Martin. John and George then went back to their mikes and added the vocals over the top.

After the first track Paul looked over the top of the piano and asked John and George if they were singing it right.

George turned round, lowered his glasses to the tip of his nose and looked down at Paul in a typical school-masterish fashion and said "To the best of our ability Paul!" And so the boys went on getting the sound that you will hear on "Paperback Writer”.

It was a long session. It took something like ten hours to record because the Beatles insisted on sticking at it until they were completely satisfied that they can do no more.

When you listen to "Paperback Writer" bear in mind what went on beforehand to achieve this really great sound, and I'm sure you'll appreciate it all the more.

"The very first shot of Paul we took when we arrived in the studio." (Photo by Leslie Bryce)

"Paul's hit on something. Waving his 'ciggie' he dee-dums his way through the bit he's just thought up while George sings with him." (Photo by Leslie Bryce)

Ringo's chess pieces and John's green velvet trousers. (Photos by Leslie Bryce)

#the beatles #george martin #paul mccartney #john lennon #george harrison #ringo starr #mal evans #paperback writer #lots to unpack #lots to unzip #George had so much more fun here than in Get Back #Paul and George Martin comma huddling #amazing creative energy #ten hours

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thegnomelord · 5 months

Note

Congrats on 500! #28 with Gaz?

Thanks anon! Play the game HERE

Prompt: Forehead Kisses

CW: SFW, GN Reader, forehead kisses, light hurt/comfort, fluff

God, you hate flying. You don't just hate flying itself, but everything that comes with it, turning every flight into your own personal hell; The roar of the engines turning you near deaf and the hum of electricity bearing down on what hearing you have left, the metal shaking all around you like you're riding on an abandoned rollercoaster, the harsh lights overhead turned into tiny needles that stab your eyes.

But worst of all is the migraine you get each time you fly, pain pulsing and banging against your skull like a maggot growing fat off your brain. The loud US marines you were squished between certainly didn't help, making your trigger finger twitch before you clenched your hands into fists. Luckily the flight was coming to an end, the plane shaking as it landed, and you got up, trudging behind the marines.

Gaz is waiting for you on the tarmac, standing on his tippy toes to try and find you, biting on his lip when he sees you, head down, shoulders tense and his legs move before he even notices it.

"Hey," Gaz says in a hushed voice, reaching out to hold your hands. His hands are warm against your own.

You push closer to him, groaning as you bury your head into his neck. Kyle's wearing the cologne you'd gotten him, the sweet peppery scent filling your senses and easing the pain just a bit, but not enough.

"Migraine?" Kyle asks, fingers running across your scalp, his other hand wound around your waist.

"Migraine." You admit, your eyes closed, shifting your head to shield from the light and noise into his neck.

You let out a discontent sound as he pulls back, tugging on your sleeve. "Come here," He says, soft, sweet, barely a whisper to not grate on your ears. And like a lost lamb you follow after him, both of you ignoring the wolf whistles you receive from the rowdy marines.

You're a little surprised when he leads you to a janitor's closet, keeping the lights shut off as he guides you inside. "Really? What are we, teenagers?" You manage a small huff of laughter, dropping your pack on the ground, the darkness soothing the ache in your skull.

"You're certainly moody like one." Gaz cracks a grin you can't see, his eyes acclimating to the darkness quicker than yours. He guides you to sit down on a chair, clever fingers unclipping and pulling off your Kevlar vest.

"Am not." You argue, his hands settling on your cheeks making you melt. You part your legs and pull him closer so he's standing between them, resting your chin on his chest.

"What's this then?" Kyle's tone is teasing and warm, gently massaging the sides of your neck. He cups your jaw in both hands, his heart fluttering at how you just melt against him. You're always so guarded, but you tear down your walls for him, only for him.

"Me missing you." You say, honest, your eyes closing without notice, not that it makes much of a difference.

"Oh, sweetheart," Kyle coos, voice sticking to your ears like honey. He leans in, placing a soft kiss between your brows where the pain is the strongest. "I missed you too-" he does it again, the second kiss barely above the first one. "-so much."

His words birth a giggle in your chest, your body moving on it's own to hug him around the waist, to keep him close to you. "I don't believe you," You hum, just about able to make your voice sound teasing. "I need more proof."

"Yeah?" Kyle's voice is equally as teasing, his hands moving up to cup your cheeks, thumbs rubbing soothing circles above your brows, massaging the ache away like only he can. "Well, we can't have that."

He assaults you with affection from your hairline to your brows, leaving constellations of kisses across your forehead from one temple to the other, muttering soft 'I love you's and praises into your skin. Both of you start giggling like children at a random time, the sound of his laughter driving the ringing from your ears.

"Is'at 'nough proof for you?" Gaz whispers against your brow, kissing down the bridge of your nose, soft lips making your skin buzz pleasantly as they brush against your eyelids, coming closer and closer to your lips.

"I could use just a bit more." You tease him, your grip around his waist tightening; as if he'd even think of leaving you.

"Oh you cheeky shit," He giggles, pushing his head closer, "but how can I refuse?" He kisses you on the lips, slow and sweet.

You feel like a fish thrown back into water, leaning into the kiss, feeling his soft lips against yours, all of your senses consumed by him. You feel his tongue brush against your lips and you part them easily, swallowing his pleased groan as his tongue explores your mouth.

The growing lack of oxygen forces you to part only a fraction of an inch to catch your breaths, his warm breath washing over your face. You can't see his face, but you'd bet everything you own on how handsome and pretty he must look right now.

"Well?" Kyle pants against your mouth, and you feel him smirk, "Got your proof?"

"I certainly did," You chuckle, almost entirely forgetting about the migraine for a few seconds, leaning in to catch another kiss.

You both jump when someone knocks loudly on the door. "Yea bettah not be snogging in there!" It's Soap, and your lips pull in a snarl before Kyle kisses it away.

"Come on lovie," Gaz chuckles, tugging on your sleeve again. "I'll help you shower."

And you follow him, like you'll always do.

#Gnome's Prompt Game #cod mw2 #x reader #trinkets from the hoard #gnome correspondence #kyle gaz garrick #kyle garrick x gn!reader #kyle gaz garrick x male reader #kyle garrick x male reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #cod x reader #cod modern warfare #cod mwii #fluff

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fanficwriterlover · 11 months

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Safe With A Ghost

18+ Readers Only

Chapter 6: Gone

Summary: Ghost and his team arrive at the targets location, immediately upon arrival something feels off, he doesn't know what to expect until it's happened-

Expectations: Be Advise~ emotional trauma, military talk, guns, fighting, blood, graphic description, killing shooting, etc.

Pet-Names: Little Lamb

Word Count: 3k

════ ⋆Safe With A Ghost MasterList⋆ ════

═════════ ⋆Chapter 7⋆ ═════════

In chapter 5 I did some revising where this chapter will be focusing on after the fact General Shepherd and Shadow Company betrayed 141. This will be the aftermath of the end of CODMW2 the revised edition. This is not accurate but simply for story purposes. Enjoy !

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Finally arriving at the base Ghost felt like deja vu again getting out of the helicopter. It felt like the same thing that happened a year ago. Seeing this time new faces on the team. As he made his way down the halls of the base Price noticed him giving a wide grin. They both clasped each others forearm as Price spoke "Good seeing you again Simon, how's the little one ?" The thought of his son cooing made him smile a bit before responding gruffly "Growing too fast" Price gives a hearty chuckle "Don't they all." He could tell Ghost was still torn for leaving you as he pats him on the shoulder "I am sorry my friend. But I wouldn't have asked if it wasn't serious." This made Ghost pierce into Price's "How serious ?" He asks gruffly. Price seems to be frowning. "That last missile is in Makarov possession" this made him tense. The name was enough to clench his fist as Price nodded his head. "Especially after General Shepherds betrayal, Laswell been pulling strings with the CIA to track his ass but nothing. As of now we need to focus on finding Makarov." He nods his head for Ghost to follow. Couple months back, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Los Vaqueros, were fighting like hell to find who gave Hassan American missiles only to find out it was due to General Shepherd and the Shadow team negligence. The Shadow company was already dealt with, but Ghost was eager to handle General Shepherd. He did not like betrayal.

Following Price to the briefing room, Laswell, Gaz and Soap were waiting with Colonel Alejandro on camera in Los Almas. Once they got settled, Laswell had a screen up as she began "As of now Makarov, is in Paris. We don't know why. He was last spotted going into this warehouse-" on screen showed a security camera footage of Makarov entering the building it was a large warehouse, but it looked like a normal factory setup, completely oblivious to civilians. Laswell continued "from what we've gathered, this old factory has machines, large enough to fit a-" Soap spoke in a grumble "a Missile" Laswell nodded her head "The rooftop even had a dome so it could possibly open if a missile were to launch. As of now, we haven't seen if he's left the warehouse or is staying low within." She looks at everyone's faces "Right now, the priority is to stop whatever he's doing within. If he's in there, we got clearance to detain." Looking at the screen of Colonel Alejandro he spoke "From what we've gotten out of Valerie, it wasn't much..." He seemed annoyed with this "But she won't deny that the last missile could be in his possession. The minute I found out, I immediately reached out." Laswell nodded her head "We appreciate the help Colonel" Alejandro nodded "Good luck mi amigos" with that he ended as everyone stood silent. "You all leave within the next hour, we need to move quickly before something happens. I'll be tracking your movements and updating you whatever we get through comms. Captain Price will be in charge from here on out. " Price nodded his head gripping his vest "Alright, you heard the lady, let's move out" with that, they geared up, with all weapons possible, Ghost was loaded with all sorts of weapons on his vest and attaching some of his knives and pistols to his thigh straps.

Soap was gearing up too along with Gaz as Soap grumbles "I hope we fuckin get this shit done for once and all" Gaz nods his head curtly"Me and you both mate, this is starting to be a pain in the arse" Ghost was silent as he was looking at a printed picture of you holding Colton, was the first day they had brought him home. Ghost remembers clear as day-

You were carrying your infant in his baby chair, he was curled snuggled in it after they just got out from a long car ride. Ghost of course immediately grabbed your infants car seat from your hand as you were trying to carry it "Simon-" he looks at you with sharp eyes "Y/n, you just bloody birthed our baby, I won't have you carrying any more weight." You couldn't help but give a giggle, the whole pregnancy process was painful. Of course you had to carry the heaviest fetus imaginable, getting obviously his father's DNA as you sigh softly "Yes, still very much your fault for taking over the genes" Simon chuckles as you made your way to the door of your new house. Opening it, Simon was carrying all the baby supplies, the baby, and your bag. He was impressively strong. You couldn’t help but admire the man you’ve loved. Setting the baby stuff bag down on the counter before making his way up to the nursery. You followed him closely as he cautiously carried your infant in the car seat up the stairs. Once inside the nursery he looked to you to grab the baby. He seemed so nervous to hold your son. Only admiring him from a far. You grabbed the infant carefully as it cooed as you tucked him in your arms.

Ghost was watching you the whole time seeing you interact with their infant, it was a sight he wanted to log into memory when things got rough. You look up at Simon then walk up to him, he seems nervous but you give him a stern look "Simon, you need to hold your son at least once..." His eyes looked at the tiny bundle in your arms "I can't, what if I-" you give him a gentle look "You won't hurt him Simon...I'll show you how to hold him. Trust me." Words Simon didn't think he'd ever believe especially in his world but he relented to that word for you. You instruct him to cradle his arms which he does, even though his arms were large, you gently transfer your son into his father's arm. Carefully settling your son in his arm.

In that moment Simon was holding your son, carefully, he seemed so surprised how light the little baby was, even though your whole pregnancy, when you needed some back relieving you were (respectfully) heavy. Seeing the infant slightly squirm, you smile watching his reaction "You're doing great." You say softly then lean up kissing his cheek over his mask. He blushed then glance at you "It's thanks to you...for giving me this opportunity to be a father" his eyes soften looking at you as you look back at him "You're already a great father to Colton" looking at you surprised, it was a name he had first offered up when you both were discussing names. You truly were everything to him, and now you blessed him with a son, someone he'd protect his whole life for and want to make the world safe for him to grow up in. "I love you y/n" he looks at you as you pull down his mask smiling at him "I love you too Simon" embracing in a soft kiss with Simon holding the little Colton Riley. Simon then hands you back their son as you take him confused "Where are you going ?" Simon silently leaves the room though leaving you puzzled until he returns holding a camera. He raises the camera emphasizing that's where he went as you tilt you head more, something Simon always found cute when you were confused Cute fuckin American women he thought, then clearing his throat nervously "I want to take a picture of you two, so I can keep it on me whenever I get sent away" the idea pulled a chord with you, it was a cute idea. You smile gently "Okay, I think that's a great idea" he nods his head grateful to be wearing his balaclava still to hide his blush as he snapped the picture, as it was an old time camera that printed the picture out. He started airing it out gently, as you walk over to his side to look at the shot. Simon's heart was proud of the final results, the picture of you holding Colton was everything he needed to remind him of home.~

Snapping back into the present Ghost finished tacking up he slid the picture of you and Colton into his vest as he holds his rifle "Soap, Gaz let's go." He was ready to go. The sooner he finished this mission the sooner he could return to you and his son. Boarding the craft, along with his team and other recruits he sat at the far end with Price taking a spot across from him. Price shouts for the pilot to take off, since everyone was boarded. With a nod, the pilot his some bottom then starts going down the runway until eventually they're up in air.

Arrival In Paris Airport

With clearance, they were able to land in a base to head to their targets building. Getting off the craft they were then escorted by someone Laswell knew to take some vehicles. They were bullet proof humvees, of course Soap was eager to drive "Aye ! I take the wheel LT !" Ghost gave a low grumble "Not on your life Sargent" he was already striding to the front door to get in, along with a gloomy Soap and snickering Gaz, Ghost couldn't help but think They act like a bunch of kids sometimes, once everyone was in, Price claiming "Shotgun" to sit in the passenger seat, they drove their way to their targets building. 5 other vehicles were in tow, keeping a good distance from the building they hide the humvees in plain sight, using their camouflage with the trees. Getting out of the vehicle Ghost watched everyone else get out as he began to check his rifle in hand. Something felt off, he was getting a buzzing sound in his ear. He began looking around his surroundings as Soap spoke "You good LT ?" Ghost was too busy narrowing his eyes in a direction but before he could say his next words all HELL broke loose. They were ambushed, someone ticked off their location. Quickly Ghost dropped down taking fire in the direction the bullets were coming from. He could hear some of his men were getting shot at already as he cursed "Fuck ! Price we need to retreat ! Go !" Price gave him a look "No Ghost we all leave !" Ghost gives him a glare "Price get in the fuckin car, I'll cover you all ! Go !" Price seemed reluctant but got Soap and Gaz to load up, shouting for anyone else to do the same too, there was no way they'd get out, but because they were so distracted with the people in vehicles they forgot their attention on the Ghost. He strided up to were one sniper was laying, coming behind him and slitting his throat. Another solider saw this and came at him to attack he of course out matched the man when it came to hand to hand combat. Effortlessly, pinning the man to a tree and stabbing him repeatedly. Just when he was going to pull away he felt something stung. He was shot in the shoulder looking behind another bullet hit him in the chest but he began to shoot back, until another hit his leg making him drop down to his knees. He was bleeding profusely. His eyes were blurring, just then some black boots were in his line of sight as he noticed it was a hooded man who spoke "Good to see you Ghost" with that, the man hit him with the hilt of his rifle. And that's all Ghost could remember.

Three Weeks Later

You were about to finish feeding Colton only needing a couple more bites. However your son has become a bit of a fighter to eat and often times seeming to enjoy giving you a hard time. Laughing when you take a breath. "Colton Riley, you are just like your father" you let a soft laugh after finally getting him to take the last spoonful into his mouth. You then began to wonder if Simon was alright, you knew sometimes he'd go weeks without saying anything sometimes he couldn't help it. Yet, some reason you felt he would've asked about Colton or if he missed anything. The last message you got from him was that he was at base, departing. Deep down you knew he wouldn't bring his phone on missions, mostly as he said, he didn't want it to fall into the wrong hands. Which is why sometimes he'll send a message through a different phone he buys for a new mission to keep it different. And of course remain anonymous and use it shortly. Just thinking about the pictures you had recently sent him, Colton was sleeping in one of Simon's hoodie's, one Simon would wear casually. It kept Colton calm, and you think it was because it reminded him of his father. Just then you heard a knock at the door. It was soft. You finish cleaning Colton off then head to the door, as another knock came "I'm coming" you let a soft sigh. Unlocking the door and latches, until you saw something that made your heart and stomach dropped. Price, Soap, and Gaz. You frowned confused, Where's Simon ? but nothing came out of your mouth. All the men were giving you a look, a look you absolutely hated, Sympathy "Price....where's Simon...." You mind was scrambling, you then began to process they were in military uniforms....you always heard about this when they wore their formal wear but your mind refused-no your heart refused to believe that's why they are here...Price spoke softly you almost didn't catch it "Listen little lamb, Simon...is M.I.A...." your eyes widen you were gripping the door, you began looking at each of their faces praying that it was a cruel joke. But they didn't...if anything they looked more sad, and guilty ? You didn't even feel the tears falling down "What do you mean M.I.A-" Price walked towards you tentatively outstretching his arm almost ready to give you support, you didn't even piece together. "We lost Simon....we tried but....he's gone Y/n" with that, you knees collapsed under you Price already holding you as you began to cry heavily, you even started screaming but he pressed you into his chest holding you. Gaz and Soap came in hesitantly seeing Colton in his high chair deciding to take him to his nursery so he didn't see you breaking down. In the moment you felt selfish for not keeping your composure for your son, but it hurt so much. Your Simon, gone ? It wasn't supposed to end like this.... you were wanting Simon to come home and retire and watch Colton grow up together. For over an hour you cried at the doorway in Price's arms, unmoving, broken, and distraught. He let you though even when you screamed and hit at him on his chest "Why didn't you bring him home !" Or "Simon!" Or "You fuckin idiot you were supposed to come home !" Everything that came from your heart poured out from true heartache. But Price said nothing. How could he ? He was feeling guilty for leaving Ghost, and when they tried to find him again they only found his dog tags, covered in blood. A part of Price wanted to cry to, but he wanted to be strong for you. It was something he promised Simon-

Ghost came to his office one day, it was late at night, of course he never slept. He spoke gruffly "Price." Price looked up from the papers he was filling out "Oh Ghost it's you, sit down" but Ghost didn't move he stood staring at him. Price noticed this it's when he figured it was something important he wanted to say. He sat back looking at Ghost setting his pen down "What is it you need Ghost ?" He just stared at him, processing considering it's when he spoke "I need you to promise- no swear something to me." His eyes stared at him with something Price couldn't figure out "Okay, what is it ?" He asks curiously wondering what it was that he'd ask for, he usually wasn't someone who wanted to make promises or have someone swear on something that was until he heard the reason. "Swear to me, if something happens to me, that you would watch over y/n and Colton" Price's eyes looked wide. He saw you as his daughter and Colton as his grandson the notion of Simon even asking made him more surprised. "You're not someone to easily be killed Simon, I don't think that'll -" but Ghost cut him off "I need to hear those words !" It made Price eye him intently, this was the first time Simon showed any emotional attachment, you really were special. A moment of silence filled the room until Price stood up "Simon "Ghost" Riley, I promise and swear to you, if anything happens to you, I'll look after y/n and Colton in your stead." Price could see Ghost's shoulders loosen and slightly drop, almost like he was holding weights he said nothing only nodding his head. Price grabbed his shoulder "You're not going to die on me Simon. Not ever."

Yet here Price was, holding your whimpering body, he just held you, you were becoming exhausted from crying and screaming though. Slowly, he convinced you to stand up, closing the door behind him, carried you to the shared bedroom laying you down, you didn't fight. You looked frozen in place. But he watched you slowly pass out from exhaustion. He left the shared room only to see Soap and Gaz come out of the nursery. Soap spoke in a low tone "How is she ?" Price looked in your direction "She's passed out..." No words were spoken. But the sight of you hurting made Price feel like a failed father. His eyes became cold. "I'm calling Laswell" as his mind thought but the words didn't come out I need to keep trying to find Simon, no matter the cost, dead or alive.

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Thanks for Reading !

Okay I was crying writing this chapter honestly, legit, I had to take an extra day to compose myself. I'm sorry, but we all gotta cry together....chapter 7 coming soon !

ꨄ︎Taglist: @jadama20 @lunamoons-posts @babygirl-panda19 @kat-nee @marshallowy @bi-witch-bxtch @unit-1021 @wwe1rdc0re @crazy-phan-girl13

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ari-kanon · 7 months

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little lamb vest (free shipping over $69!)

#fashion #edits #sugarplum

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daenerystargaryen06 · 19 days

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Times Daenerys has Shown Compassion

A Game of Thrones:

"She brought back a haunch of goat and a basket of fruits and vegetables. Jhiqui roasted the meat with sweetgrass and firepods, basting it with honey as it cooked, and there were melons and pomegranates and plums and some queer eastern fruit Dany did not know. While her handmaids prepared the meal, Dany laid out the clothing she'd had made to her brother's measure: a tunic and leggings of crisp white linen, leather sandals that laced up to the knee, a bronze medallion belt, a leather vest painted with fire-breathing dragons. The Dothraki would respect him more if he looked less a beggar, she hoped, and perhaps he would forgive her for shaming him that day in the grass. He was still her king, after all, and her brother. They were both blood of the dragon. She was arranging the last of his gifts—a sandsilk cloak, green as grass, with a pale grey border that would bring out the silver in his hair—when Viserys arrived, dragging Doreah by the arm. Her eye was red where he'd hit her. "How dare you send this whore to give me commands," he said. He shoved the handmaid roughly to the carpet. The anger took Dany utterly by surprise. "I only wanted … Doreah, what did you say?" [..] "Khaleesi, pardons, forgive me. I went to him, as you bid, and told him you commanded him to join you for supper." [..] "No one commands the dragon," Viserys snarled. "I am your king! I should have sent you back her head!" The Lysene girl quailed, but Dany calmed her with a touch. "Don't be afraid, he won't hurt you. Sweet brother, please, forgive her, the girl misspoke herself, I told her to ask you to sup with me, if it pleases Your Grace." She took him by the hand and drew him across the room. "Look. These are for you." -A Game of Thrones - Daenerys IV

"Across the road, a girl no older than Dany was sobbing in a high thin voice as a rider shoved her over a pile of corpses, facedown, and thrust himself inside her. Other riders dismounted to take their turns. That was the sort of deliverance the Dothraki brought the Lamb Men. I am the blood of the dragon, Daenerys Targaryen reminded herself as she turned her face away. She pressed her lips together and hardened her heart and rode on toward the gate. "Most of Ogo's riders fled," Ser Jorah was saying. "Still, there may be as many as ten thousand captives." Slaves, Dany thought. Khal Drogo would drive them downriver to one of the towns on Slaver's Bay. She wanted to cry, but she told herself that she must be strong. This is war, this is what it looks like, this is the price of the Iron Throne. "I've told the khal he ought to make for Meereen," Ser Jorah said. "They'll pay a better price than he'd get from a slaving caravan. Illyrio writes that they had a plague last year, so the brothels are paying double for healthy young girls, and triple for boys under ten. If enough children survive the journey, the gold will buy us all the ships we need, and hire men to sail them." Behind them, the girl being raped made a heartrending sound, a long sobbing wail that went on and on and on. Dany's hand clenched hard around the reins, and she turned the silver's head. "Make them stop," she commanded Ser Jorah." -A Game of Thrones - Daenerys VII

"The girl was trembling, her eyes wide and vague. Her hair was matted with blood. "Doreah, see to her hurts. You do not have a rider's look, perhaps she will not fear you. The rest, with me." She urged the silver through the broken wooden gate. It was worse inside the town. Many of the houses were afire, and the jaqqa rhan had been about their grisly work. Headless corpses filled the narrow, twisty lanes. They passed other women being raped. Each time Dany reined up, sent her khas to make an end to it, and claimed the victim as slave. One of them, a thick-bodied, flat-nosed woman of forty years, blessed Dany haltingly in the Common Tongue, but from the others she got only flat black stares. They were suspicious of her, she realized with sadness; afraid that she had saved them for some worse fate. "You cannot claim them all, child," Ser Jorah said, the fourth time they stopped, while the warriors of her khas herded her new slaves behind her. "I am khaleesi, heir to the Seven Kingdoms, the blood of the dragon," Dany reminded him. "It is not for you to tell me what I cannot do." Across the city, a building collapsed in a great gout of fire and smoke, and she heard distant screams and the wailing of frightened children." -A Game of Thrones - Daenerys VII

"I will carry you, blood of my blood," Haggo offered. Khal Drogo waved him away. "I need no man's help," he said, in a voice proud and hard. He stood, unaided, towering over them all. A fresh wave of blood ran down his breast, from where Ogo's arakh had cut off his nipple. Dany moved quickly to his side. "I am no man," she whispered, "so you may lean on me." Drogo put a huge hand on her shoulder. She took some of his weight as they walked toward the great mud temple. The three bloodriders followed. Dany commanded Ser Jorah and the warriors of her khas to guard the entrance and make certain no one set the building afire while they were still inside." -A Game of Thrones - Daenerys VII

"Mago seized her, who is Khal Jhaqo's bloodrider now," said Jhogo. "He mounted her high and low and gave her to his khal, and Jhaqo gave her to his other bloodriders. They were six. When they were done with her, they cut her throat." [..] "It was her fate, Khaleesi," said Aggo. If I look back I am lost. "It was a cruel fate," Dany said, "yet not so cruel as Mago's will be. I promise you that, by the old gods and the new, by the lamb god and the horse god and every god that lives. I swear it by the Mother of Mountains and the Womb of the World. Before I am done with them, Mago and Ko Jhaqo will plead for the mercy they showed Eroeh." The Dothraki exchanged uncertain glances. "Khaleesi," the handmaid Irri explained, as if to a child, "Jhaqo is a khal now, with twenty thousand riders at his back." She lifted her head. "And I am Daenerys Stormborn, Daenerys of House Targaryen, of the blood of Aegon the Conqueror and Maegor the Cruel and old Valyria before them. I am the dragon's daughter, and I swear to you, these men will die screaming. Now bring me to Khal Drogo." He was lying on the bare red earth, staring up at the sun." -A Game of Thrones - Daenerys IX

A Clash of Kings:

"We follow the comet," Dany told her khalasar. Once it was said, no word was raised against it. They had been Drogo's people, but they were hers now. The Unburnt, they called her, and Mother of Dragons. Her word was their law. They rode by night, and by day took refuge from the sun beneath their tents. Soon enough Dany learned the truth of Doreah's words. This was no kindly country. They left a trail of dead and dying horses behind them as they went, for Pono, Jhaqo, and the others had seized the best of Drogo's herds, leaving to Dany the old and the scrawny, the sickly and the lame, the broken animals and the ill-tempered. It was the same with the people. They are not strong, she told herself, so I must be their strength. I must show no fear, no weakness, no doubt. However frightened my heart, when they look upon my face they must see only Drogo's queen. She felt older than her fourteen years. If ever she had truly been a girl, that time was done. Three days into the march, the first man died. A toothless oldster with cloudy blue eyes, he fell exhausted from his saddle and could not rise again. An hour later he was done. Blood flies swarmed about his corpse and carried his ill luck to the living. "His time was past," her handmaid Irri declared. "No man should live longer than his teeth." The others agreed. Dany bid them kill the weakest of their dying horses, so the dead man might go mounted into the night lands." -A Clash of Kings - Daenerys I

"Dany hungered and thirsted with the rest of them. The milk in her breasts dried up, her nipples cracked and bled, and the flesh fell away from her day by day until she was lean and hard as a stick, yet it was her dragons she feared for. Her father had been slain before she was born, and her splendid brother Rhaegar as well. Her mother had died bringing her into the world while the storm screamed outside. Gentle Ser Willem Darry, who must have loved her after a fashion, had been taken by a wasting sickness when she was very young. Her brother Viserys, Khal Drogo who was her sun-and-stars, even her unborn son, the gods had claimed them all. They will not have my dragons, Dany vowed. They will not." -A Clash of Kings - Daenerys I

"Yet even as her dragons��prospered, her khalasar withered and died. Around them the land turned ever more desolate. Even devilgrass grew scant; horses dropped in their tracks, leaving so few that some of her people must trudge along on foot. Doreah took a fever and grew worse with every league they crossed. Her lips and hands broke with blood blisters, her hair came out in clumps, and one evenfall she lacked the strength to mount her horse. Jhogo said they must leave her or bind her to her saddle, but Dany remembered a night on the Dothraki sea, when the Lysene girl had taught her secrets so that Drogo might love her more. She gave Doreah water from her own skin, cooled her brow with a damp cloth, and held her hand until she died, shivering. Only then would she permit the khalasar to press on." -A Clash of Kings - Daenerys I

"They saw no sign of other travelers. The Dothraki began to mutter fearfully that the comet had led them to some hell. Dany went to Ser Jorah one morning as they made camp amidst a jumble of black wind-scoured stones. "Are we lost?" she asked him. "Does this waste have no end to it?" [..] "It has an end," he answered wearily. "I have seen the maps the traders draw, my queen. Few caravans come this way, that is so, yet there are great kingdoms to the east, and cities full of wonders. Yi Ti, Qarth, Asshai by the Shadow . . ." [..] "Will we live to see them?" [..] "I will not lie to you. The way is harder than I dared think." The knight's face was grey and exhausted. The wound he had taken to his hip the night he fought Khal Drogo's bloodriders had never fully healed; she could see how he grimaced when he mounted his horse, and he seemed to slump in his saddle as they rode. "Perhaps we are doomed if we press on . . . but I know for a certainty that we are doomed if we turn back." Dany kissed him lightly on the cheek. It heartened her to see him smile. I must be strong for him as well, she thought grimly. A knight he may be, but I am the blood of the dragon." -A Clash of Kings - Daenerys I

"Dany smiled. "Perhaps it's the camels you're smelling. The Qartheen themselves seem sweet enough to my nose." [..] "Sweet smells are sometimes used to cover foul ones." My great bear, Dany thought. I am his queen, but I will always be his cub as well, and he will always guard me. It made her feel safe, but sad as well. She wished she could love him better than she did. -A Clash of Kings - Daenerys II

A Storm of Swords:

"No," said Dany. Groleo watched them from the forecastle, and his crew was watching too. Whitebeard, her bloodriders, Jhiqui, every one had stopped what they were doing at the sound of the slap. "I want to sail now, not on the tide, I want to sail far and fast and never look back. But I can't, can I? There are eight thousand brick eunuchs for sale, and I must find some way to buy them." And with that she left him, and went below. Behind the carved wooden door of the captain's cabin, her dragons were restless. Drogon raised his head and screamed, pale smoke venting from his nostrils, and Viserion flapped at her and tried to perch on her shoulder, as he had when he was smaller. "No," Dany said, trying to shrug him off gently. "You're too big for that now, sweetling." But the dragon coiled his white and gold tail around one arm and dug black claws into the fabric of her sleeve, clinging tightly. Helpless, she sank into Groleo's great leather chair, giggling." -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys II

"Dany's mouth surely twisted at that. Did he see, or is he blind as well as cruel? She turned away quickly, trying to keep her face a mask until she heard the translation. Only then did she allow herself to say, "Whose infants do they slay?" [..] "To win his spiked cap, an Unsullied must go to the slave marts with a silver mark, find some wailing newborn, and kill it before its mother's eyes. In this way, we make certain that there is no weakness left in them." She was feeling faint. The heat, she tried to tell herself. "You take a babe from its mother's arms, kill it as she watches, and pay for her pain with a silver coin?" -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys II

"None." Was it Mormont she was angry with, or this city with its sullen heat, its stinks and sweats and crumbling bricks? "They sell eunuchs, not men. Eunuchs made of brick, like the rest of Astapor. Shall I buy eight thousand brick eunuchs with dead eyes that never move, who kill suckling babes for the sake of a spiked hat and strangle their own dogs? They don't even have names. So don't call them men, ser." [..] "Khaleesi," he said, taken aback by her fury, "the Unsullied are chosen as boys, and trained—" [..] "I have heard all I care to of their training." Dany could feel tears welling in her eyes, sudden and unwanted. Her hand flashed up and cracked Ser Jorah hard across the face. It was either that, or cry." -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys II

"When Aegon the Dragon stepped ashore in Westeros, the kings of Vale and Rock and Reach did not rush to hand him their crowns. If you mean to sit his Iron Throne, you must win it as he did, with steel and dragonfire. And that will mean blood on your hands before the thing is done." Blood and fire, thought Dany. The words of House Targaryen. She had known them all her life. "The blood of my enemies I will shed gladly. The blood of innocents is another matter. Eight thousand Unsullied they would offer me. Eight thousand dead babes. Eight thousand strangled dogs." [..] "Your Grace," said Jorah Mormont, "I saw King's Landing after the Sack. Babes were butchered that day as well, and old men, and children at play. More women were raped than you can count. There is a savage beast in every man, and when you hand that man a sword or spear and send him forth to war, the beast stirs. The scent of blood is all it takes to wake him. Yet I have never heard of these Unsullied raping, nor putting a city to the sword, nor even plundering, save at the express command of those who lead them. Brick they may be, as you say, but if you buy them henceforth the only dogs they'll kill are those you want dead. And you do have some dogs you want dead, as I recall." -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys II

"Valar morghulis," said Missandei, in High Valyrian. "All men must die," Dany agreed, "but not for a long while, we may pray." She leaned back on the pillows and took the girl's hand. "Are these Unsullied truly fearless?" [..] "Yes, Your Grace." -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys III

"Within the perimeter the Unsullied had established, the tents were going up in orderly rows, with her own tall golden pavilion at the center. A second encampment lay close beyond her own; five times the size, sprawling and chaotic, this second camp had no ditches, no tents, no sentries, no horselines. Those who had horses or mules slept beside them, for fear they might be stolen. Goats, sheep, and half-starved dogs wandered freely amongst hordes of women, children, and old men. Dany had left Astapor in the hands of a council of former slaves led by a healer, a scholar, and a priest. Wise men all, she thought, and just. Yet even so, tens of thousands preferred to follow her to Yunkai, rather than remain behind in Astapor. I gave them the city, and most of them were too frightened to take it. The raggle-taggle host of freedmen dwarfed her own, but they were more burden than benefit. Perhaps one in a hundred had a donkey, a camel, or an ox; most carried weapons looted from some slaver's armory, but only one in ten was strong enough to fight, and none was trained. They ate the land bare as they passed, like locusts in sandals. Yet Dany could not bring herself to abandon them as Ser Jorah and her bloodriders urged. I told them they were free. I cannot tell them now they are not free to join me. She gazed at the smoke rising from their cookfires and swallowed a sigh. She might have the best footsoldiers in the world, but she also had the worst." -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys IV

"The chant grew, spread, swelled. It swelled so loud that it frightened her horse, and the mare backed and shook her head and lashed her silver-grey tail. It swelled until it seemed to shake the yellow walls of Yunkai. More slaves were streaming from the gates every moment, and as they came they took up the call. They were running toward her now, pushing, stumbling, wanting to touch her hand, to stroke her horse's mane, to kiss her feet. Her poor bloodriders could not keep them all away, and even Strong Belwas grunted and growled in dismay. Ser Jorah urged her to go, but Dany remembered a dream she had dreamed in the House of the Undying. "They will not hurt me," she told him. "They are my children, Jorah." She laughed, put her heels into her horse, and rode to them, the bells in her hair ringing sweet victory. She trotted, then cantered, then broke into a gallop, her braid streaming behind. The freed slaves parted before her. "Mother," they called from a hundred throats, a thousand, ten thousand. "Mother," they sang, their fingers brushing her legs as she flew by. "Mother, Mother, Mother!" -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys IV

"Ser Jorah looked unhappy. "We'll starve long before they do, Your Grace. There's no food here, nor fodder for our mules and horses. I do not like this river water either. Meereen shits into the Skahazadhan but draws its drinking water from deep wells. Already we've had reports of sickness in the camps, fever and brownleg and three cases of the bloody flux. There will be more if we remain. The slaves are weak from the march."[...] "Freedmen," Dany corrected. "They are slaves no longer." [..] "Slave or free, they are hungry and they'll soon be sick. The city is better provisioned than we are, and can be resupplied by water. Your three ships are not enough to deny them access to both the river and the sea." -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys V

"It is known," Jhiqui agreed, as she poured. "Not to me." Dany set great store by Ser Jorah's counsel, but to leave Meereen untouched was more than she could stomach. She could not forget the children on their posts, the birds tearing at their entrails, their skinny arms pointing up the coast road. "Ser Jorah, you say we have no food left. If I march west, how can I feed my freedmen?" [..] "You can't. I am sorry, Khaleesi. They must feed themselves or starve. Many and more will die along the march, yes. That will be hard, but there is no way to save them. We need to put this scorched earth well behind us." Dany had left a trail of corpses behind her when she crossed the red waste. It was a sight she never meant to see again. "No," she said. "I will not march my people off to die." My children. "There must be some way into this city." -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys V

"Children ran behind their horses, skipping and laughing. Instead of salutes, voices called to her on every side in a babble of tongues. Some of the freedmen greeted her as "Mother," while others begged for boons or favors. Some prayed for strange gods to bless her, and some asked her to bless them instead. She smiled at them, turning right and left, touching their hands when they raised them, letting those who knelt reach up to touch her stirrup or her leg. Many of the freedmen believed there was good fortune in her touch. If it helps give them courage, let them touch me, she thought. There are hard trials yet ahead." -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys V

"Do all gods feel so lonely? Some must, surely. Missandei had told her of the Lord of Harmony, worshiped by the Peaceful People of Naath; he was the only true god, her little scribe said, the god who always was and always would be, who made the moon and stars and earth, and all the creatures that dwelt upon them. Poor Lord of Harmony. Dany pitied him. It must be terrible to be alone for all time, attended by hordes of butterfly women you could make or unmake at a word. Westeros had seven gods at least, though Viserys had told her that some septons said the seven were only aspects of a single god, seven facets of a single crystal. That was just confusing. The red priests believed in two gods, she had heard, but two who were eternally at war. Dany liked that even less. She would not want to be eternally at war." -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys VI

"Dany was shocked. "They want to be slaves?" [..] "The ones who come are well spoken and gently born, sweet queen. Such slaves are prized. In the Free Cities they will be tutors, scribes, bed slaves, even healers and priests. They will sleep in soft beds, eat rich foods, and dwell in manses. Here they have lost all, and live in fear and squalor." [..] "I see." Perhaps it was not so shocking, if these tales of Astapor were true. Dany thought a moment. "Any man who wishes to sell himself into slavery may do so. Or woman." She raised a hand. "But they may not sell their children, nor a man his wife." -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys VI

"Your Grace, the slavers brought their doom on themselves," said Daario Naharis. "You have brought freedom as well," Missandei pointed out. "Freedom to starve?" asked Dany sharply. "Freedom to die? Am I a dragon, or a harpy?" Am I mad? Do I have the taint?" -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys VI

"A dragon," Ser Barristan said with certainty. "Meereen is not Westeros, Your Grace." [..] "But how can I rule seven kingdoms if I cannot rule a single city?" He had no answer to that. Dany turned away from them, to gaze out over the city once again. "My children need time to heal and learn. My dragons need time to grow and test their wings. And I need the same. I will not let this city go the way of Astapor. I will not let the harpy of Yunkai chain up those I've freed all over again." She turned back to look at their faces. "I will not march." [..] "What will you do then, Khaleesi?" asked Rakharo." -A Storm of Swords - Daenerys VI

A Dance with Dragons:

"She had not forgotten the slave children the Great Masters had nailed up along the road from Yunkai. They had numbered one hundred sixty-three, a child every mile, nailed to mileposts with one arm outstretched to point her way. After Meereen had fallen, Dany had nailed up a like number of Great Masters. Swarms of flies had attended their slow dying, and the stench had lingered long in the plaza. Yet some days she feared that she had not gone far enough. These Meereenese were a sly and stubborn people who resisted her at every turn. They had freed their slaves, yes … only to hire them back as servants at wages so meagre that most could scarce afford to eat. Those too old or young to be of use had been cast into the streets, along with the infirm and the crippled. And still the Great Masters gathered atop their lofty pyramids to complain of how the dragon queen had filled their noble city with hordes of unwashed beggars, thieves, and whores. To rule Meereen I must win the Meereenese, however much I may despise them. "I am ready," she told Irri." -A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys I

"If he proposes again that I wed King Cleon, I'll throw a slipper at his head, Dany thought, but for once the Astapori envoy made no mention of a royal marriage. Instead he said, "The time has come for Astapor and Meereen to end the savage reign of the Wise Masters of Yunkai, who are sworn foes to all those who live in freedom. Great Cleon bids me tell you that he and his new Unsullied will soon march." His new Unsullied are an obscene jape. "King Cleon would be wise to tend his own gardens and let the Yunkai'i tend theirs." It was not that Dany harbored any love for Yunkai. She was coming to regret leaving the Yellow City untaken after defeating its army in the field. The Wise Masters had returned to slaving as soon as she moved on, and were busy raising levies, hiring sellswords, and making alliances against her." -A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys I

"The noble Grazdan had once owned a slave woman who was a very fine weaver, it seemed; the fruits of her loom were greatly valued, not only in Meereen, but in New Ghis and Astapor and Qarth. When this woman had grown old, Grazdan had purchased half a dozen young girls and commanded the crone to instruct them in the secrets of her craft. The old woman was dead now. The young ones, freed, had opened a shop by the harbor wall to sell their weavings. Grazdan zo Galare asked that he be granted a portion of their earnings. "They owe their skill to me," he insisted. "I plucked them from the auction bloc and gave them to the loom." Dany listened quietly, her face still. When he was done, she said, "What was the name of the old weaver?" [..] "The slave?" Grazdan shifted his weight, frowning. "She was … Elza, it might have been. Or Ella. It was six years ago she died. I have owned so many slaves, Your Grace." [..] "Let us say Elza. Here is our ruling. From the girls, you shall have nothing. It was Elza who taught them weaving, not you. From you, the girls shall have a new loom, the finest coin can buy. That is for forgetting the name of the old woman." -A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys I

"Reznak wrung his hands. "N-nine, Magnificence. Foul work it was, and wicked. A dreadful night, dreadful." Nine. The word was a dagger in her heart. Every night the shadow war was waged anew beneath the stepped pyramids of Meereen. Every morn the sun rose upon fresh corpses, with harpies drawn in blood on the bricks beside them. Any freedman who became too prosperous or too outspoken was marked for death. Nine in one night, though … That frightened her. "Tell me." -A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys II

"Reznak mo Reznak gasped. "Magnificence, where is the coin to come from to pay wages for so many men?" [..] "From the pyramids. Call it a blood tax. I will have a hundred pieces of gold from every pyramid for each freedman that the Harpy's Sons have slain." That brought a smile to the Shavepate's face. "It will be done," he said, "but Your Radiance should know that the Great Masters of Zhak and Merreq are making preparations to quit their pyramids and leave the city." Daenerys was sick unto death of Zhak and Merreq; she was sick of all the Mereenese, great and small alike. "Let them go, but see that they take no more than the clothes upon their backs. Make certain that all their gold remains here with us. Their stores of food as well." -A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys II

"How else, to grow a soldier? Your Radiance enjoyed my dancers. Would it surprise you to know that they are slaves, bred and trained in Yunkai? They have been dancing since they were old enough to walk. How else to achieve such perfection?" He took a swallow of his wine. "They are expert in all the erotic arts as well. I had thought to make Your Grace a gift of them." [..] "By all means." Dany was unsurprised. "I shall free them." That made him wince. "And what would they do with freedom? As well give a fish a suit of mail. They were made to dance." [..] "Made by who? Their masters? Perhaps your dancers would sooner build or bake or farm. Have you asked them?" [..] "Perhaps your elephants would sooner be nightingales. Instead of sweet song, Meereen's nights would be filled with thunderous trumpetings, and your trees would shatter beneath the weight of great grey birds." Xaro sighed. "Daenerys, my delight, beneath that sweet young breast beats a tender heart … but take counsel from an older, wiser head. Things are not always as they seem. Much that may seem evil can be good. Consider rain." [..] "Rain?" Does he take me for a fool, or just a child? "We curse the rain when it falls upon our heads, yet without it we should starve. The world needs rain … and slaves. You make a face, but it is true. Consider Qarth. In art, music, magic, trade, all that makes us more than beasts, Qarth sits above the rest of mankind as you sit at the summit of this pyramid … but below, in place of bricks, the magnificence that is the Queen of Cities rests upon the backs of slaves. Ask yourself, if all men must grub in the dirt for food, how shall any man lift his eyes to contemplate the stars? If each of us must break his back to build a hovel, who shall raise the temples to glorify the gods? For some men to be great, others must be enslaved." He was too eloquent for her. Dany had no answer for him, only the raw feeling in her belly. "Slavery is not the same as rain," she insisted. "I have been rained on and I have been sold. It is not the same. No man wants to be owned." -A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys III

"I know that the Mother of Dragons will not abandon us in our hour of peril. Lend us your Unsullied to defend our walls." And if I do, who will defend my walls? "Many of my freedmen were slaves in Astapor. Perhaps some will wish to help defend your king. That is their choice, as free men. I gave Astapor its freedom. It is up to you to defend it." [..] "We are all dead, then. You gave us death, not freedom." Ghael leapt to his feet and spat into her face. Strong Belwas seized him by the shoulder and slammed him down onto the marble so hard that Dany heard Ghael's teeth crack. The Shavepate would have done worse, but she stopped him. "Enough," she said, dabbing at her cheek with the end of her tokar. "No one has ever died from spittle. Take him away." They dragged him out feet first, leaving several broken teeth and a trail of blood behind. Dany would gladly have sent the rest of the petitioners away … but she was still their queen, so she heard them out and did her best to give them justice." -A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys III

"It was all Dany could do not to laugh. "Not well. Last night three Qartheen galleys sailed up the Skahazadhan under the cover of darkness. The Mother's Men loosed flights of fire arrows at their sails and flung pots of burning pitch onto their decks, but the galleys slipped by quickly and suffered no lasting harm. The Qartheen mean to close the river to us, as they have closed the bay. And they are no longer alone. Three galleys from New Ghis have joined them, and a carrack out of Tolos." The Tolosi had replied to her request for an alliance by proclaiming her a whore and demanding that she return Meereen to its Great Masters. Even that was preferable to the answer of Mantarys, which came by way of caravan in a cedar chest. Inside she had found the heads of her three envoys, pickled. "Perhaps your gods can help us. Ask them to send a gale and sweep the galleys from the bay." [..] "I shall pray and make sacrifice. Mayhaps the gods of Ghis will hear me." Galazza Galare sipped her wine, but her eyes did not leave Dany. "Storms rage within the walls as well as without. More freedmen died last night, or so I have been told." [..] "Three." Saying it left a bitter taste in her mouth. "The cowards broke in on some weavers, freedwomen who had done no harm to anyone. All they did was make beautiful things. I have a tapestry they gave me hanging over my bed. The Sons of the Harpy broke their loom and raped them before slitting their throats." [..] "This we have heard. And yet Your Radiance has found the courage to answer butchery with mercy. You have not harmed any of the noble children you hold as hostage." "Not as yet, no." Dany had grown fond of her young charges. Some were shy and some were bold, some sweet and some sullen, but all were innocent. "If I kill my cupbearers, who will pour my wine and serve my supper?" she said, trying to make light of it." -A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys IV

"The Astapori stumbled after them in a ghastly procession that grew longer with every yard they crossed. Some spoke tongues she did not understand. Others were beyond speaking. Many lifted their hands to Dany, or knelt as her silver went by. "Mother," they called to her, in the dialects of Astapor, Lys, and Old Volantis, in guttural Dothraki and��the liquid syllables of Qarth, even in the Common Tongue of Westeros. "Mother, please … mother, help my sister, she is sick … give me food for my little ones … please, my old father … help him … help her … help me …" I have no more help to give, Dany thought, despairing. The Astapori had no place to go. Thousands remained outside Meereen's thick walls—men and women and children, old men and little girls and newborn babes. Many were sick, most were starved, and all were doomed to die. Daenerys dare not open her gates to let them in. She had tried to do what she could for them. She had sent them healers, Blue Graces and spell-singers and barber-surgeons, but some of those had sickened as well, and none of their arts had slowed the galloping progression of the flux that had come on the pale mare. Separating the healthy from the sick had proved impractical as well. Her Stalwart Shields had tried, pulling husbands away from wives and children from their mothers, even as the Astapori wept and kicked and pelted them with stones. A few days later, the sick were dead and the healthy ones were sick. Dividing the one from the other had accomplished nothing. Even feeding them had grown difficult. Every day she sent them what she could, but every day there were more of them and less food to give them. It was growing harder to find drivers willing to deliver the food as well. Too many of the men they had sent into the camp had been stricken by the flux themselves. Others had been attacked on the way back to the city. Yesterday a wagon had been overturned and two of her soldiers killed, so today the queen had determined that she would bring the food herself. Every one of her advisors had argued fervently against it, from Reznak and the Shavepate to Ser Barristan, but Daenerys would not be moved. "I will not turn away from them," she said stubbornly. "A queen must know the sufferings of her people." -A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys VI

"They're past cursing," said Symon Stripeback. Little children with swollen stomachs trailed after them, too weak or scared to beg. Gaunt men with sunken eyes squatted amidst sand and stones, shitting out their lives in stinking streams of brown and red. Many shat where they slept now, too feeble to crawl to the ditches she'd commanded them to dig. Two women fought over a charred bone. Nearby a boy of ten stood eating a rat. He ate one-handed, the other clutching a sharpened stick lest anyone try to wrest away his prize. Unburied dead lay everywhere. Dany saw one man sprawled in the dirt under a black cloak, but as she rode past his cloak dissolved into a thousand flies. Skeletal women sat upon the ground clutching dying infants. Their eyes followed her. Those who had the strength called out. "Mother … please, Mother … bless you, Mother …" Bless me, Dany thought bitterly. Your city is gone to ash and bone, your people are dying all around you. I have no shelter for you, no medicine, no hope. Only stale bread and wormy meat, hard cheese, a little milk. Bless me, bless me. What kind of mother has no milk to feed her children?" -A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys VI

"Daenerys gave him a quizzical look. "Lions?" [..] "Three of them. The dwarfs will not expect them." She frowned. "The dwarfs have wooden swords. Wooden armor. How do you expect them to fight lions?" "Badly," said Hizdahr, "though perhaps they will surprise us. More like they will shriek and run about and try to climb out of the pit. That is what makes this a folly." Dany was not pleased. "I forbid it." [..] "Gentle queen. You do not want to disappoint your people." [..] "You swore to me that the fighters would be grown men who had freely consented to risk their lives for gold and honor. These dwarfs did not consent to battle lions with wooden swords. You will stop it. Now." The king's mouth tightened. For a heartbeat Dany thought she saw a flash of anger in those placid eyes. "As you command." Hizdahr beckoned to his pitmaster. "No lions," he said when the man trotted over, whip in hand." -A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys IX

"Never, said the grass, in the gruff tones of Jorah Mormont. You were warned, Your Grace. Let this city be, I said. Your war is in Westeros, I told you. The voice was no more than a whisper, yet somehow Dany felt that he was walking just behind her. My bear, she thought, my old sweet bear, who loved me and betrayed me. She had missed him so. She wanted to see his ugly face, to wrap her arms around him and press herself against his chest, but she knew that if she turned around Ser Jorah would be gone. "I am dreaming," she said. "A waking dream, a walking dream. I am alone and lost." Lost, because you lingered, in a place that you were never meant to be, murmured Ser Jorah, as softly as the wind. Alone, because you sent me from your side." -A Dance with Dragons - Daenerys X

Many antis love to say that Dany is evil, a slave master, uncaring, etc. Yet here we see in her passages that she is compassionate, sympathetic, and has a high disdain for unnecessary violence.

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