#moving these characters around like little chess pieces
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this is what it looks like, right before you fall
➔ Dieter Bravo x nonbinary!reader-insert!oc - series masterlist
➔ 5.3k words
➔ CHAPTER ONE // You meet the cast and vow yourself to professionalism as filming starts, but one particular costar tests your willpower.
➔ Chapter rated PG-13 for age gap (reader is 21, dieter is 45), kind of pervy!dieter but not in a malicious way/reader reciprocates, some impure thoughts on reader’s part, written with basically no knowledge of how the film industry actually works. [please let me know if i missed any warnings that should be included :)]
➔ this reader insert character is: unnamed, afab and nonbinary (has female anatomy and uses they/them pronouns), neurodivergent, latinx, 21 years old, an actor playing a female character. I’m trying to keep them a physically blank slate but it is mentioned that they have longer hair (past shoulder-length) for the role and they wear a bikini for the role at one point as well. They are mentioned to be shorter than Dieter.
Everyone in this room is a seasoned professional. They move with poise and calculation, like chess pieces assessing their next best move. It’s reminiscent of a muster of peacocks—plumage spread as they strut around and size each other up, each wondering who will win the desperate yet subtle battle for dominance. They mingle amongst themselves and make small talk; all of it is utterly meaningless.
This is your first professional cocktail party, and if this is how they’re all going to be you definitely won’t be attending any more.
But then again, maybe it isn’t always like this. Maybe this is just the mania of the world being deemed “post-pandemic” despite the very real crisis still lurking in the shadows. You can’t blame people for how they cope with isolation and despair, even if it seems a little over-dramatic to you personally.
There’s maybe one other person in this room who seems to realize how ridiculous this whole game is, but you’re too nervous to go over and talk to him.
He looks comfortable amongst the chaos. He doesn’t strut around seeking conversation like the others—he lets them come to him. And they do; despite how formidable he appears to you, they’re all drawn to him like magnets. His presence has its own center of gravity, and everyone around is merely a lost orbiter. He reels them in one by one, chats with them—maybe even insults them a little–and then spits them back out into the stratosphere of the room. And they keep coming back for more, because he’s intoxicating.
Dieter Bravo is fucking terrifying for a man who’s shirt buttons aren’t aligned to the proper holes.
“Hi.”
You hadn’t even noticed him approaching, as focused as you were on looking anywhere except him. His raspy voice makes you jump–makes your stomach lurch like a phantom step on the stairs. His dark eyes are penetrating in the way they stare at you over the rim of his sepia-tinted sunglasses. He’s looking through you, not at you. There’s something so thoroughly appraising about his gaze, as if he’s sizing you up.
“Hi,” you whisper back. You wonder if he’s like a bear, if you need to make yourself look bigger and scarier in order to appease him. But instead, you shrink–he makes you feel so small. Like you’re nothing but a speck of dust on the underside of one of his well-worn crocs; and maybe you are. Maybe you’re in way over your head here.
“I dunno if this is gonna work,” he hums, eyes lecherous and languid in the way they drag over your body. “You’re too hot to be my daughter.”
You choke on your drink, legitimately splutter and cough; of all the millions of things you imagined him saying in your mind, that wasn’t even in the realm of possibility. But he seems completely unfazed by your outburst, waiting patiently for you to regain the ability to breathe like a normal human being.
What can you even say to that? The hottest man in the room–albeit a man who’s more than twice your age–is passively hitting on you. And if he were anyone else, you would be outraged by how casually he does it. But he’s Dieter fucking Bravo, and you think you’d let him get away with just about anything; which says way more about you than it does about him.
Thankfully, he saves you from your swirling mind–redirects as if it was the most casual of passing comments. “Is this your first meet and greet?”
“No, I’ve left my house a couple times before.” It’s an unintentionally snarky comment, the kind that would normally get you in trouble. But Dieter actually laughs–well, it’s more of a snort than a laugh, but its purpose is clear–and you wonder if maybe this whole situation isn’t as bad as it seemed a few short minutes ago.
“First time in front of a camera?” He asks, absentmindedly swirling the neon green liquid–absynthe? antifreeze?–that resides in the crystal glass his right hand cradles. “I tried to find you on IMDb but nothing came up.”
“I’ve done some commercial work,” you admit, feeling a little sheepish; and a little caught off guard, flattered even, that he’s been researching you. “Nothing like this, though.”
“How’d you get the role?” The question sounds deeper than it really is–distrustful, in a way.
You simply shrug. “I guess my audition was good.”
“I guess it was.” You don’t know exactly what he’s insinuating, but you feel like you should be offended. There’s no malice or aggression left in his dark eyes, though–whatever you’ve shown him, he’s liked it. “We’re going to have fun.”
“We are?”
“Mhm.” He takes a sip of his drink, and you can tell he’s trying not to make a face as the radioactive-looking liquid meets his tongue. “We should rehearse lines. In your room. Build our chemistry.”
There isn’t a singular cell in your brain that believes there’s no underlying motive to the invitation. And even yet, you accept. You kind of get the sense that he wouldn’t accept no as an answer, anyway.
He nods his acknowledgement, and then just as quickly as he had appeared, he’s melting seamlessly back into the buzz of your fellow costars.
You don’t realize how hard your heart is beating until he’s not standing over you anymore. With a sip of your drink, you do everything you can to will your breathing back to normal. There’s no reason a simple man should have such an effect on you.
But there’s really nothing simple about Dieter Bravo. He’s imposing. He’s been in this industry for as long as you’ve been alive and it shows in the way he carries himself. There’s confidence in his strut, an undeniable carefreeness to his appearance. He’s a professional; he’s everything you hope to someday be.
You promised yourself that you wouldn’t act up over the star-strewn cast, and you’ve held true to that promise as of yet. But Dieter Bravo poses a challenge. Especially with the shameless flirting and the way his eyes linger on your body, you feel yourself becoming more and more starstruck with each passing moment you’re in his presence.
You’re suddenly desperate for this thing to be over with so you can go back to your room and unwind. Your nerves are taught like an over-tuned guitar and liable to snap at any moment.
Dinner goes as smoothly as it can, albeit slowly. You’re stuck at the end of the table, sandwiched between two other actors who are around your age and clearly know each other from the way they keep talking to each other through you; and Dieter is at the opposite end, which is both a blessing and a curse. At least you’re not close enough to smell the warm, woodsy spice of his cologne—it lingered in your nostrils for a solid five minutes even after he walked away from you earlier—but you’re far enough away that he has a good angle to stare at you.
And stare he does. You can feel his eyes tracking every move you make. He doesn’t even look away when your eyes catch him; the cocky bastard smirks. He looks you right in the eyes over the rims of his sunglasses while the corner of his mouth tilts up and he has to know that it goes straight to your core.
The minutes pass like molasses with his attention on you, and it feels like a weight’s been lifted off your shoulders when it’s finally time to turn in for the night.
You didn’t get a chance to introduce yourself to half of the cast because you were so busy being an unimposing wallflower, but you’ll worry about that tomorrow. For now, you’re walking to your room as fast as your legs can possibly carry you.
Shooting starts in the morning, and you really need a good night’s rest. You want to start strong and prove yourself. But you stay up into the wee hours of the morning anyway, laying in your oversized hotel bed and staring at the ceiling, wondering if Dieter’s going to come knock on your door to “rehearse lines” like he suggested.
He doesn’t, and you don’t know why you feel so disappointed about it.
You wake up from your four hours of sleep with a little bit clearer of a mind, surprisingly. Dieter’s hot and he’d be a once-in-a-lifetime lay, but you’re playing his daughter in this show. How seriously do you want to be taken in this industry? Because banging the actor who plays your father in your first serious project is decidedly not the route to being taken seriously as a movie star; in fact, it’s the kind of scandal that could end your career before it even starts.
You shower, do your basic morning skincare routine, get dressed, and head to set. All the while, you chant your new mantra: Dieter Bravo is off limits no matter how badly you want to play right into his hands. His big hands. His big meaty hands that you want all over your–
“Well hello!”
The woman who greets you as you walk into the hair and makeup tent is way too chipper for 7AM.
“Hi,” you say, a little shyer than you mean to sound; at least you can blame it on the early hour and the fact you haven’t had any coffee yet.
“I’m Cynthia, I use she/her pronouns. It’s nice to meet you.” Cynthia is blonde and tall, almost imposingly so. She’s sturdily built and graceful–there’s an almost feline quality to her movements. She’s gorgeous, and not just because of her perfectly styled hair and makeup.
You take a deep breath before giving her your introduction. This is something you’ve contemplated a lot prior to arriving, and even more so in the long, isolated hours of quarantine in your room. She/her doesn’t do the job, and you’ve known it for a while; but you let people use them anyway, because it’s easier to appease them than to constantly be correcting everyone. After intensive consideration, though, you want to go into this new chapter of your life as your true self.
You take another deep breath and then you give her your name, followed by “they/them.”
She smiles so warmly, but she doesn’t comment on it. No, “oh!” or “that’s so brave!” or any of the other thousand responses you’ve gotten to providing the pronouns you’re most comfortable with.
She guides you to her chair and she starts chatting away about anything and everything but your gender identity; that simple, wordless acceptance is such a refreshing change of pace from what you’re used to that you choke up a little bit.
You manage to swallow it down without her noticing, thankfully. You’re going to be dealing with Cynthia every day for the foreseeable future and you really don’t want her thinking you’re a loser.
You look like a completely different person when she’s done with you. Your entire face is coated with a thin layer of makeup that evens your skin tone and shrinks your pores. There’s thin, symmetrical wings of eyeliner on your eyelids, and your hair is curled in perfect blow-out waves. The outfit pulls the whole thing together: a Guns & Roses t-shirt underneath an unbuttoned long-sleeved flannel and jean shorts that hug your waist tightly but taper off around your thighs.
Cynthia’s a miracle worker, truly. You look exactly like the freshly-graduated, soul-searching, 1970’s time capsule misfit teen you’re supposed to be playing for eight episodes worth of HBO drama. It’s like meeting Charlotte “Charlie” Herrera for the first time, except you are her.
It’s a lot easier to get into character when you look the part; although becoming someone else has never been something you’ve necessarily struggled with. You take a deep, steadying breath; and then suddenly, you’re a different person. It’s that simple.
You’ve had some minor success with acting prior to landing this role. You always landed leads in school plays, and you shone in the silly little YouTube videos your high school friends liked to make. Acting comes naturally to you, and when people ask how you do it, what’s your method, you don’t really know how to answer. You just do it.
You’re not humble enough to try to deny the fact that you’re talented. The executive producer called you within half an hour of you submitting your audition tape for this role, and he didn’t stop complimenting you for another half an hour. There’s just some kind of special compartmentalization your brain accomplishes when you have a character to play; you flick off your “you” switch, and flick on your “character” switch.
You’re sure your therapist would say that it’s easy for you because of your natural proclivity for escapism. Your parents would probably just say you’re a psychopath. Whatever it is, you have a knack for acting, and it shows. It’s as easy and natural as breathing.
There’s a flurry of activity around you as you settle on your mark: an unevenly-stuffed floral print couch in the living room of your character’s shoebox home. It’s small, but it feels lived in. There’s photos in mismatched frames of you and Dieter on the walls and it puts a weird sensation in the pit of your stomach; it takes you aback how realistic and natural the photoshop is for set pieces that probably won’t even be in most frames of the show. There’s eclectic trinkets and pieces of period-accurate paraphernalia on shelves and side tables. You could almost believe you’ve been transported back in time if you ignore the huge cameras and empty windows.
Your costar walks in and suddenly the nerves hit you in full force.
This is it; this is your big moment. This needs to be flawless because first impressions stick. Especially to someone like Dalton Amari, who’s been acting since he was in diapers. Even though he’s barely a year older than you, he’s a bonafide star. He’s got an IMDb filmography that’s a mile long and he’s won countless awards. You need to be on your game because you’ll be damned if you’re going to disappoint someone like him.
He’s handsome and imposingly tall as he towers over you, dark-haired and dark-eyed with blindingly white teeth that contrast the light brown tone of his skin. You have friends who swoon every time he posts on Instagram; it’s surreal, being in the same room as him like this, with him smiling at you like you’re important.
“Hi again,” he greets as he sits next to you, body moving closer to you at the instruction of the director.
You feel a little more at ease like this, despite how formidable a scene partner he is career-wise; he’s the kindest of all the costars you met last night. He was one of the few people who actually made an effort to approach you, after all–introduced himself with that charming smile and everything.
“Hi.”
“You look great,” he says with a noticeable scan of your figure. “Just like my grandma used to.”
It’s the exact kind of icebreaker you need to completely melt the tension; you laugh, and he laughs with you.
The director–a man named Jeff with a graying beard thick enough to clothe a family of four–walks over with a smile on his face. “This is the exact kind of chemistry I want onscreen, okay? Nice and light, make it look effortless.”
“Sure thing, boss man.” Dalton’s long, blown-out hair flops into his face when he nods, and you can tell it irritates him. “God, how do people put up with this shit? Remind me to never grow my hair out again.”
“You’re telling me,” you respond with a laugh–your hair is even longer than his.
This first scene is surprisingly easy. He’s so talented that it rubs off on you and builds up your confidence until you’re commanding the scene effortlessly. You lounge on the couch with him and lament over approaching adulthood, recounting the glory days of your characters’ shared high school experiences now that they’re over for good. You feel like you’re really there, in that time capsule moment of late May 1976, shooting the shit with your high school sweetheart boyfriend. It’s easy to forget that you know what happens between Charlie and Trevor, Dalton’s character; that the story has already been told all the way through. Right now, in this moment with his arm around your shoulders and your hand on his thigh, it’s just beginning. You’re three years younger than you really are, and you’re in love with this boy who’s looking at you like you hung the very stars from the sky.
“Cut!” Jeff calls, and you pull away from Dalton’s loose grip. “That was perfect you two, keep it up!”
Just like that you’re you again–not Charlie, not Trevor’s girlfriend, not anyone else. The transition is that simple and seamless.
You catch a glimpse of your smiling face next to Dieter’s in a brass-framed photo, and you feel that weird, twisting sense of complication again. For a blissful moment in time, as Charlie, life was without uncertainty. When you’re her, there’s a script and a set destiny that you know will play out exactly how it’s supposed to. When you’re you, you don’t know what’s going to come next. Maybe that’s why acting has always been easy or you. You crave the predictability and certainty that comes with a scripted ending. You know how the final page plays out, and you know exactly what happens along the way.
Life, unfortunately, isn’t that simple.
“Hey,” Dalton says, voice a little softer than the voice he uses when he’s Trevor. “You did great. Don’t be nervous.”
You don’t know how he knows you’re so lost in thought–probably the incessant bouncing of your left knee.
“Thanks,” you murmur in return, but you can’t meet his eyes. You’ve never been particularly good at taking compliments, even if they’re deserved.
“Alright, it’s class time!” Jeff interrupts with a clap of his hands. He’s notorious for his strict scheduling. “Wardrobe!”
You have two more scenes today and they somehow, miraculously, go just as well as the first. There’s no sign of Dieter, but you knew before you even got out of bed that he wasn’t on the call sheet for today. Tomorrow, however, is a different story. There are four scenes on the schedule, and the last one of the day is just you and him.
You’re glad you have some time to prepare for it, because you know that no matter how hard you try, you’re going to be self-conscious around him. He’s not just attractive or charismatic or any of the other things you’ve come to view him as; he’s something of a role model. You want to impress him, but you also want to learn from him; and you really, really don’t want to make a fool of yourself anywhere in his general vicinity. It might be easier said than done with those big brown chocolate-chunk eyes of his following your every move.
You adjourn to your hotel room and order room service, “untitled episode one” script in your lap. You’ve read it through about a million times, but tonight you pay special attention to your first scene with Dieter. You need it to be as flawless as today’s scenes went. You need him to be as impressed as Dalton was, because his opinion means more to you than anyone’s.
You also pay special attention to that particular scene because it’s going to be a real test of your abilities; looking up into that handsome face and remembering your lines the way you’re supposed to is going to be your crucible.
You check the time around midnight and decide it’s late enough; pushing yourself any further could just serve to undo the effort you’ve put in. A certain Instagram notification on the screen catches your eye: “@bravo69 started following you”. It’s Dieter’s verified Instagram account, and the notification is from two minutes ago.
You stay up for longer than you care to admit ruminating on the fact that Dieter Bravo is scrolling through your Instagram at midnight. Maybe, just maybe, you’ve gotten under his skin the way he’s gotten under yours.
You’re trying so desperately not to get your hopes up, but it’s hard not to.
Cynthia in hair and makeup can tell you’re not sleeping well, even without the way you keep drifting off and jolting awake in her chair. She slathers caffeine under your eyes and does her best to reverse the zombie state you’re starting to transform into.
She gives you a look a lot like a reproachful mother might. “Are you really losing sleep over this? You were fantastic yesterday!”
There’s just something about her that makes you so comfortable–like she’s been a friend you’ve known for years rather than a coworker you only just met yesterday.
“Yeah, but what if it was a fluke and I do horrible today?”
She actually scoffs, like it’s the most impossible thing she’s ever heard, and her smile is so wonderfully disarming. “If you always think like that, you’re never gonna get a damned wink in your life.”
“I’ve never been very good at sleeping anyway,” you admit with a scornful little huff.
“Well, you’d better try your best. There’s only so much I can do for you.” She gives you a cartoon-worthy wink as she looks at you in the mirror, and it makes you loosen up considerably.
She’s right. You’re here, and confidence is key at this stage. If you act like the crew is taking some big chance on you because you’re a new talent, they’re going to see it that way too. If you act like you belong here, it’ll make the whole thing that much easier.
Fake it ‘til you make it, they say. You suppose whoever “they” are, they’re actually right in this situation.
Today’s scenes are a little more important to the plot of the show. Yesterday you worked on character establishment and setting the environment; today is all about the inciting incident. It all starts with pool party part two.
Wardrobe stuffs you in a period-typical orange patterned bikini, carefully selected to not be too revealing while still giving the audience something to appreciate; it’s eye roll worthy, but underneath the corniness of it there’s something kind of exciting about potentially being a sex symbol.
It’s the beginning of summer in the Midwest–at least on screen. In reality it’s late July, and it’s sweltering outside at the little time capsule brick house production rented for this scene. There are teen-aged extras all over the place pretending to be celebrating the end of another school year, all perfectly styled to 1976 as they splash about in the pool or grab vintage-looking Coke bottles from a cooler next to the property’s backyard shed.
Dalton is here, bare-chested and abs gleaming, draped over a poolside lounger. You’re directed into his arms, and the press of his skin is a little uncomfortable. You’ve never particularly liked being this close to strangers, especially when wearing so little, but there’s no backing out now. Every scantily-clad inch of your skin is pressed against his, his arm wrapped around your waist to keep you close.
Charlie’s best friend, Amara–played by none other than Kelsie Burton, an actress who’s been in just about every coming-of-age flick in the past five years–sits on the lounger next to yours. She’s drop dead gorgeous, with freckled pale skin and long, shiny black hair. She’s the archetype, and you feel like a complete foil in every way. You have to take a deep breath and remember that it’s not a competition–and even if it was, you’re technically winning.
The dialogue is a little awkward in this scene, but it’s on purpose. The three characters have been close friends since middle school, but things have shifted ever since Charlie and Trevor started dating. Amara feels like a third wheel, and it’s not exactly unreasonable.
This is the beginning, the first push of the boulder down the steep hill of plot. The three of you sit together pondering what life will be like now that high school is over and discussing ways to make the summer the most memorable it can be. A challenge is made, an oath taken. This summer is going to be the most unforgettable one of all.
You shoot a few takes of the inciting conversation, and then it’s on to the fun part–shooting some filler scenes of pool party revelry.
It’s easy to forget you’re not a fresh-faced teenager anymore like this. The three of you splash around in the water with your “classmates” and laugh and play games and have fun. It doesn’t feel like there’s cameras or crewmembers or anyone else around but you and your friends. And that’s really what they feel like–friends. Maybe they’re both just good actors, but a hopeful little part of you wonders if you might actually be able to build meaningful relationships with them.
The fun can’t last forever though, and the scene wrap comes before you’re ready for it–partially because you’re enjoying yourself and don’t want it to end, but partially because you know what comes next. Dieter.
You’re shuttled back to set wrapped in a towel, still soaking wet but smiling despite the nerves twisting in your gut. Even if this last scene for the day goes to shit, at least you had an incredible morning.
You’re turning a corner on your way to wardrobe when you run smack into someone tall and sturdy. There’s a force to the sudden collision that makes you grunt and lose your balance (and towel), but big, strong hands quickly come to steady you.
You look up, ready to fumble out an apology, when you find a set of deep brown eyes and a handsome, smirking face.
Whatever you were going to say dies at the base of your throat when you notice the way Dieter’s eyes drag over your soaking wet, bikini-clad form. You can’t help but let yourself do the same; this is the first time you’ve seen him in character, after all.
He seems even broader and bigger than the first time you met him, decked out in this khaki-colored sheriff’s uniform. It hugs his soft yet sturdy frame perfectly, only complemented by the heavy duty belt and the star-shaped badge pinned to his chest. His shaggy hair has been trimmed down to a respectable length, and his signature patchy-stubbly beard has been reduced to a simple, handsome mustache. He’s a time capsule of a man, and he looks so fucking good.
“Is that what they’ve got you wearing for our scene?” He asks, interrupting your moment of observation. His hands are still firmly on your waist despite the fact that your balance has long since been regained.
“N-no,” you stumble over your own tongue. “I’m on my way to change right now.”
“Damn,” he mumbles–he actually sounds disappointed.
It’s been long enough, and his hands are still on your waist. They’re so warm, so big. You hate having your bare skin touched like this, but… it’s nice. His hands are firm and strong and capable and you’re not thinking of him in a very fatherly capacity at all right now. He’s so close you can feel the heat radiating off of him, so close that you could just–
You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until he finally takes his hands off you and you have to practically gasp for breath. Even as he backs out of your personal space, he knows the effect he’s had on you–if the smirk that takes over his face is any indication, at least.
“Orange is a good color on you,” he murmurs as his dark eyes give you one last once-over.
“R-really?” It’s never been a color you’ve particularly favored, but flattery goes far with you.
He hums in response, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Have you really made this much of an impression on him, or is he just really desperate? Surely he can’t be that deprived–he could have anyone he wanted at the blink of an eye.
“I’ll see you on set,” he vows. And then, just as quickly as he appeared, he’s gone.
It’s so fucking difficult to get a read on him that you feel like you’re in a tailspin. Nevertheless, you try not to let it bother you too much as you get to wardrobe and finally change into some real clothes. Dieter Bravo is off limits, you remind yourself; but it doesn’t sound nearly as convincing this time.
“Where have you been all night?” His voice is stern, commanding despite the softness to his tone. He sounds almost dangerous–exactly like a cop and a protective father should.
“At that end of the year pool party over at the Clevelands’, the one I told you about,” you answer easily, gently. You’re on thin ice, and you’re stepping lightly. “With Amara.”
“And Trevor.” There’s accusation in his voice–Charlie hasn’t told him about her relationship, but fathers always know.
“He was there, yeah.”
“How many times have I told you I don’t want you around him?” Dieter looks up at you from where he’s spread lazily in his cozy living room armchair, eyes even darker than usual in the low night-coded lighting of the living room set. His suspicion of Trevor isn’t unwarranted–you’ve read the script in its entirety, you know every little facet of every single character. But Charlie doesn’t know what you know, so you have to take Dieter’s caution as nothing more than the helicopter parenting typical of a teenage girl’s single father.
“I’m an adult, dad,” you remind him. “I can make my own decisions, choose my own friends.”
“You’re still a little girl,” he murmurs. The fight’s gone from him–he looks now as if a long day of law enforcement has caught up to him all at once. “You always will be.”
It sparks the exact kind of anger within you that the script calls for, and most of it isn’t even fabricated. You don’t want him–Dieter, not Sheriff Herrera–to see you like that. What if that’s all this is now? What if he can’t see you as anything else but a child to him? Not that it matters. He’s off limits, you’ve reminded yourself of that a million times. What he thinks of you shouldn’t matter.
“You have to let me grow up eventually,” you growl before storming down the hall to your final mark.
Jeff calls the scene, and you reemerge a little flushed and feeling silly for how real your emotions were in that moment.
“That was perfect!” He tells you with a beaming smile on his face. “Keep that up and we’re gonna get ahead of schedule. Dieter, you were great too.”
“Not as great as them,” the older actor says with a nod of his head in your direction. “You’re a generous scene partner.”
“How so?” You’re still a little flushed, but you’re praying he can’t tell.
“You give off a lot of emotion,” he explains. “Gives me a lot to work with.”
“Oh.” You’ve really got to get better at taking compliments. Was that even a compliment?
You’re so far in your head that you don’t notice the awkward pause until he takes it upon himself to start leaving the soundstage. Desperate for any way to salvage the moment, you address his broad, retreating back and say, “thanks, Dieter.”
He turns his head, looks at you over his shoulder, and fucking winks. “Anytime, honey.”
And then he leaves, like he didn’t just put a fucking puddle in your underwear.
Dieter Bravo is off limits. Dieter Bravo is off limits. Dieter Bravo is off limits. You chant it to yourself the entire way back to your hotel room, but it gets less and less convincing with each repetition.
Would it really be so bad if he wasn’t off limits?
➔ beta: @futuraa-free, @ozarkthedog, @beskarandblasters, and @fhatbhabie (thank u so much my loves <3)
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#dieter bravo#dieter bravo x reader#dieter bravo fanfiction#dieter bravo x you#the bubble#the bubble fanfiction#pedro pascal#pedro pascal characters#cece writes#series: free falling love addict
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Cas has it 😭😭😭
#moving these characters around like little chess pieces#the enviornmental storytelling of Dean & Cas' relationship is soooooo important to me#destiel#deancas#destiel fic#destiel fanfiction
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Frankly I think Alistair being mildly shitty to that mage in Ostagar seems pretty in-character for the guy he is before the massive, life-altering trauma that is the Ostagar massacre wherein he sees all of his Grey Warden comrades, his beloved mentor/father figure, and his beloathed half-brother/convenient-target-of-projection absolutely torn to shreds by literal Thedas boogeymen. IIRC Morrigan and Flemeth both comment on his wack behavior after Ostagar and then by the time we get to Lothering Alistair just fully surrenders any and all responsibility (and, frankly, agency) to the player's Warden for the foreseeable future. It can then take anywhere from a couple IRL hours to the entire second act of the game for him to retake almost any amount of it back. And depending on the player's choices in dialogue, and especially whether or not they choose to romance him, we may only see flashes of that guy we met at Ostagar before he potentially morphs into almost someone else entirely (hardened!King!Alistair). All that to say, I don't actually think it's a useful criticism of "characterization" to bring up Alistair's glibness as compared to his behavior in the majority of the game because from where I'm standing (looking directly at his snottiness about Cailan, his complaints about being assigned to the Tower of Ishal, his Templar-esque focusing on Morrigan and Flemeth being apostates, his generally pretty brusque manner with the Warden recruits) it seems fairly in-line with the rest of his behavior at Ostagar.
#like seriously he's a bit of a dick (more than what becomes usual) while at ostagar#before his world is shattered and his brain (and personality) is completely rearranged by seeing everyone important to him slaughtered#he clings so hard to the warden as a lifeline that he kind of goes full-on fawning mode for a little bit there#just giving up the reins completely and following orders as (imo) a method of coping with massive loss and trauma#throughout the course of the game he recovers somewhat and goes back to being kind of a dick#and/or growing up pretty extensively and becoming a much better and more tolerant person as a whole#but the idea of him being a dick to a mage because he's being moved around like a chess piece rather than a person#by someone who should NOT have the authority to do that and that fuckin ANNOYS him and then this dude's getting all up in his face about it#as if this was HIS decision and then being accused of harassing this random ass dude he could not give less of a fuck about for funsies#and thus him going full obnoxious shithead teenager about it is somehow OUT of character?? for ALISTAIR??? wack#like nah bro i know we all love ali but our vision is being obscured by that love and also how sweet he is in a romance#just being besties with him unlocks an incredible amount of unfiltered BITCHINESS that is fully in-line with ostagar!alistair's shenanigans#dragon age: origins#alistair theirin#by apples#da meta#anyway there's been disk horse on my dash for the last couple days and this is my take on it
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#Vincent's character sketch sheets are so cute#It's so obvious (even more) that he is imitating Jack in his hairstyle. He even sports a long braid#There's a mention that he tried to read every one of Gil's favorite books#but that their taste is very different and he always gets bored mid-book. I liked that#I also really really liked that initially he was going to be of frail health#I think he retains that a bit with how he is sleepy most of the time at first#But I in general really like that. Leigh is right. There's so much of chronic illness in general around the children of misfortune#The three of them#I talk too much#I should probably delete this later#He always dressed in white and I love that too#And there's the fact that he wears earrings because of Jack confirmed here too#It's also mentioned that whenever he finishes a chess game on the manga he does so (winning) with the queen#Because he is the queen of hearts#And that the author was careful for him and Oscar to move pieces that would make sense for the game to end that way#in that first chess game Oscar and Vince had at the beginning#That was a very cool detail#Vincent used to cough a lot. Also there's this little comic with Elliot which is like...#He sees Cheshire and he is 🥺♥️💕✨ and totally uninterested in Ada as a cat girl#And like#Like#In theory it's because he doesn't care about fake ears but... the guidebook somehow makes it even more clear that Gil and Elliot are gay#Anyway... There's the character sheet of Elliot's mother and I don't know if I had thought of this before#but Yura's sect is actually very like Jack's intention. Bernice (Vernis here) is desperate after losing her son and little brother#And so she gets in Yura's sect thinking she'll be able to laugh together with the dead‚ living and dead reunited in the Abyss
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Domestic Bliss
characters: diluc, wanderer, childe
content: sfw, modern au, established relationship, fluff !!
a/n: i was scouring pinterest looking the most fitting inspo rooms for each of them hehe
Diluc
Your shared home is an old-fashioned but charming house with a tiled roof and a brick archway leading to the entrance of the door. Diluc has a good eye for style — all the furniture pieces you select together are warm and elegant, perfectly matching with the vintage style home.
He’s a bit of a craftsman, and when you moved in he custom built bookshelves just for you. Your house has traces of Diluc’s handiwork: a wooden tissue box cover, tile coasters, a ceramic chess set.
Being a peak acts of service man, if he notices that there’s something inconveniencing you that can be mended, he’ll try to find a way to fix it. That wooden chair that wobbled yesterday when you sat down on it? The next day, it’s miraculously levelled. Always struggling to find your keys before you leave the house? There are now little hooks on the wall where you can easily hang them. He doesn’t make a huge show of it, but you’ll always kiss him on the cheek and say that you should repay him with something.
“There’s no need. Seeing you happy is more than enough for me.” He replies, running a hand through his hair, the tips of his ears turning red.
The house is IMPECCABLY cleaned — the chores are shared out between the two of you, and the both of you work like a well-oiled machine. He’ll insist that you shouldn’t carry anything too heavy though! He doesn’t want you to hurt yourself :(
One of the things that Diluc wouldn’t ever trade is getting the chance to cuddle with you in the evening on the couch. He’ll let you play with his hair and try out different styles, comforted by the feeling of your fingers running through it.
Sometimes, he’ll come home late from work tired and perhaps a bit grumpy, but the sight of you will change his mood completely.
At the sound of jangling keys and the front door creaking shut, you rush out of the bathroom and down the stairs.
“(Y/N), I’m home!” You hear Diluc’s voice call out to you.
The day had felt far too long for him, and with far too many headaches for him to deal with. The only thing that he looked forward to at the end of it all was to see you again.
Hearing the patter of your slippers, he looks up. It takes everything within him to keep composed at your appearance. Having just gotten out of a hot shower, your cheeks were tinted pink, hair still damp and slicked. Diluc’s eyes trailed to your clothes, a matching pair of flannel shirt and shorts. He loosens his tie, suddenly finding his breath stuck in his throat. It baffled him how gorgeous you were even in pyjamas.
Wordlessly, he reaches towards you. You look down at his hands and see as they fasten the remaining top two buttons of your sleeping shirt. In your hurry to greet him at the door, you forgot to dress properly.
“I can’t believe I missed that...” You sheepishly say, observing his hands as they linger on your shirt. Your senses told you something was off. “Did you have troubles at work today?”
The worry in your eyes melts his heart. Of course you were the one to peer through him and know exactly how he was feeling.
“A few clientele at the bar today were-” He sighs, still fidgeting with the fabric of your shirt, recalling the events of the day, “-difficult to manage to say the least.” He lifts his head to meet his gaze. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you.”
Your arms instinctually wrap around him and he collapses into them. Tightening your embrace, he rests his head on your shoulder.
“Diluc, I just took a shower.” You say with a light giggle, trying to pull your hair away from his face.
He feels your breath close to his ear and he wishes he could have recorded that laugh for himself to hear it over and over again.
“I could tell.” He breathes deeply. “Is this a new shampoo?”
“Well yes, but what I meant from that is that my hair is still wet!”
You feel him smile against you. “It doesn’t bother me. Just a few more seconds, please. I need to recharge.”
Wanderer
You share an apartment together since you travel to and from the same university. Although you’re studying different degrees and have different schedules, you’ll both make an effort to spend time together at home during the weekdays.
You and Wanderer leave little notes cheering each other on and stick them to the walls or the fridge before you leave, or sneak them into pencil cases or onto laptop screens. He has a small box on his desk where he collects all your notes, neatly folding them up to preserve them.
Wanderer enjoys having the home quite minimalist. Just the essentials will do, but the two of you do splurge a bit more on your study space — the comfiest chairs, wide desks, tactile keyboards — anything to liven up having to do assignments all the time.
When you’re feeling too tired or distracted from your own studies, you’ll walk over to his desk and try to sit on his lap while he works. He’ll attempt to exert some self-control and reject your wishes, but eventually gives in after seeing your pout.
“Just because you’re distracted doesn’t give you any right to bother me.” He grumbles, resting his chin on your head.
He warns you that if you do decide to put plants in the house, you are responsible for them. Little do you know that he’s secretly also invested in their health. On mornings when you’re in a rush and forget to water them, he’ll spritz them with your spray bottle thinking to himself: If you died (Y/N) would be devastated, so don’t even think about it.
His favourite room is the bedroom. It’s a place for both of you to escape the stresses of being a student and relax together.
The alarm clock beeps and you wiggle in bed, reaching over a hand to quickly silence it. Bright sun filters in through the curtains, its light diffusing into the room.
You force your eyes open and sit up, your body bent over like a crooked branch. Movement beside you pulls your attention as Wanderer shifts in his sleep. You can’t deny how pretty he looks even at rest. His long lashes fanned out under closed eyes, the steady rise and fall of his chest with each deep breath. His expression is that of pure peace. You know that’ll soon disappear when you both need to properly wake up and prepare for classes.
“Hey, it’s time to wake up,” you whisper, carefully coaxing him from slumber.
Wanderer opens his bleary eyes ever so slightly, then immediately closes them. He mumbles something of refusal. You roll your eyes in resignation. When it comes to sleep, he acts like a child sometimes. You turn to get out of bed.
Two arms wrap around your waist and yank you back. You stumble into the sheets with a yelp. Wanderer adjusts the blanket over you and pulls you closer to him with one hand.
“Not yet.” His voice is low and scratchy, his words slurred. “Want more time in bed… with you.”
You sigh softly, absentmindedly running a hand through his hair to detangle it. “You do this almost every morning. You’re never going to attend your lectures on time.”
He replies by nuzzling into your neck, and you hear nothing but his slow breaths. His peers would have sooner called identity fraud than believe the stony and scholarly Wanderer to be this clingy and affectionate in the morning. However, in the privacy of just you, it’s become easy for him to let down his guard.
“Don’t try to get out of this by pretending to be asleep.” You say, deadpan.
There’s a stutter in his breathing as you catch his obvious charade.
“Stop worrying. I’ll just watch the recording.” He finally responds.
You realise in a fluster just how close your faces are, barely inches apart. As if sensing this, Wanderer opens his eyes once again, this time there’s a glint of mischief in them.
He taps his forehead lightly against your own. “And besides, why would I want to spend my mornings in a noisy lecture hall when I can be with you in peace and quiet?”
Childe
You’ve been living together for a while now, and your home has transformed into what can only be described as organised chaos.
If Childe kept up with his interior designing eagerness, it would have been complete maximalism, but you were there to contain his excitement and still ensure your home was still practical.
The two of you love collecting pillows, plushies and blankets, which adds even more to the cosiness! However, one day you tried to sit down on the couch and realised it was more pillows than actual seat space. In a fit of laughter, you and Childe ruled that you would rotate between different cushions every so often so you could get your couch back.
Childe will still come home with flowers or sweets (sometimes both) as gifts for you on random nights. He’ll stand on the doorstep looking like a lovesick teenage boy asking his crush out on a date. Taking them from his hands, you’ll ask what the occasion is.
“Well, there isn’t a particular occasion.” He kisses you on the forehead. “Celebrating you should be an everyday thing.”
Board game nights are taken very seriously. You have a bookshelf filled with different types of them. Whether it’s a classic game of UNO or Jenga, or something a little more strategic, he's always hyper-competitive. You also have special punishments for if one of you loses, which are harmless but maybe a little embarrassing (One of his favourite punishments for you is ‘For the entire day tomorrow, Childe will only call (Y/N) by the cheesiest pet names’).
MASSIVE kitchen since he loves to cook. He keeps a book of recipes from his mum and has since added new ones of his own that he has shared with you.
“Could you come over here, baby?”
You follow your partner’s voice and the scent of something freshly baked into the kitchen.
Childe is standing behind the counter, his face in deep focus. He takes one of an array of heart-shaped biscuits and dips half of it in a bowl of chocolate before placing it on a lined baking sheet. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up, exposing his forearms. His muscular build is sharply juxtaposed by the cream-coloured apron tied around himself, which has a little teddy bear embroidered in its centre.
You approach the kitchen bench, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Are they ready yet? Can I try one?” You eagerly ask.
“Not quite, I need help dipping the rest of these into chocolate.” He stretches his arms out in front of him, shaking the tension out of them.
“That being said,” he grins, extending a hand towards you across the kitchen bench as an offer, “would you do me the honour of being my baking assistant for a little?”
Chuckling at his dramatics, you delicately place your hand in his like royalty. “I’d be delighted to help.”
Childe guides you to his side and helps you put on your apron. As he ties the strings together, he relays the instructions to you.
“You just need to dip half of the biscuit into chocolate, and then add some sprinkles on top before it sets.” He tightens the bow around your waist to secure it.
How hard could that be? You think, nodding along to his words.
Demoing an example, Childe deftly coats half of the biscuit. Angling it just right, the chocolate drips off and evens itself out, leaving a perfect covered half. After placing it on the tray and adding the finishing touch of sprinkles, he gestures for you to try it yourself.
You confidently take one biscuit and dunk it.
“Ah!”
Underestimating its consistency, when you lift the biscuit, the chocolate slowly spreads onto the other half of the heart and drips onto your fingers. You quickly place it onto the baking sheet. Childe stifles his laugh, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.
“My one looks so much worse compared to yours…” you mutter, licking your fingers to remove the evidence of your unsuccessful attempt.
Seeing the frown on your face, he gently bumps your shoulder with his own in encouragement. “Don’t say that! I think your one has a lot more charm.” He says, adding the sprinkles onto your heart. “I’ll run some extra baking classes with you to build up your skills, how does that sound?”
#the domestic trope will always be so dear to me <3#genshin impact#genshin#genshin impact x reader#genshin x reader#genshin impact x you#genshin x you#genshin headcanons#genshin impact diluc#genshin diluc#genshin diluc x reader#diluc x reader#diluc x you#diluc x y/n#genshin impact wanderer#genshin wanderer#genshin wanderer x reader#wanderer x reader#wanderer x you#wanderer x y/n#genshin impact childe#genshin impact tartaglia#genshin childe#genshin childe x reader#childe x reader#childe x you#childe x y/n#genshin modern au#✏️〰odorawrites
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Hi
Can we have some prompts for what it's like to hug the tadc cast?
What it's like hugging the TADC cast!
bro i want a patty melt so mf bad ive literally never had one but it looks so yummy idc if its just a burger on texas toast i wanna eat that!!!!!!!!!
short post btw!! (i say, as i make it longer than first intended)
CAINES:
very small and holdable. depending on the size difference you can just carry him around like its no big deal... feels just like holding a person since his body is human shaped... might have to move your head since his teeths are very large.... solid 9/10 imo
POMNI:
similar to caine thanks to her shape but i think she would be very squishy. she looks like she would be squishy, dont you think? i think its because of her design and her at the beginning trying to take off her headset shows shes kinda squishy n soft... but maybe thats just the digital worlds physics and everyone is like that... she looks like she would squeak if you squeezed her... 8/10 she gets one point off because sometimes the squeezing can be annoying but she cant help it
RAGATHA:
very soft and plush, said several times that i see her as a literal doll so she feels like one of those plush dolls. shes warm, i think... like sure shes a doll but she looks like she would radiate warmth, cant explain why.. like caine and pomni have normal body heats but ragatha is just a touch warmer.. 10/10, would love to cuddle with her and nap
JAX:
not squishy!! but not... hard... like he has a little give if that makes sense. like, normal average skinny person squish, i think. normal body temperature. oddly smooth which can be a little weird since hes a bunny, so you would expect fur... but no hes just smooth. but not smooth like a shaved person, smooth like a weird rubber. weird. 7/10 imagine it gets hot one day and he just. gets sticky. one time we accidentally left my dogs rubber ball out in the heat outside and it got sticky. sticky jax. sticky jax gets a 4/10
KINGER:
very. hard. now we're getting into the characters who arent that huggable, which makes me so sad because i love kinger sm. he cant really hug back. like sure he can hold you in his hands but thats a little different than being able to wrap his arms around you... hes hard, too, being a chess piece... not very warm.. however his robe does a bit to make him softer and a little warmer so its not too totally terrible as long as youre not like. CLINGING onto him... kinger i love you but youre getting a 6/10
ZOOBLE:
see where kinger has some saving grace with his robe, zooble is just. naked. plus i think they would feel like plastic, with the main body being like. solid hard plastic. their limbs are obviously also plastic. its like holding a giant child's toy... very cold, too, the only heat zooble has is the heat that comes from your own body... 3/10 im sorry zooble
GANGLE:
no body heat, but like at least its not hard plastic... but theres hardly anything there... can hold you back but you cant really feel it, like ghost touches pretty much... since gangle is just ribbons, what more did we expect? 4/10, extra point simply because gangle hugs arent as unpleasant as zoobles
#tadc x reader#the amazing digital circus x reader#digital circus x reader#caine x reader#pomni x reader#ragatha x reader#jax x reader#kinger x reader#zooble x reader#gangle x reader
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ii. a game of westerosi chess.
pairing. daemon targaryen x fem!reader
synopsis. the six chess pieces in the king’s game and how your uncle calls checkmate. read the first part here !
warnings. niece!reader, targcest, possessiveness, themes of sexual/romantic ownership, alicent slander (im sorry, i love her, but this is daemon’s pov and we all know that man wakes up every morning and makes the conscious decision to be a hater), daemon being a filthy pervert (affectionate), smut ( masturbation, breeding kink, voyeurism, dacriphilia, virgin kink- if that's even a thing-, implied bi!daemon )
word count. 11.3k
taglist. @nyctophilic0vitnir
hyde’s input. yes, i could have just made them get married after the events in part one. no, that wouldn’t be as fun as watching daemon suffer. i went and fucked myself over a little though because i never realised how much i’d struggle to write from his point of view without the fear of making him too out of character or his behaviour feel, idk, fake? empty? idk what the right word is but yeah. i caught the flu and have had sick-brain the whole time while writing this so who knows if the writing is even comprehensible lmao :)
disclaimer: i’ve never played chess (i'm too dumb for that) so pretend any incorrect comparisons are simply because there’s different rules for chess in westeros <3
when daemon targaryen was five years old, no more than a mischievous little babe who haunted the halls of the red keep, there was no one greater in his eyes than his older brother.
his older brother who bonded with the largest dragon; who snuck wine into his cup when the adults were occupied with their political indiscretions; who stood up for him even in times where he was the culprit.
his older brother who had the longest winning streak in the whole of the red keep when it came to chess.
from maesters to the king, and ladies in waiting down to his own mother, there was not a single person within the castle who could face viserys targaryen in the game of strategic moves and walk away undefeated.
it was an understood fact: viserys targaryen was a master at chess.
one day, after catching his younger brother, moon-eyed and fresh-faced from wondering the dragonpit in search of a dragon to claim, and now spying upon his winnings against a pretty maiden, viserys had called the boy over. with daemon captivated by the sight of the chess board, the older of the two felt the cogs in his brain turning, an idea spawning.
you see, when one becomes the best at something, there is no more challenge. no fun to be found when you’re no longer sat at the edge of your seat wondering if this person will finally be the one to best you. and, so, viserys thought if no one else was good enough to beat him, he’d need to create a worthy opponent.
enter onto the scene, daemon targaryen.
with him being but a child still, viserys began his teaching with what captivated the little boy most: the figures which sat atop the checkered board.
“this, brother, is the pawn. it’s the least worthy piece, but do not let that fool you into thinking it is weak, for anyone may wield power if they work hard enough. a pawn may become a queen, just as a fool may become a lord.”
the rogue prince, now a man of three and thirty, awakes with one thing on his mind: his niece.
he’s always been a restless sleeper, not even in dreams would he escape the havoc of his own head and the inner-workings of it. and, though he’d scarcely recall the images his sleeping mind would conjure, the evidence comes in the state he’d find himself in: sprawled diagonally across the bed, the pillows which had once provided rest for his head now scattered along the floor and the bedsheets- which scratched uncomfortably on his skin, a slick of sweat oozing from his pores and leaving him looking glazed, like a freshly cooked hog at a feast- now a wrinkled tangle around his waist, trapping his legs in the cotton confines.
he spies the familiar lick of sunlight casting through the closed curtains, affirming that dawn has indeed passed and a new day is upon him.
running a hand over his face, a disgruntled sound escapes him, sluggishly moving himself to sit up right, that familiar yet new ache in his back flaring up and begging for release in the form of stretching limbs and extended muscles. age has begun to sneak up on him, grabbing him in it’s clutches and reminding the egotistical man that he is just that: a man, not a god, much to his own displeasure.
the hand departs from his face only to pause midair. a smell, heady and musk infused, reaches his nostrils. it’s dirty and grimey in every way yet enticing him to seek it out again, to sniff out wherever the odour is coming from and bury himself in it till he suffocates.
tentatively, he retraces his movements till his fingers dance over his face once again and realisation kicks him like the hoof of a horse, hard and with a lingering pounding.
only, the pounding comes from his crotch rather than his skull.
the smell is you, in all your dribbling, soaking, honeysuckle glory, stained on his skin like the slaves of volantis are stained with ink.
another inhale floods his senses with the memories from last night, replaying the feel of your bodies pressed together in dance, and your hand squeezing his almost painfully tight as he leads the way to your chambers, and the eager spreading of your legs as he at last satisfies his hunger for you- a hunger which had started sometime after you’d first began to present the figure of a woman, all supple breasts and pouting lips and silhouettes made of dresses that hid from view the naughty parts of you your uncle’s cock ached to see.
the voice in his head, which more often than not drives him to behave erratically, this time is but a whisper, a seduction of craving and curiosity that has him slipping his hand further down, brushing over the fine line of his lips and awaiting entrance as he parts his mouth open, brushing his stained digits over his tongue.
a jolt of heat burns down his spine while the sweet tang of your taste invades his senses. like biting through a lemon, the taste should repel him in every way, flood his soul with shame and leave him disgusted in himself.
instead, he licks his tongue in a silent plea for more.
the thought of never bathing again crosses daemon’s mind, unwilling to wash away the evidence of the peak he’d driven you to with nothing but his fingers. gods help the world when he finally gets his cock in you, for he’s likely to become a deranged, dirty shell of a man too busy getting fill after fill of your pulsing cunny to ever plunder himself into the oil-infused waters of a bath.
you’d be so sweet for him, a little harlet for him to mold and bend and break into every which-way he desires you. and it’s that thought, plus the taste of your dried essence, which has the rogue prince’s cock stirring beneath the tangled sheets.
desire awakens much like a dragon would: slowly and, then, all at once, eyes wide, chest huffing and puffing, and body arising from the ground.
the prince kicks the tangled sheets off, no thought given to whatever corner in the chambers he tosses them towards, eyes and hand and mind too focused on the once flacid organ between his leg growing more solid and red in the tip as the moments pass.
“fuck...” he means to only think it, yet speaks it aloud into the solace of the room as the warmth of his hand makes itself familiar with his cock.
he gives himself a tug, dry hand meeting the movement with resistance yet the layer of skin which conceals his soon-to-be seed soaked slit retracts enough to allow the blushing head of his cock to poke through. while he’d typically prefer to wet it with a whore’s cunt, or slicken it with whatever mindless ointment he could find laying around, daemon finds himself gathering his own saliva and spitting a fat drop of it into the palm of his hand.
the glide of his digits over the organ becomes easier, allowing him to work himself into full-blown hardness, cock taking over the use of his brain and sending him into a state of restless lust, demanding to be fed and satiated with the emptying of his stones, preferably into the warm, pulsating, tight cunt of his little dove.
while the prince does debate his ability to throw on a robe- or, even, roam the halls in his nude glory- and seek out your likely sleeping form, to watch as you startle awake with the breaking of your maidenhead and cry out for your uncle to fill you with his spend till you’re swelling with his bastard, he decides he prefers the thought of making you wait a little longer, see how much he can test the limits of your impatient desires.
after all, a maiden always feels best when her cunt’s as soaked as her crying eyes and her mouth’s spewing plead after plead, begging for his cock.
while one hand works over himself, the other sneaks it’s way back into his mouth, lust bursting into bright colours as he licks over the taste of you, soaking it into his bloodstream and making you part of his genetics- just as he is part of yours.
daemon allows his eyes to slip shut, sinking into sweet fantasies and mental pictures of bouncing tits and blood stained sheets, only to reopen them within an instant at the sound of his chamber door slamming against the solid wall.
“oh my!” a young girl dressed in rags turns her back on him as quickly as she notices his naked form, as if allowing him to compose himself and make himself presentable. “i’m so sorry, my prince! i would have knocked but he said i should simply let myself in!”
daemon makes no attempt to find cover.
“do whatever it is you need to do.” he speaks with a tone far too relaxed for a man who’s still got a grip on his cock. if anything, the raggedness in his breaths comes from his frustrations of losing the flavour of you on his tongue. “don’t stop on my account.”
she hesitates upon facing him again, eyes clearly wandering off from her own commands and glancing down at his exposed crotch more times than he imagines she’s comfortable with. from the look of her, she’s young in age- likely only recently blossomed into a woman- and, at the thought of his being the first cock she’s ever seen, he feels himself grow closer to his peak, a sick and twisted satisfaction buzzing through his veins at the possibility of giving the sweet girl her first sense of visual arousal.
when the shock passes, yet still lingers in her features like a harsh cough irritates the throat, she makes her way fully into the room. in her arms, a tray with a mass of food, enough to feed a lord and his men for several nights. without a word, she lays the assortment out on the large table within his chambers, hands shaking under her own nerves.
meanwhile, daemon slows the flick of his own wrist, teasing his cock with the impending satisfaction. a smile, too faint to be seen yet present enough that he feels the slight stretch of his lips, births itself as he considers who this offering of a feast may be from.
“what’s this about, girl?” he throws the question out into the air, clear amusement in his tone.
“the king, my prince.” just as he expected. “he’s ordered this be sent to you.”
and so it begins, he thinks.
his brother is buttering him up, showing a sign of good-will to have daemon in his good graces when he orders the rogue prince betroths himself to the king’s pretty daughter, her supposed virtue now a pile of crumbled ruins in the eyes of the court. as if he needs convincing to take such a sweet young thing to wife, the perfect little bird made of blonde hair, valyrian blood, sugar-coated cum and the sweetest song of whimpers and pleas.
“then make sure you let my brother know how eager i am to receive his feast.” he can feel himself reaching the edge of his peak, tethering off the edge and seconds away from painting his hand white with wasted seed.
perhaps the serving girl will lick it clean for him.
“of course, my prince.” once finished with the arranging of the feast, the maiden straightens out some wrinkles in her skirt- though it does nothing to clean up her looks- and begins to make her way back toward the entry to his chambers. “the king will be surprised to see you so agreeable, though it will help soothe his unease, my lord.”
“his... unease?” daemon’s movements stop, the air runs dry and the girl visibly stiffens, hand curling around the door handle and clenching it as if it is the only thing giving her support.
clearly, she’s said something she shouldn’t have.
“i must go, my lord.”
“unease over what, girl?”
“you... you don’t know, do you?” she’s beginning to irritate him, speaking in riddles and shaking like a leaf in the winds of winter.
“answer me clearly or i’ll have your tongue.” the girl can not see the way he moves off the bed, nor the way he spies his eyes towards his trusted sword propped against a wall, but she certainly hears the loud thud of his feet meeting the floor, feels the darker shift of energy in the room as the rogue prince makes a threatening advance towards her.
“ser gerold royce, my prince...” he’s near certain she lets out a pathetic whimper, like a wounded doe. “he’s proclaimed himself as lord of runestone.”
the world comes to a stand still as her words flood over him.
while the prince is frozen in his spot, face an empty canvas devoid of emotion, the young girl makes a swift exit, wise enough to not wish to stick around long enough to bare witness to the hot-headed prince’s reaction. the slamming of the door on her way out seems to startle him back into motion, naked limbs striding across the room and grabbing at the door. he twists the handle and gives a harsh tug, strong enough to have the wood smash as it collides against the wall.
the door does not open.
he attempts again, and again, and again, and is met with the same resistance each time. only then does it dawn on him- the feast, the unease- this was never about his brother keeping him in his good graces.
this was about the king keeping him locked away in his chambers.
“next, you’ve got your knight. while still not a very point-worthy piece, this holds power in the way it moves, jumping over pawns like a real knight slices through his enemies with the point of his sword.”
four days pass by slowly within the confines of his chambers.
at first, he rages. pacing the floor till the plush carpeting runs thin, hacking away at hand-crafted furniture his ancestors had sat upon and broken fast at, mouth dropped open in a bellow of impassioned words of all the things he plans to do once he gets his hands on his older brother, most of which start and end with his grip on the king’s neck.
then, he tries rest.
it’s a hopeless attempt, though, as the thoughts are running far too rampant for him to ignore the fact he’s confined within his room, not a clue of what his brother has done in regards to runestone’s rebellion. then come the thoughts of you, his little dove, likely hurt, and confused, and needing your dear uncle’s guidance on how to continue onward, how to outsmart the wretched ladies within your father’s court, how to ensure you do not wind up married off to some boring oaf of a lord, with not a drop of valyrian blood in his veins.
after sleep evades him, and rage consumes him once more, he switches to pleasuring himself, hand squeezed tight around his cock and working over the sex organ till he’s completely spent, his sack drained and nothing but pathetic droplets of seed painting his skin by the eight, ninth, tenth peak he drives himself too, fuelling the fire of his lust with past rendevouz- the pentoshi whore he’d fucked in front of her own husband, the nights he’d spent in the streets of silk in rooms where cups and cunts were shared amongst the crowd, the young knight who’d sought him out after a tourney and cried out as daemon stretched the tight pink hole of his arse- and with future desires- the slapping of his stones against your pearl as he takes you from behind, your pretty eyes struggling back tears the first time he fucks his cock into your silky wet hole, the sick, and nasty, and down-right degenerate want to bend you over the small council table and shoot his seed into your womb for all those wrinkled cunts to bare witness to.
ultimately, it’s the memory of how you taste that sends him spiralling for a tenth time.
the rogue prince is a sexual deviant, that was the very first whisper that had flooded the keep about him. and oh how he’s worn it with pride over the years, a twisted joy found in watching their outrage each time he speaks of crass and acts on sin.
even so, there is only so much he can take until he reaches his limit. and, thus, with his cock feeling like it may fall off if he does not give it some recovery time, the prince returns to raging.
that is how the king finds him, sword in hand and the expensive fabrics that once made up the curtains leading onto a balcony now nothing but tattered rags on the floor.
“i must say, daemon, this takes me back.” viserys’ tone carries amusement, which licks at daemon’s ire and coaxes it back to life, hand gripping the hilt of his sword as the prince reminds himself- despite how infuriating the king may be- that he cares deeply for his older brother. “me entering your chambers and finding you amidst a temper tantrum.”
the prince is quick on his feet, turning on his ankle till he finds himself gazing upon the face of his brother. he’s dressed in his finest robes, a mixture of reds and blacks, yet daemon does not miss the green jewel on one of his fingers. the crown upon viserys’ head reflects the sun, shining offensively in the prince’s face as if to more harshly remind him of the inheritance he’ll never claim, the throne he’ll never sit.
“what is the meaning of this?” daemon bellows and instinctively raises dark sister, the tip of the blade pointed directly at his brother.
the sound of kingsguards drawing their own weapons floods the room yet the raise of viserys’ hand halts them all in their defence, calling his brother’s bluff.
“i had some business to attend to.” the king speaks so casually, as though he’s discussing the recent weather or what he’d eaten for his supper the evening before.
“so you imprison me in my chambers as if i am some ill-behaved child!” daemon means to question him yet his words come out as more of a statement, an acceptance of the matter at hand.
“yes, well, what kind of idiot would i be to let my brother wander free in my castle while i’m grasping at straws to prevent a war?” the room grows more tense with every exchanged word between the two brothers, a feat which doesn’t go unnoticed by the guards who stand by the king nor the maidens who had rushed in after the reopening of daemon’s chambers, scrambling around to tidy the place up. “a war which you started in the first place.”
it irks something in daemon, the way viserys remains level headed whilst he’s pacing the room, and gripping his sword, and releasing his frustrations in bursts of loud voices and disgruntled grunts. condescending in every way, it sends daemon into a headspace where he’s no longer a man-grown and, instead, a tear-stained child being reprimanded by his king and grandsire.
he liked to torture young daemon who, despite his best efforts, was always prone to outbursts of emotion- outbursts the old man liked to meet with calmed expressions and tired words of disappointment, dismissing his grandson to bed.
it seems to be a commonality shared among kings, antagonising daemon.
“a war i started?!” and yet he falls for the trap every time, meeting viserys’ passive with his aggressive, striding those few steps closer till he’s a hair away from touching the king with his blade. still, his brother holds off his guards. “and how do you suppose i done such a thing while being imprisoned!?”
“cool it with the theatrics, brother,” viserys punctuates his exhaustion with an eye roll and gives a single nod of his head, giving the kingsguards the go-ahead to swarm around daemon.
a pair of them, both young in their knighthood and matching in face, grab at the rogue prince’s arms and hold him in a stand-still while another guard plucks the weapon from his hand. daemon shoves against their hold and is met with more resistance.
dark sister is passed among the guards, each hand that touches it being added to a tally of people on daemon’s list of men to disembowel. finally, viserys holds the weapon, examining it like it is the very first time he’s seen it.
“daemon, it brings me no joy to do this,” the king starts up again, eyes meeting the glaring amethysts of his brother. “but with the tensions arising and war creeping over the horizon, i can not afford to risk anything going amiss.”
“get to the point, brother. you’re speaking in rhyme as if you were some bard.”
“very well. from now until i decide you are not a threat to this kingdom, your confinement will be stretched from your chambers to the red keep. you are to carry no weapon and you will step no foot out of this castle.”
“you’re a fool if you think i’ll agree to this.”
“it is an order from your king!” viserys lets the mask slip, intentionally or not, and his irritation shines through like the stars paint themself across the dark sky. “and if that’s not enough to keep you in line, you will also be monitored at all hours of the day, every move you make within these walls will be shadowed by that of a knight of my choosing.”
daemon targaryen considers murdering his brother.
“and i see no man more fit for the job than ser criston cole.”
for the first time in his life, daemon targaryen may just go through with it.
“the bishop may be similar to the knight in it’s point count, yet it moves differently. while a knight can not move three times in the same direction, a bishop must stay within the colour it started in. think of a bishop like a maester: chained to an oath it can never break”
he’d rather be forced to endure a lifetime of self-flagellation than another moment of this conversation.
“it is in your best interest, your grace, to cut this state of anarchy out from it’s roots before any other houses chose to follow in the footsteps of runestone.” the new hand of the king is certainly an improvement from the hightower cunt, daemon can’t deny it. yet a part of him feels the knife of betrayal twist deeper into his back upon realising his brother had not only ignored his own warnings of the green lord till rhaenyra brought them up too, but he’d once again given the role to a random lord in his court rather than his own brother. “we have cause to believe that the dandarrions may be next to follow, given the less than kind words your daughter had for them during her tour for a marriage.”
“then there is the matter with the lannisters and, of course, the never ending tensions with the dornish folk. they’re more weary than ever, since someone,” maester mellos has never been a subtle man, despite all his supposed wits and knowledge, and so it flies over no one’s head when he takes a glance at the rogue prince and his standing guard, the insufferable man who’s made himself daemon’s shadow. “went to war with the triarchy.”
“my apologies for riding you all of that tyrant crabfeeder!” daemon speaks for the first time since he’d been forced to sit at the small council. “i’ll be sure to stand by and allow the next one to rip you all to pieces.”
daemon drowns out the rest of the meeting, uninterested in hearing his brother grovel at ways to keep his subjects at bay, as though they are the ones that rule over him.
gifts of gold for the dandarrion, a knighting for the lannisters’ youngest lords, peace-offerings in the forms of poetic words, and sweetened fruits, and lavish silks for the dornish. each gift more empty than the last.
it’s the mention of your name that brings him back into the room.
“were she here, we could have used her as a bargaining plea for one of these stronger houses,” ser lyman beesbury is the one who speaks and, with each word, the rest of the councilmen grow wider in the eyes and stiffer in their seats.
daemon explains their otherwise odd reactions away with them simply feeling uncomfortable discussing you in his presence, everything changed and nothing the same since sometime between the night he had you pressed against your door and his confinement within the keep.
upon release back into the castle, he’d searched for you first of all, paying no mind to criston cole as the knight struggled to keep up with his rushed footfall, mind too focused on the renewed anger he wished to placate with his cock in your mouth and the further destruction of your purity, all in the name of spiting your father.
when he’d reached your chambers, however, he’d found nothing but a mess of emptied trunks and an unkept bed.
“the princess is not here.” ser criston had spoken between gasps of air, chest heaving beneath the unnecessary layers of chainmail and armor his position forces him to wear.
daemon had demanded an answer for your whereabouts, only to quickly realise the knight was none-the-wiser. it was the new hand, ultimately, that clued him in, over sips of wine and looks of caution from other council-men amid a private feast.
“driftmark, prince daemon.” he’d dabbed at the corners of his mouth with poise and composure, everything about the man seemingly perfected for politics, serving only to irritate the prince further. “the princess has accompanied her older sister and her new husband on their trip to laenor velaryon’s home.”
that was the last daemon had heard of you.
a near moon later and you were still out of reach, likely turning your nose at the smell of salt that coated the walls of the velaryon household and wondering why a certain red-speckled dragon had yet to swoop in on the island, carrying the cause and answer to all your problems upon it’s back.
“dare i say i agree, your grace,” another of the men chimes in, his words barely a whisper at first, glancing nervously toward the king. “perhaps we may write for her return and see to it that a betrothal be made.”
daemon chooses to observe viserys in this moment, eyes trailing over his features and taking note of every wrinkle in his brow, every greyed hair within his unshaven face, every upturn and scorn of his lip. there’s a wave of unease that’s fallen over his brother, and it only grows with every moment that the lords speak of you in the rogue prince’s presence, the air thick with the discussion the two brother’s had yet to have regarding the rumours of your deflowering.
“and, tell me, my lords, what you suggest we tell the princess’ current betrothed?” maester mellos, ever incapable of holding his tongue, barks across the table, deathly unaware of the looks that befall the council nor the tensing of daemon’s shoulders. “the king is trying to avoid war, not further instigate one by implying her current betrothal is not good enough, that house-”
“that’s enough!” the king rises from his chair all at once, slamming his hand down on the table and commanding the attention of everyone in the room, more so when he recoils in pain. all at once, the rumours of his declining health and the effect it’s had on his body feel all too true. “there will be no further discussions of my daughter nor the prospect of a new betrothal. what’s done is done and i will not go back on my word to appease your fear-mongering speculations. we will continue our diplomatic relationship with these houses and ensure they do good to remember who sits the iron throne.”
the men obey like sheep, each bowing their head and mumbling false reconciliations.
one by one, they all take their leave.
first, lyman beesbury, who with pale face and solemn eyes lays apologies at visery’s feet. next, the master of laws and maester mellos, neither of them wasting time with niceties and opting for a mere bow towards their king. when all the chairs lay empty, save for daemon’s and the king, silence runs thick through the room. neither brother moving, each testing their unnamed opponent and awaiting the first blow through the tension to be made.
daemon grows impatient.
“unless corlys velaryon fucked a new son into our lady cousin and had the babe birthed in a matter of days, i do wonder who you’ve betrothed my niece to on driftmark.”
“do you know what your problem is, daemon?” though viserys’ words come out with inquisitory tones, he leaves no space for the prince to answer. “you’re so busy with your own schemes and plans that you fail to see when you’re the one being played.”
daemon feels small.
for a moment, he’s no longer a man grown into a soldier, with a mighty sword and a fearsome dragon. instead, he’s frail and weak, and staring across at his older brother as he beats him once more in the game of knights and checkered spaces, a taunting look on his face as he knocks over the little boy’s king piece and declares himself victor.
when the moment passes, he straightens his posture and rises from his seat, and reminds himself of the words his mother would comfort her crying babe with each time he failed to win, whispers of how there’s always something to be gained in any loss he finds.
he settles with leading his brother further into the trap of rumours him and his niece have conjured up together.
“i hear your new wife is fond of the seven, brother.” the prince reaches to grip the hilt of his sword, only to find an empty space and the reminder that he carries no weapon as of late. “ask her to pray for your daughter, i don’t believe she tasted the bitterness of moon tea after our evening together.”
the king does not call daemon’s bluff.
“this right here? the rook, worth more than the bishop or knight, yet less than the king or queen, it is an allusive piece. play the game wisely and your rook may trap the king, leaving it with nowhere to run.”
with the passing of another moon, daemon plunders deeper into insanity.
he’s always been a man of possession, the kind who owns and conquers and takes. objects, lands, people. they’re all the same in daemon’s chequebook of ownership. and, while living a rather messy and unkept life, he enjoys the pleasantness of having his possessions in his line of sight, like the sword he’s worn at his hip since the old king bestowed it upon him, or the seating he takes at every royal feast, chair angled perfectly to keep his eyes on the brother, nieces, family he possesses.
with dark sister out of reach and his most recent favoured family member out of sight- the pretty niece he’s silently layed his claim on-, destruction is imminent.
no longer does he debate with his own inner-turmoil over if he will go against the king’s orders but, rather, he questions when.
when will he redeem his previous loss against ser criston cole, beat the knight to the ground and steal his weapon as he lays unconscious?
when will he slip through the cracks in the castle walls, making use of the secretive halls built by maegor the cruel himself and slice through any guard who may attempt to get in his way?
when will he take the skies atop his fire-breathing mount, fleeing the city of whispering cunts and chees-playing fools?
the answer to each questions comes back to one thing, one person, one possession he needs to locate first.
you.
the events to follow the council meeting had lead him to several conclusions.
the first, and most obvious one, was that you clearly were not on driftmark, as lord strong had so boldly claimed. the second took him a few sleeps to fully decide upon but, remembering the words spoken of your betrothal among the council men and the apparent greater houses they could have given your hand to, daemon crossed off the possibility of you being in winterfell, the young stark lord likely too prideful to entertain the king’s earlier propositions of marriage after the way you’d left him amid a feast to go and- falsely rumoured- fuck your uncle.
with the dandarrions, the lannisters and the dornish folk already ruled off the list, it left daemon with few options.
his strongest lead is the baratheons, a long-standing connection between the two houses and a recently widowed lord who’s previous wife had gifted nothing but girls from her womb, it took no genius to assume a targaryen bride would serve him well.
daemon will soon find out he's wrong.
there’s an unease that takes over someone’s chambers the moment they notice something has been tampered with, whether it be as silly as a glass moved a few inches across a table or something as significant as a chest of drawers laying open when they’d clearly been left shut.
it tickles the back of the prince’s neck this very evening, skin rising to mimic that of a goose as he trails his eyes over his surroundings.
he’d returned to his chambers later than usual this evening, the day spent cornering council-men and threatening them- daemon had quickly discovered they feared him less with no blade to slice through them and his own personal minder at his back, that ridiculous kingsguard armour reflecting every ray of sun and every burn of candlelight.
daemon had taken to tormenting the poor ser crispin only a matter of days into their forced companionship. he figured that, if he may no longer seek joy in the streets of silk or the bloodshed of his enemies, let him at least take pleasure in the squirming discomfort of a man he loathes entirely.
“my niece,” he’d spoke as the two sat through their usual quiet supper together. “did you enjoy fucking her?”
“i did not fuck princess y/n.”
“well, of course not,” daemon pushed his spoon back and forth, passing time while he thought up his next taunt. “my younger niece has always had the more refined taste out of the two of them. rhaenyra, on the other hand, well she’d fuck a hound if it licked her the right way.”
“all this from a man who preys on his own blood for his sexual deviance. you and i both know what you done to your niece, how you seduced such a-”
“my nieces have always seemed so alike. both pale haired, both sharing the same smile, both wearing the same dresses.” the knight and the prince had long abandoned their food now, discussion heavy with daemon’s accusation of ser criston abandoning his own vows and committing what he can only imagine would be declared treason, deflowering a princess. perhaps soon the two will share something in common. “now i wonder if they feel the same. you must know, so tell me, did rhaenyra’s cunt grip your pathetic cock in a vice that threatened to ruin any other woman for you? or is that a trait only my youngest niece possesses?”
even now, hours into the late night and several more cups of wine drowning in his system, daemon can not bite back a dry laugh as he recalls the astound look upon the knight’s face, a mixture of disgust and discomfort.
he’s seated- more accurately speaking, he’s draped- upon a chaise, muscles tense and mind racing, in need of distraction. most of his nights end like this now, several emptied pitchers of wine along the floor, red staining his mouth and his own figure collapsed over whatever surface he finds first. occasionally, he’d attempt to have his way with a serving girl, ignoring the looks of ser criston as he stands guard outside his chambers and watches the prince enter with his partner for the evening, yet most were dismissed before daemon could satisfy himself, a mixture of his own drunken incontinence and their far too placid natures.
at least the whores of the silk street make him believe they want him.
letting out a groan, he sinks further into the seat, legs bent at the knee and feet planted firmly on the ground as he lets himself lay back fully. he’s contemplating taking rest here for the evening, and weighing the likely-hood of awakening with a new pain in his neck.
it would certainly be a more comfortable sleep than the would he’d taken last night, back slumped against a wall and body sat atop the cool marbled floor.
he makes his choice, limbs too tired to make the few paces to his bed, and resigns himself for the night, twisting once more to find the most comfortable position upon the chaise and closing his eyes.
only to reopen them instantly.
something rustles. that feeling of unease creeps in once again, slow like fog over the horizon, hazy and threatening, and cold in every sense of the word. someone has been in his chambers, is in his chambers, and they’ve left something askew.
his eyes dart over the room, trying to assess every nook and corner and crevice within it in hopes of spotting a pair of spying eyes or unsettled objects. struggling due to all the blind spots his position has created, daemon heaves himself back into the upright position, figure slouched and back curved uncomfortably.
the rustling happens again.
he shoots up from his seat, wondering if his inebriated state has begun to create delusions, or if the psychosis caused by staring at the same red walls of the keep nonstop has finally begun to take over. he must be going mad, he thinks, eyes scanning over the whole of his room as he turns in place, cursing the more he notices nothing out of the ordinary.
until he sees it.
there, placed exactly where his tired limbs had been mere moments ago, lays a note.
it’s folded over and sporting a strange yellow blotch in one of it’s corners while, in the centre, written in the blackest ink so delicately and flowery it near stirs his cock in his breeches, kepus.
he snatches at the paper, near tearing it in two with the speed he unfolds it, eyes racing over every scribble and every swirl of pretty inked words.
the rain is the only thing that brings me comfort these days.
the letter begins and, while the writer has still not identified themselves, the prince is more than certain he knows who is speaking.
i’ve never been a fan of change (i’m sure you recall my horrid tantrums as a child whenever my mother assigned me a new handmaiden), yet never have i faced one so large. where in the capital i spent my days with books and needles and rides upon dragon’s back, here i am told to sit quiet as a mouse, as though i am merely another ornament within the lord’s home. where i once spent nights rolling my eyes and wishing to be excused from public feasts, here i cry and ache for a morsel of socialising outside the lord’s inner circle. where once i slept sound over the small folk screaming and cheering into the late night, here i sit awake by the window and listen to each raindrop.
i am not built for the cold, both in weather and in people. they frighten me here, which is a thing i never thought i’d need admit to. there are no whispers here, only silence. but their eyes, they speak paragraphs of hatred and disdain and ill-intentions with a simple glance. i need not worry if they will eat me alive here, but rather whom will be the one to do so. in the capital i’ve always felt untouchable, first because i was my father’s daughter, a princess of the realm, and, when that began to lose effect, you stepped in and taught me safety can be found in another, with your advice and your combat training and your inability to let me fall asleep without you on my mind.
i’ve developed a sick obsession for you, uncle, and it is entirely your fault.
he’s sunk back onto the chaise, hand gripping the letter tighter as a mixture of worry and anger stirs up in his loins. worry over the tales you tell, anger for the possibility of this being a sick game, a note written by some pathetically bored serving wench aiming to ruffle some feathers.
he decides he must keep reading to uncover the truth.
and so, now, it is with heavy heart that i must admit i’m disappointed. don’t perceive me as foolish, for i am wiser than some maiden who believes the things i feel for you to be love. but i always believed there was understanding between us, two different souls yet so completely immersed and knowing of each other’s drives and needs. even when i was a child, you were always the first to notice once i was too tired to continue with the festivities or when i craved the thrill of sneaking down to the dragonpit to spy upon the great beasts. i thought you’d understand, too, that this is not the life i wishfor: a husband with the personality of a wet piece of parchment and a life of silence and gloom.
i am a dragon, just like my sister, and my father, and our ancestors. and a dragon can not grow in a cage, so why have you let them put me in one? you agreed to help me, to ruin me for any other lord so that my father would have no option to but to wed us, leaving us both to our own devices. you, gaining that valyrian wife you always wanted while not changing your whorish ways, and i, earning the freedom i would not find shackled to some low achieving, overbearing, egotistical man. yet i now have a betrothed who’s hair is brown and who’s house has no dragon.
i will risk writing this only once, for the spiders may not spin their thread here but they still bite, and ask this of you: speak sense into my father. tell him i’m with child, tell him i’m a threat to the realm, tell him i’m plotting my own death. tell him any lie you need to put a stop to this betrothal and bring me home, to where i belong.
or, outsmart him and simply come rescue me yourself, like some knight on his white stallion (caraxes would likely singe my hair off if i ever dared call him such a thing in his presence).
i’ll be awaiting your next move, uncle. be sure you play wisely and don’t lose both your princess and your king.
coldest regards,
your little dove.
p.s. i have cum to learn that, while my fingers are indeed skilled, they are nowhere near as good as yours were, kepus.
the intensity behind the stare he holds the note under may just set it alight.
no longer does he doubt who could have written such a thing, the mentions of your joint ploy to deceive the courtiers and the wording used to describe the connection shared between you both marking the undeniable truth of the letter’s author.
perversion brings him to reread the final sentence, mind fully registering them and flooding him with pink hued paintings of his pretty niece, as nude as the day you were born, now flushed skin and hardened nipples and honey dripping down your thighs as your dainty hands fail to fuck themselves as deeply as his had.
daemon can’t help but wonder what his little dove must think of in moments of self-pleasure, questions of whether you were depraved enough to think of men doing unspeakable things to you or if you merely blush over the memory of your uncle.
reading over the last part two more times, his eyes scatter back up the page- first, in an effort to avoid having to deal with his own impending arousal, and then because he feels compelled to read over the letter once more, eyes scanning over every detail.
it takes an unknown number of reads for him to notice a code among the words, a subtleness of ink layered to appear harsher, darker, more noticeable than the other words upon the parchment.
i’m, where, you, once, were.
i’m where you once were.
an inexplicable sense of pride comes over him, the fact his little dove has found a way to tell him something whilst, simultaneously, telling him nothing. were your worries true of spiders and the risk of one of them reading this letter in the time it took to reach him, he doubts any of them would be wise enough to notice the message, much less decipher it’s meaning.
and, while he applauds your display of wits, he despises his own inability to comprehend it. if you are where he once was, where had he been?
just about everywhere in the seven kingdoms, is the unfortunate truth.
by the time sleep at lasts takes over him, daemon has gained two things: the letter you’ve sent and the unbreakable will to move in on the king at last.
“the objective of chess is to protect your king while attacking your opponent’s. you must back the king into a corner, leave him with no way out, place him in check. only then will you be able to call checkmate and win.”
daemon nudges the knight with his foot.
as they’d sat for supper that evening, the prince had felt doubtful of the contents in the vial. he’d pinched it from the grand maester himself and, though he payed no real coins, the prince would argue he payed a grater price: feigning interest in conversing with old crone. a near three hours he’d sat, listening to the man drone on and on, till at last he’d excused himself to relieve his bladder and left daemon with a window of opportunity, his ointments and medicine all in a neat little display.
having little time, he’d grabbed at what he was sure to be milk of the poppy- a significantly smaller dose remaining within the vial compared to the rest- and tucked it in his trousers, at last excusing himself from the bore of a lifetime.
it wasn’t difficult to slip the liquid into a cup of wine, nor was it particularly hard to convince ser criston to drink from it, inviting the knight to join in on his empty toast towards the hightower queen and yet another pregnancy.
hours later and ser crispin lays slumped over outside his door.
daemon gives one more nudge for safety and, when the man merely slouches even closer to the ground, he grabs at the knight’s weapon and nestles it in his own scabbard, making use of it for the first time in two moons.
the hour is late and most of the keep have given in to the temptations of rest, yet the prince still travels the halls with caution, one eye looking over his shoulder. he half expects every guard he passes to seize him on sight, spewing some nonsense of his wrongful weapon or non-permitted solitude. with luck he reaches his destination, no one to spy upon the way he enters into the emptied library nor to witness as he shoves a bookcase aside and steps into the tunnel.
his memory serves him well, even after all these years, navigating himself through the interconnected secrets of the keep. he passes rooms of lords laid in bed with women they do not call wife, and ladies disrobing for the evening, and the still empty chambers of his little dove, till, at last, he reaches where he wants to be, not bothering with patience before barging his way out of the tunnel and into the regal chambers of the king.
“it took you longer than i expected.” daemon had counted on his brother being the one wearing shock upon his face, yet it is the prince who plays the fool, stepping into the room to find his older brother sat at a table, goblet in hand and a familiar checkered board in front of him.
it irks him to hear the king even imply he’d been expecting his arrival.
“don’t you have a wife to be bedding, brother?” he steps deeper into the chambers with caution, eyes on the empty bed and the lack of sight of his brother’s breeding mare.
“pregnancy, daemon. it works wonders on a woman’s body,” he takes a sip of his drink before reaching to pour a second cup meant for the prince. “it’s just a shame one of those wonders comes in the form of my wife snoring louder than a lion roars.”
it’s strange to hear his brother discuss details of his new bride.
daemon had never sought answers for their marriage, yet he’d forever questioned what had driven his brother to marry such a girl, childhood friend of his eldest daughter and so clearly lacking the backbone needed to stand up for herself against the injustices forced against her by her own father. were the prince a more gentle person at heart, perhaps he’d find it in him to pity her.
instead, he sees her as just another thorn in his brother’s side, waiting for the chance to poison his mind and seat one of her wretched babes upon the throne.
“come, come,” dragging him out of his thoughts is viserys once more, now half-hovering over the table and moving his limbs back and forth, hands carefully placing each piece upon it’s designated checker. “sit down! let us play!”
only as he’s seated across from viserys does he notice he’s been bestowed with playing the blacks on the board. never before was he allowed, the older of the two always insisting black was his lucky colour and refusing to play the whites.
in truth, daemon has always suspected his brother had been to fearful to play white, not knowing how to make a good first move and relying on his opponent to instead kickstart the game and give him places to move his pieces.
“isn’t it a beautiful board?” the elder must confuse his staring as a sign of fascination, gawking at the splendour of it. “it’s the very same one mother gifted me after i bested her for the first time.”
there it is, that familiar lick of envy, a sick and cruel twist in his guts as he stares down at an object viserys gets to remember their parents by, while all daemon ever got was disapproving looks and half-hearted embraces. perhaps the rumours are true and the prince has a complex which forces him to pity himself, to cast a shadow upon his own image and declare that it was a wrong forced upon him by others.
or, more likely, the consequences of watching his parents prop viserys up on a mantelpiece whilst leaving him in a corner to collect dust had lead him down the path to the destructive man he’s become.
even when he’d claimed caraxes, he could only imagine what his father’s reaction would have been, were he still alive to witness it.
impressive, but your brother claimed the greatest dragon to have ever lived, the one who the great conqueror rode upon and forged a throne under the black dread’s flames.
“‘tis exactly the same as any other chess board, brother.” he lets petty feelings spin lies on his tongue, rolling his eyes and disregarding the clear etherealness, the intricate carvings on each piece and the extravagant linings of the board, and each of it’s shimmering onyx and quartz squares.
daemon downs half his cup in one sip, eyes trained on his brother’s first move.
king’s pawn forward two spaces, a strong start and an immediate attack to the centre.
it’s fitting, daemon thinks, for this to be the first move his brother makes while leading a game. while a powerful start, it’s rather obvious, one he’d seen viserys defeat in a manner of mere seconds. perhaps age has taken away his astute mind and skill for the game.
daemon retaliates, moving one of his bishop’s pawns forward two spaces.
with the crease that forms in viserys’ brow, daemon delights. his brother was not expecting him to move in such a way, likely expecting him to do something erratic like bringing his queen’s pawn forward.
the pair continue to move in silence, sips of wine and scratching of pieces echoing around the chambers. it’s deceivingly peaceful, nothing like the confrontation the rogue prince had geared himself up to walk into. while he’d awaited bursts of anger and scathing accusations and marks of betrayal, the two sit like children once more, moving empty objects in an imitation of politics.
the only difference is daemon appears to have the upper hand, a growing collecting of white pieces stored to the right of his long-ago emptied and refilled cup.
as always, it’s daemon who takes the first bite.
“i’m afraid i must pay you your dues, brother.” his words slip through his own smirking lips, satisfaction rolling in by the hundreds as he spies the white king, slowly losing places to hide on the board. “it’s truly applaudable how you managed to not only secure one daughter a marriage amid questions of her virtue, but two! young helaena will follow in her half-sisters’ footsteps, surely.”
viserys’ hand pauses mid-air, his remaining bishop held in his grasp. his grip tightens with each passing second. the older has always been more level-headed, that no one can dispute, but the rogue prince will forever swear up and down, high and low, that it is his brother who carries the more foul temper.
viserys’ anger is just harder to weed out from behind false niceties and calmed breathing.
“if you mean to say that helaena will be so lucky as to marry a noble man, filled with honour,” he lays his bishop down at last, not managing to capture any of daemon’s blacks. “then yes, i should hope so. both the betrothal of my eldest daughter and my middle-born were to good men, faithful lords. my helaena will be lucky to do the same.”
“you never did quite tell me about y/n’s betrothal, brother.” the king chuckles at daemon’s words, empty amusement in the obvious statement the prince makes. still, he makes no attempt to stop him, letting him string the conversation along to the dreaded topic between them: the rumours of what daemon had done to you. “last i spoke with her, she was rather... occupied with something other than the prospect of marriage. when you announced her future union to her, did she drop on her knees and kiss your feet in gratitude? or did she spit at you and-”
“did she drop on her knees for you?” the raise in viserys’ voice is minimal yet enough to have daemon smirking over the rim of his cup, amused to see his brother being led into his trap for once.
he makes his next move on the board fist, plucking his knight and moving it over one of his own pawns. if he plays is cards right, messes with his brother’s head just the right amount, perhaps he won’t notice how he’s moving in on his king.
his only hope is to keep talking about his little dove.
“so that’s what you wish to discuss, brother? how it felt to fuck your young daughter?” for the first time he speaks the lie out loud, no hiding behind innuendos nor insinuations. they need to believe you’ve stolen my virtue, kepus, were the words you’d whispered to him, face still fresh from dried tears and teeth stained purple with the wine he’d let you sip from his glass late into the night as the rest of the world had slept, they need to think that you fucked me. he’d sworn an oath to you, to put on a show and ruin you beneath the judgement of others. he’ll be damned if viserys becomes an exception to this oath. “because i can go into detail, you needn’t beg. i can tell you of how it felt to have her squeeze around my cock, and how she arched that little back like a cat, spine curving deeper each time i pounded into her. i can tell you of how she begged for her uncle, her kepus, to shoot his spend into her aching womb and-”
a screech rings out as viserys’ chair flies backwards, the king rising to a stand and glaring down at his brother, who only sinks deeper into the velvet lined seat and allows himself another sip of his glass, face painted in pure amusement as viserys’ reflects that of an angered dragon.
“enough! i will not have you speak such atrocities about your own niece!”
“oh spear me the lecture of the seven, brother!” the hypocrisy to shun him for lusting after his own kin, it has to be the hightower cunt’s doing. feeding lies into her new husband’s head, any means to have his true-blooded targaryen daughters removed from the line to the throne. daemon at last feels himself begin to irk, a scowl engraving itself into his forehead. “your own beloved, your late wife, shared blood with you and you never once objected to bedding her. it is our family’s birthright to keep the blood of the dragon burning hot, not dampen it with that of lesser folk. i mean our parents, for gods’ sake, they were siblings! are you going to tell me it’s wrong?”
“this is not about you being her uncle, daemon. this is about you being you! and her being my sweet girl, one of the last pieces of aemma-”
daemon can’t help himself, flying out of his own seat with the slam of his hand on the table. the pieces rattle under the impact, the white queen toppling over and sending her pawn flying off the board.
“your sweet girl who you let be slandered by the same lords who break bread at your table and drink from your cups!” the prince stands taller than the king, shoulders straight and head held high as he flips positions, becoming the one staring down upon his older brother, who’s slouched and frailer than he once was, hands searching for the steadying hold of the oak table. “tell me, brother, where were you when she drank herself sick as they spoke on her fertility? what did you do when they mocked her for being scared after an attack on her life, in her own chambers!? did you even ask her what happened between us before you shipped her off like cattle to the slaughter, let her tell you it was she who asked it of me? she detested the thought of marrying some unknown lord so much she’d rather destroy her maidenhood and her honour, but you wouldn’t see that, too blinded by your own downfall into becoming a boot-licker for all these cunts who hold land in your realm.”
viserys can only stare, frozen where he stands and eyes widened in bewilderment at his brother’s own outburst, chest heaving in anger and hands shaking with adrenaline as he points towards the king.
“are you in love with her?”
no more than a whisper, so quiet the rogue prince is almost sure he imagines it.
till the king repeats himself.
"gods, don't be ridiculous!" it’s neither a yes nor a no, and daemon is so painfully aware of this, aware that he gives no real answer to your father nor himself.
the concept of love and all it entails has never appealed to the prince, at least in the way it’s presented in song and written of in history. all his life he’d heard of knights who’s lady love was a gem they sought to hold, to sing songs of faithfulness and dance around with hands entwined by marriage. of men who made themselves better, kinder, more gentle, all in the hopes of pleasing their lover and winning her hand. daemon had never experienced such a feeling.
while love is something most feel in their heart, daemon feels it in his loins.
it’s a hunger that consumes his very being, aching, and growling, and demanding to be fed with bursts of passion and shouts of anger. it’s a possession he needs to take, to mark someone as his, in every sense of the words. his to own, his to touch, his to drown in expensive gifts. his love is not kind, but brutal, and loud, and forceful, never leaving room for the rest of the world to doubt it. it makes him want to march into battle, to burn down cities, to spill the blood of any who dare harm the object of his obsession. his love is a fire that burns him from within, spilling out from his skin and scorching everything in it’s path.
the prince is not sure if he wants you to burn in its flames.
“but i could give her a greater life than any other man in this realm.” what he is certain of is that he will not stand by as your father let’s you be ruined by someone other than him. “a good man means nothing if he can not keep her safe, or even happy. at the very least, wedding her to me would mean her husband is someone familiar. she wouldn’t have to leave her home, or change her ways, or even bare a child if she does not wish to.”
viserys sighs, tired body dropping back into his chair and his mangled hand reaches up to brush over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as his eyes squeeze shut. the prince almost believes he sees a flicker of resignation, winning his brother over at last or exhausting him so deeply he sees no choice but to accept his words as truth, if only to silence him.
instead, the king reaches for the board once more, an airy laugh escaping him as he examines the placement of each piece. leaning over, he sits his queen back up and drums his fingers on the table.
he laughs once more.
"after all these years, daemon, you still struggle to capture my queen."
“but your queen, daemon. the queen is where you hide all your power, look for where your opponent keeps their queen and there you shall find true victory.”
the words of years ago spin round and round in the prince’s head.
his eyes, glued to the board, watch as the king moves his queen out two spaces and captures daemon’s knight, snatching it off the board and tossing it over his shoulder. viserys looks up, awaiting for daemon to continue the match, to put an end to it at last.
but he’s too stuck on the phrasing his brother had used, stubborn in his belief that it’s meaning has little to do with the game upon the table and, rather, the one that’s being played with words and whispers and undisclosed betrothals.
the prince thinks of the queen, the hightower girl who parades around the courts in green silks and upon swollen ankles, face downtrodden each time she foolishly thinks no one is looking. if ever he believed viserys held true affection for her, he’d wonder if she was who the king refers to, if otto hightower had truly been sent back to oldtown empty handed or with a new bride on his arm.
but any fool with a set of eyes can see the king loves his second wife like he loves the iron throne: through duty and obligation.
it is, instead, the late queen aemma who viserys must speak of.
and, while her maiden home, house arryn, where she’d spent her girlhood in the days before she’d been betrothed to her cousin, possesses no lord nor man awaiting a wife, a neighbouring house had just recently named a new wifeless lord.
a house which remembers, especially those who wrong it.
“no…”
i'm where you once where.
“you have to understand, daemon, that the actions you take leave me with consequences to bare. after what happened to lady rhea… after what you done,” his brother, so clearly exhausted with the secrecy and the scheming, folds like a house of cards against a gentle breeze, collapsing further into his seat and shaking his head. he does not notice as daemon moves his own queen along the board. “the vale were at an unease. threatened, was the word they used. so when lord royce staked his claim over his house’s seat, demanding i compensate runestone for the marriage agreement you destroyed and the lady you took from them, i had to give them a show of good faith. i had to reassure them of the longstanding trust between our houses.”
“so you gave her to them, sold her like some slave!”
“i made a political deal!” he attempts to defend himself in both words and on the board. in both, he fails. “one where lord rhoyce gains a bride, i avoid war and my daughter gets to finally take on the duties bestowed upon her at birth.”
“you’re a fucking fool, viserys. you would have been better delivering her to the triarchy. least they would make her death a more swift one. that rhoyce twat’ll have her head on a pike, and her tits and cunt will be hand delivered to you. they’ll slaughter her, as payment for their-” daemon swallows every ill coloured word and expression of his despise that comes to mind at the memory of his bronze bitch, giving no out for his brother to twist this conversation into a matter of his own wrongdoings. “late lady.”
with no more hesitation, the rogue prince moves his queen one last time and delights in watching the white king fall into check.
he knocks the piece over, quietly declaring checkmate.
“brother, please,” the king’s words are as fragile as his health, failing and mute against daemon’s scowling features, which refuse to play nice any longer. “do you think this is what i wanted, for my daughter to be used as a bargaining tool for peace? but there’s no going back, what’s done is done.”
“then undo what is done!”
“how can i when they threaten violence and-”
“you’re the king! who gives a shit what they threaten, they have a dozen men to your thousands. you have dragons! if the threat of fire worked on the men of the vale once, it’ll do so again. so regain your pride and write to that cunt royce. tell him to have your daughter cleaned up and sent back to where she belongs, to find fulfilment in his new lordhood and to drop this notion that he even deserves to gaze upon a targaryen princess, much less stick his shrivelled cock within her. i urge you to send this letter post-haste,” that familiar blade of his sits neatly by the entrance of the chamber, attracting the prince over till he clutches it in his grasp at last, quickly returning dark sister to her rightful spot by his side and discarding the blade he’d stolen from ser criston. he glances back at the king, now risen once more, and twists the doorknob. “and pray, dear brother. pray that it reaches gerold royce before i do.”
with the slam of the door, daemon plunders into the halls of the keep, footsteps heavy and echoing with each one he takes. jaw clenched and hands fisted, he paints the image of a man enraged, sick and fed-up with the games being played.
by the time he reaches his chambers, shoving his way past the sleeping knight at it’s doors, there’s bound to be a flurry of gossiping fools who speak of the prince and his defiling of the king’s commands, but he cares little as he straps himself into leathers and steel, hell-bent on reaching the dragonpit before day breaks and the sun paints the sky alight.
daemon is done sitting idly by, waiting for the king to see reason.
because while at the age of five, naive and easily influenced, daemon targaryen had looked up to his chess-genius of a brother, it was at age five and ten that he realised why his brother kept winning, why pawns and knights and rooks would conveniently move to the places he needed them to be.
he cheated.
#daemon targaryen smut#house of the dragon smut#daemon targaryen x reader#daemon targaryen fluff#daemon targaryen fic#daemon targaryen oneshot#daemon targaryen imagine
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Can I ask a Yandere genderben of Snow White?
Art: From Possibly Sakimichan (lmk if you know for sure)
When you were trained to be a working servant as the amnesiac servant found in the King’s garden, you were more amazed that the characters weren’t acting like the fairytale. Within a month, mind you freshly trained, you were promoted to King’s personal servant. He was gorgeous and incredibly nurturing to you, the exact opposite of the Disney character of the evil queen. Even in his lonesome the King proved to be a learned man who greatly appreciated your ability to read, enticing you with the knowledge he gained to rule the kingdom. Above all else he was wiser and nicer than the supposed hero. Snow White, while known for his beauty he was also known for his two-faced nature.
Around the commonpeople he was the definition of bubbly, humble, giving but around those who knew of his true nature he was a man with a grim outlook. Too many times in an argument over some decision had he suggested the bloodiest option.
“Father, might I suggest we skip the pleasantries with the Fallico family and hang them-no excuse me–send them to the firing squad?”
And on your rounds as a servant you caught him on multiple occasions luring creatures with his voice only to brutally torture them before ending their life. No doubt the actions of a future psychopath thus you kept your distance…well as much as you could considering the King was so vigilant with knowing the constant ambitions of his little monster son.
“Oh (Y/n), I worry I’ll have no choice but to send him away.”
He moved a piece on the chess board, nodding to you for your turn.
“But sir he is your heir…what will you do then?”
You made your move setting back into the chair as you saw the King do a thoughtful rub of his greying stubble.
“Well I considered making you my new one.”
“W-what?!”
Looking wide-eyed and slightly worried you were met with the loving close-eyed smile of the King. You hesitantly smiled at him as he moved his king once more.
“B-but if you did that, how would anyone accept it? I’m not of noble birth and I’m not married into the family..it would bring so much criticism to your name.”
“But I’ll be dead or dying anyway it won’t mean much to me.” He spoke so lighthearted about his own demise it made you tear up a little but you wiped it when you saw his expression soften. Getting up from his seat to, with difficulty, kneel at your side; swatting at you when you tried to assist him.
“(Y/n) listen to me, I have made it my will and it truly is my ambition that the kingdom be placed in your hands.” For emphasis he held your hands in his gruff but warm hands as his warm eyes of indigo looked into your own.
“This is my final wish. All I ask is that you grant it.”
“...For you my King, I will do it.”
“Thank you (Y/n).”
______________________________________________________________
The very next day your apron and cleaning supplies were revoked and a select group of informed staff escorted you to a spare room filled with books. Hushed and succinct you were informed of your schedule with every new day with only the door opening to bring meals or for tutors to come in. As you counted it had been over three weeks since you agreed to take the throne you couldn’t deny you worried. If the prince were to find out there’d be a price to pay and you were sure it would contain blood.
Hearing the wooden door open once again you expected it to be one of your tutors; turning to excitedly question him.
“Mr. Grimsby about the theory of–Oh!”
In all his dastardly glory stood Snow White who looked just as surprised to see you there. You quickly prepared yourself to lie enough to not get stabbed with the sword he boasted at his side.
“Reading…? My father locked his favorite servant in a room to read?”
The prince looked at you as he flipped among the pages of a book laying open on the desk, effectively losing your place. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes as you tried to not stomp over to find it once again.
“Yes, his highness has wanted my opinion on some political matters and I wanted to make sure I was better informed.”
You internally praised yourself for how smoothly you said only to be taken aback by the prince ruining your-previously made-bed by plopping down on it. For the next hour you kept politely trying to get Snow White out of your room only for the prince to further mess everything up in your room. Which you so neatly organized when you got tired of studying.
“My prince, don't you have somewhere you need to be-AHH! THE VASE!”
“Well I guess that concludes your time–””Ooo look at this pillow I wonder if it has feathers in it? Let’s see!” “OOmmpf! WHY YOU!”
By the time your door opened once more your tutor stormed in red with anger and a few guards following behind gawked at the sight. The sight being your room and stack of books in absolute disarray: glass on the floor, sheets strewn about, and the subjects in the room? Well the Prince was holding your body above his head almost effortlessly as he was about to toss you onto the bed hardly bothered at all by your flailing arms and legs. You were well aware that all he really intended to do was toss you on the bed and sit on you just to show how dedicated he was to staying. How’d you know all that? Because he laughed and talked about it in detail while chasing you around the room. But even if it was just an innocent thought it looked as though the calvary was convinced he was trying to murder you.
With great struggle you were pried away from Snow White as more guards were brought to overpower him. Brought to the King’s chamber without struggle you were assessed for injuries before being sat down by what looked to be a panicking monarch. You told him of everything that the prince did and how you evaded his questioning when you were asked. Luckily the King didn’t seem too disturbed and dismissed you to sleep in an identical room. Finally feeling safe enough to rest, you hoped you wouldn’t have any more close calls.
______________________________________________________________
“I know what your doing, I’m not as stupid as you’d hoped.”
Petting the red bird on his pale finger without turning to look at the person who had entered his room. The footfalls were slow and calculating just as he always was.
“Leave them be you’ve never fought for it before so why now?!”
The voice spat angrily it would have made others cower but it only made the listener sigh out loud.
“I have no problem with it, just let me…have some time with them.”
“...time?”
“Yeah just give me an hour of their time every day and I won’t interfere…at least not as much as today.”
“What if I said no?”
“Well then,” the petting began to be squeezing and a smile crept up his face revealing his perfectly shining whites. “I guess I get free reign.”
*POP*
______________________________________________________________
For whatever reason you weren’t told to stay in the room and instead were suggested to visit the garden after your tutor left in a huff; yelling something about being locked in a closet by the devil prince. You chuckled to yourself as you once again opened up your book that had nearly lost your page the day before.
“Whatcha doing?
You deadpanned as the grass caved under the soles of Snow White’s boots. The prince was rocking on the balls of his feet as he blocked the sun aka your reading light.
“Reading alone.”
“That sounds boring…”
You didn’t respond; best not to engage if he was trying to provoke you. Seeing as you weren’t going to react the prince squatted down just above you.
“Y’know what I think would be fun? If you came with me for a ride on my horse.”
“Why would I-AAA!!!!”
In his typical fashion he scooped you up to throw you over his shoulder. All you could do is cry helplessly at the staff who could only send sympathetic looks as he carried you to the stable. Throwing you over the back of the horse’s back; he denied your multiple pleas to sit normally.
“No way, I quite like this position you’re in! Now you can’t run away, again!”
Other than the fact that this prince kept adjusting you so that you were basically rocking against his crotch, the wind felt nice and when you had the stomach to look up the forest looked beautiful.
“Hey you there! Unhand them!”
A woman’s voice called out and you couldn’t believe your eyes the prince or rather the Snow White was here. She wore a white corset top with puffy blue sleeves. Her make-up was natural and really enunciated the beauty of her ebony skin. You could hear the light gnashing of Snow White’s teeth before he spoke.
“My apologies princess but I was taking my mandatory servant while I rode along the forest. As of right now I am grounded and my father, the king, preferred that I have…supervision. This servant and I have a really comedic relationship and you just so happened to catch us in a compromisin”
“..I see..well I’m sure they may be able to supervise better if they were sitting up, right?”
“Isn’t this a little outside your jurisdiction, princess?”
The woman huffed before waving her hand, somehow signalling the guards that emerged from the bushes and fell into formation around her. With a sneer and the turn of her horse your possible savior and posse left. The prince himself huffed before pulling at the back of your clothes to sit you upright on the horse.
“You run and I’ll break your legs.”
He spat in your ear as if he wasn’t already caging you in with his hold on the horse’s reins. When you two returned back to the castle the King was standing outside with the guard and tutors prepared to escort you away. The King lingered to glare at his son who smirked at him before trotting off to the stables.
“I told you, free Reign!”
For the following months this was your typical routine; in between studying to be a monarch you had to survive whatever entertainment Snow White forced you to participate in. The King encouraged you all the while and you were confident that perhaps the events of the fairytale wouldn’t come to pass until the morning leading up to your coronation.
“Here, for good luck.”
The prince handed you the most delectable red apple and you felt a cold sweat develop under your royal attire. You were well aware what would happen if you bit into this and even with so many people around rushing to complete final preparations for the event you couldn’t trust that you’d ever wake up again; not without a ‘true love’ bound to kiss you. You held the apple close to your chest with plans to throw it out.
“Thank you my prince, but it's best if I avoid eating before the festivities.”
“Oh is that so?”
“Yes.” Calling a maid who had a trash can you tossed it and escaped the scene by heading to your mark at the balcony. Breathing in and out you tried to keep yourself from hyperventilating. The sudden warmth of the King brought you comfort, turning to see that same look of pride as he hooked your arm with his. And with that the ceremony began.
The ceremony was successful, the people accepted you with open arms and you said your vows perfectly. Now as the festivities commence, you and the King sit on your portable thrones in the heart of the capital. As part of your new reign you suggested a more hands-on approach with the people which of course had you witnessing the joyous occasion first-hand. You ate and drank a lot of different things throughout the night enjoying the flavors of the culture; which may have lowered your ambitions when a man dressed like a hunter offered you apple cider.
“A-are you a..hunter?”
“Your highness!!”
“AAAAHH they’ve been poisoned!”
“It was him! I saw him!”
“Guards grab him!!!”
As you feel your eyelids grow too heavy to open you realize your mistake. If everything was opposite here then the one doing the poisioning wouldn’t be the King. And instead of the hunter disobeying knowing his life was forfeit it would only be right that he obey knowing his life was to be ended for the sake of his master.
__________________________________________________________________________
“For any of you able to revive our poisoined highness, an award will be given to you. One of your choosing. Without question or consequence.”
The King was distraught, for his beloved successor had fallen into a deep slumber that couldn’t be broken by any normal methods. He cried at your side only leaving to brutally execute this man who gave no rhyme or reason as to what he’s done. The King made the decree that he hoped would wake you; willing to take any kind of route.The next day the line in front of the castle was so long it went into the town and as he agreed when the sun was fully risen would he open the doors.
“Please open the doors, I shan't wait any longer.”
“Ummm your highness there isn’t anyone here…”
“What?”
Rising from his chair he quickly paced to the double doors flinging them open to find a parted crowd gawking or running from the man making his way to the doors. Doused in freshly spilt blood was Snow White, sword in hand matching his entire visage. With every step he took a puddle was left making a growing path as he neared the entrance of the castle
“W-what are you doing here!? I sent you to the kingdom over with the princess who needed a husband. I-if you wanted to rule a kingdom I gave that to you so WHY are you here?!”
The King’s frustrated cry seemed to stop the prince. The silence was broken by the belly laughs of the man in question; his father backing in fear.
“Ha ha ha, old man you did just that but you seemed to miss the part why 'anyone'. was invited here”
Reaching into his pocket he held up an apple identical to the one he had offered you a day before.
“Behold the cure. I have shed the blood of many to save your beloved (Y/n) and I will do the honors of reviving them for that wish.!”
As much as the statement was meant to despair the king it brought support from the people.
“Revive them! And any of your sins will be forgotten by us!”
“Please bring them back to us!”
“Prove it!”
“Woooohooo!”
Relishing in the whooping and jeering of the surrounding villagers Snow White began his walk towards your sleeping form. The King was unsuccessfully trying to calm the crowd as he watched his guard hold them back from filling the room.
“H-how do you plan to give it to them!?”
Horrified he cried out as if to delude himself there was some other way to administer this supposed antidote. To answer all he heard was the laugh of the Prince who was now standing over you happily putting away his sword to toss the fruit between his hands.
With the light shining out of the grand windows of the royal room the silhouette of the man taking a bite from the apple before leaning down to the sleeping monarch. In front of all to see he chewed; brushing his lips against yours as though testing the waters before diving in. Pushing your lips with the prodding of he struggled to get past your guards for teeth. Slightly annoyed he abandoned the apple to forge one hand in the roots of your hair (or the back of your head) to hold you up to him and the other to move the lower half of your jaw.
Finally allowed full access to your mouth he wasted no time sending his pink muscle down your unsuspecting throat with the chewed bits of your cure. But just because the mission was finished it didn’t encourage the prince exploring your mouth further. Marking your lips with the crimson fluid that was drying on his person.
For a while the crowd was enveloped in a silent awe as they watched the Prince makeout with the sleeping ruler. The King was avoiding wretching for the hope of seeing his child wake and that he did.
You blinked once.
Blinked twice discovering that you could move your eyelids.
Blinked thrice more to blur the spotty image of something red.
You blinked for the fourth time registering who was still hovering near your face.
In shock and fear you moved to push him away only for your hand to be grabbed and intertwined with by the man you had always been wary of. Smiling like a lovesick freak you hoped that the guards or the watching crowd would pick up on your distaste. Only to confirm with a quick glance that they were cooing and cheering at the sight. You could hear the crumpling of the former king fighting tears as dug his hands into the floors.
“And for my wish that you promised to grant that I may be king through marriage to the new ruler (Y/n)!”
The crowd erupted in cheer and wordlessly the time for celebration rang throughout the kingdom. Oblivious to your struggling as the Prince shoved a diamond ring on your finger before once again hauling you off into the castle.
There was one thing that didn’t change in this story.
Just about everyone believed in Snow White.
#yandere snow white#yandere genderbend#yandere x reader#yandere x you#lovelyyandereaddictionpoint#yandere genderbent disney#yandere disney x reader#yandere disney#yanderexrea#yandere genderbend snowwhite
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This is 💗 anon, your anon is turned off. Please let me stay anonymous. Anywho, I, uh, need Jing Yuan to just use me any way he wants. He needs to spit in my mouth? My tongue is out waiting for it. He tells me jump, I ask how high. He wants to ruin me in front of his officers who aren't allowed to look at me? I'll do it
That or I power bottom Sampo. Make that submissive little shit worship me
ON A PLATTER
YANDERE! JING YUAN x AMAB! SOLDIER! READER
plus a little Sampo addition (not smut tho) to the end.
hope everyone that pulled for him succeeded!!
©️ art and story belongs to me, character goes to hoyoverse. please do not redistribute, repost, or share my art without credit or permission.
warnings: noncon. spoilers for the jarilo iv storyline. anal seggs.
status: unedited
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. I BEG OF YOU.
Many exalted the drowsy general’s prowess and leadership across the Xianzhou Alliance. Under his rule, the Luofu Flagship developed into a powerhouse that petrified those who heard its name. An infamous red line that warned against those that sought immortality. A blade that stuck right next your jugular in case you dare so moved in a direction they do not want you to.
This general was hundreds of years your junior but had already accomplished far more than you have. That fact was the second biggest slap to the face.
The actual, most damaging slap was his patronizing attitude towards you.
How were you supposed to rise above your station and prove your worth as a knight when he assigned you as his measly bodyguard? It wasn’t as if it was a quiet career really, the man faced dozens of attempts at his life on a daily. It was moreso the fact that he never let you do your job in the first place.
You spent decades just standing around while he swung his massive sword at intruders before you could even blink. Somehow, the lousy man moved faster when defending you rather than with his own duties. It was as if he was the body guard not you.
Not to mention the perverse stares. You weren’t dense. You could feel his bedroom eyes from miles away, taking off the heavy armor you wore to work and leaving you bare. You felt like a lamb, or a tender piece of steak on a platter — and he, the most insatiable man alive.
Hundreds of years training — wasted, spent on being a trophy for him.
If remaining close to the master that misused you for several decades was bad enough, having to interact with him was like hell on earth. He was a vice, a poison molded into the shape of a man. One that could kill you in a instant, but looked oh so tempting. Only the heavens knew how you were resisted his charms for so long.
“Yes, my general? How may I be of assistance?” Your voice and words held a cordial, cold tone to it. If your employer could not bring a semblance of professionalism into the table, then you would tenfold. If he always closed in the distance between you two, you in turn would step further away in your relationship or whatever one might call this thing between the two of you was.
Despite your frigid temperament, Jing Yuan does not flinch nor back down. His eyes trained on a star-chess piece as he twirled it around. “I think it is about time we quell any sort of . . . resentment you have towards me is all.”
You had to give it to him. Jing Yuan was one of the most attractive people you’ve ever bared witness to. At nights like these where his mane of a hair was let down, giving him a relaxed and playful look, it was hard not to stare. “Pardon, my general?”
“You have no need to give me false face, [Y/N]. I know of your doubts and qualms. You see me unfit to continue being General. That I am incompetent, lazy. That I do not let you do a job you feel you are overqualified to even be in.” He listed off before carefully placing the star-chess piece down. His eyes then abruptly flicked to you, creating eye-contact and in turn, chills.
You are rendered speechless. How had he known? You had been so terribly careful. Never spouting about what you thought. Never even writing down such things. You knew better than to show your treacherous feelings outside of the seat of divine foresight, much less within.
So how, how did this wretched man know?
The General smirked as your hands tightened around your spear. “Why so shy all of a sudden, little warrior? Do not worry. I have a feeling you’ll quite enjoy what I have in store for you.”
“Come here.” He patted his lap.
And you quickly realized what was happening here.
Your whole career was a waiting game really. Each day you could only pray that the General had enough self-control not to take you. It seemed that today was the day all restraints were taken off.
Now, you could only pray for things to be swiftly over, or heavens forbid for him to not enjoy it so that it won’t happen again in the future.
Jing Yuan had long planned for this moment. What order he’d take off each piece of armor, how he’d do it, and every step following that. He was more meticulous in the way he’d have his time with you than anything else in his life.
Never did he put this much effort into anything. Not his studies nor training. He had to give it to you. You were right. He didn’t fully devote himself into playing General. How could he when he was already fully devoting himself to you?
“Perhaps little warrior was a wrong title for me to give you. With how drenched these are, wouldn’t little whore be better, hm?” Your skin, no matter what imperfections it may have, looked immaculate to his eyes. It was something Jing Yuan daydreamed about for hours on end and you did not disappoint. He should have done this sooner, he thought. Too bad it had to take a certain trigger for all his control to diminish.
His wasted no time when grabbing your cock. It was semi soft, though you didn’t want him this way your hormones said otherwise. He doesn’t falter for one second even after knowing so, predicting that its state would change once he began stimulating it. “My General, please — ngh — cease this at one.”
You legs kept moving around, either in pleasure or in a last ditch attempt at resisting, you didn’t know. Your body was moving on sheer instinct. Flight or fight mixing with euphoria. Fear and relief clashing against one another. It had been months since you last touched yourself. As a being close to a thousand years of age, your libido had long fizzled out. Or so you thought.
“You really are in need of a wake up call.”
Jing Yuan remained silent for the couple of minutes it took you to finally ejaculate. As the thick white liquid left your member, so did the remaining will to resist.
“I am your ruler.”
Jing Yuan suddenly stood up, causing you to fall forward unto his desk. Your chrysanthemum presented itself for him.
“My word is law.”
His left hands slid from your lower back to your shoulder as his right aligned his cock. You dare not look back to witness his size.
You hear the sound of a bottle being opened and of squelching while Jing Yuan covered himself in lubricant. He almost spends an entire minute just touching himself to your naked back. A sight he thought would only remain a mirage, a phantasm he will never see come to light.
“My desire will be met.”
But alas, you are here. Though he could easily reach climax just masturbating to this magnificent view, a taste was what this entire endeavor’s reason for occurring.
“And long have I waited for this moment to have you in my hands, Senior.”
He enters. Not gentle in the slightest. And to both your surprise he cums right there, not even lasting a second within you. Regardless of the surprise and sudden intrusion, you do not miss the way he addressed you.
A flood of memories fills your mind. “Xiao Yuan . . ?”
You do not get to think too much about it however, as Jing Yuan quickly regained his erection and began fucking your hole. Groaning loudly at your tightness which came as a result of your surprise. He picks you up by your arms and pressed your back to his chest.
“You finally remembered me, have you? But alas, catching up will have to wait. We have an audience waiting for the real show to begin.” He tilted his head away and looked beyond your form.
The guards — those who thought were your friends — that were stationed there weren’t dismissed. They were watching the whole time you were being jerked off and reached climax. Their eyes were glued to how Jing Yuan’s cock would disappear into your little hole, ears peeled to the lewd sounds of squelching, slapping and mewling, you bet that behind those helmets they were drooling over your misery.
But you didn’t feel an inch of anger at them at all, only at the man that forced you into this wicked situation in the first place.
“You lunatic—“ You yelled, but you do not move away, thrash or form any attempts at escape.
“Lunatic? No no, just authoritarian. A leader needs to assert himself in the face of . . . those who daringly gaze at my belonging. All while they’re stripped bare for me to partake in. If anything those lowly soldiers are the perverts are they not?” He paused from his thrusts, and you are ashamed to know that you made a small whine of disappointment at his lack of movement. He chuckled at your response before his face turned cold.
Golden eyes dripped in apathy as he commanded to everyone else in the room. “Helmets off.”
“Yes, general!” They all nodded in unison. No hesitation whatsoever.
“Look straight into their eyes, little warrior.” But who were you to judge when all you do to his commands were to follow blindly as well? You faced your comrades, you’re almost thankful for your arousal clouding your brain and stopping it from feeling too much shame and disgust. They stare right back. Eyes burning with lust and excitement.
Once he is assured of your eye-contact, Jing Yuan began pounding your ass again, this time he was somehow much more harsh than he was at the beginning. “Ngh — !”
“See all of them? These people would kill to be in my place right now. They’d beg for just a drop of your essence. And here you are, taking my cock like the good little warrior you are. Milking me for all I’m worth. Aren’t you greedy for me? Hahaha!” It doesn’t take Jing Yuan long to get jealous. Just several seconds later he shoves you forward and back unto his desk, forcing you to face somewhere else and your attention back to only the way his cock rearranged your insides and hiding the way your hole took him. His hand running itself through your hair, tugging once or twice every minute.
He leaned forward, thus allowing his voice to reach your ears and your ears alone, and his member to reach even further inside you. “Want more of my cum, [Y/N]? Tell me. Order me.”
“Give me - ah - more of your cum, you - ah - bastard!” You screamed, grabbing ahold of one of his scrolls and unintentionally breaking via the strength of your grip.
Your wish is his command.
Jing Yuan doesn’t slow down or stop as his cum filled you up. He wanted to make sure every corner of your hole was covered with him, that every spurt of his seed would decorate your rectum and make it its home.
“Satisfied with your general now, soldier?” He asked, his hips now slowly stuttered to a stop.
You do not reply, only panting in exhaustion. He does not part with you for a moment when he gave his command.
“Qingzu. Send this recording to Tingyun, then execute the rest.”
Your shock and terror overshadowed the doom of all your friends.
“Yes, my General.”
You only realized the weight of it all when he turned you around for an embrace. His genital already ‘recovering’ and almost ready for another round.
“How would you like their eyes served to you, hm? In preserve jars . . .
Or on a platter?”
Inside the void of space. Of the stars, the planets. The cradle of creation and dreams. You hear the sly voice of a man you once knew.
“What a pervert you are, reading a smutty story of that General from Xianzhou.”
What was his name again? Sam . . . Samuel . . . ?
“Sooo ~ did you enjoy it? Did you have fun?”
Sampo. Sampo Koski.
“ . . . What ?”
Yes, Sampo, your fellow actor. How could you forget? The support to your lead. The guy who always had your back.
“Oh my, you seem a little disoriented.“
In the cold embrace of the void, Sampo’s hands almost felt hot when he placed it upon your cheeks.
“Not to worry, dear friend! I’ll fix you right back up again. Can’t have our main actor ill-prepared for their next show, do we?”
And the curtain opens, revealing a sea of white.
[ TRANSLATION ]
chrysanthemum - lit. it’s a pretty flower ya’ll. slang wise it means anus.
xiao - lit. little. it’s a chinese diminutive, basically added to the name to make it sound cute. like little yun or little [y/n].
©️ hana.no.seiiki - yun | 2023
#yandere#yandere jing yuan#yandere hsr#yandere smut#yandere honkai star rail#yandere x reader#yandere x reader smut#yandere jing yuan smut#jing yuan smut#jingyuan#yandere jingyuan#yandere star rail#star rail#jing yuan x reader#jingyuan x reader#yandere x you#sampo#sampo x reader#yandere sampo x reader
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you can run but you can’t hide.
SYNOPSIS: i’m gonna make you mine (or in other words, a game of chess with ayato.) | word count: 0.7k
characters: ayato x gn!reader
categories: fluff, ig slight angst, scenario
warnings: the banter could be considered slightly suggestive?? chess terminology that may be inaccurate, threats of violence as a joke, one swear, ayato is a little bit of an ass (read my notes!)
notes: title is from a song, not someone’s elemental burst btw. forever a hater of the fact that hoyo boiled down ayato’s personality to liking boba, being ayaka’s brother + head commissioner, and politeness. we’re giving him banter and snark bc i said so /hj
surprise @aquatik !! i’m your secret santa >:DD im a little rusty when it comes to writing TwT and this fic style is kind of different from my usual so!! i hope you enjoy this fic & my interpretation of him heh. and have a happy holiday!!
You wanted to strangle him.
Tension was laced through the air, a fine weaving of intricate ribbon that wrapped around your shoulders and settled softly, but not unnoticeably. A featherlight weight that demanded acknowledgement. The white knight in front of you was mocking, horse head positioned carefully to swipe your bishop with no way of getting out of it.
Ayato watched on in glee. A delicate smirk laid out on his refined face.
With a sigh, you continued to mull over your painstaking next move. His pieces had begun to dominate your side of the board with a few of yours off to the side by his arm. Ayato laced his fingers together, rested his chin on the back of his hands, and huffed in amusement.
“If you keep staring at me like that, I’m just not going to take my turn,” you remarked with a scowl, glaring at him from across the table. He cocked his head, expression not wavering.
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve already won,” you stated, looking back down at the pieces still on the board, “like you’ve already beat me before this is even over.”
“But,” a gloved finger came to rest on his chin as he cheerfully quipped back, “haven't I?”
“This game is not over until one of us officially knocks down the opponent’s king.” You moved a pawn. D5.
“Are you sure?” White pawn C4.
“Positive.” Your pawn to C4. Queen’s Gambit accepted. His piece sat off the board to your right.
“You know.” His knight took your bishop; your queen took his knight. “I have told you that I was a master at this, darling.”
“Master at what?” You opened up your last bishop. “Running your mouth?” A flimsy checkmate was secured.
Ayato laughed, a hearty sound that came from deep in his chest and frothed in his throat when it reached the top.
“It’s wonderful playing with you, my love, you know that?”
“No,” you felt the beginnings of a smile appear as you spoke, “I don’t. Please tell me more.”
His queen was gone but so were both of your knights. Yet he still grinned.
“Oops.” Rooks cornered your king despite the placement of your queen, effectively pushing the useless royal to the corner. Ayato smiled, eyes closed as he folded his hands neatly in his lap.
“Checkmate.”
You scoured the board, looking for a brief slip up on his end, for any open area, before sighing, “Good game, love.”
“An excellent one indeed.” His eyes alight with mirth and tease foretold what he was about to say next. “Although, maybe practicing with someone more of your caliber may do you some good.”
The small kingdom shook and chess pieces fell, rooks and queens rolling off the table as both kings toppled.
Slammed in the centre, a crater in the checkered pattern, was your hand. Chair shoved back, you had abruptly stood and scraped the furniture against dark wood. Ayato raised his sight up a slight amount, cheekiness in his giggles while you glowered back. He stood, gaze locked with yours as he leaned in.
Before a single new word could fall from his lips, you had pulled him by the soft material of his robe, fabric melting under your touch.
“I was trying to be nice,” you grumbled. From outer eyes, anyone could have mistaken it for utter hatred. Between the two of you, the venom was neutral; Ayato wouldn’t find real malice behind the things you said.
“As was I.”
“I fear for the officials you meet on a daily basis if this is your ‘nice’.”
His smile fell, not from his face or in the way those games that laid about on the floor, but into something softer; warm and homey. He placed a hand over the one clutched to his clothing.
“It’s a good thing it’s the holiday season then, isn’t it?” He bumped his forehead against yours over the table, position awkward yet he made do. “Means I’m all yours.”
You faked annoyance, a roll of the eyes followed by a scoff, but the smile that threatened to split your face said it all.
“Oh poor me. However will I manage?” You replied before tugging and locking your lips with his.
#ayato x reader#genshin impact x reader#genshin x reader#astronetwrk#ayato fluff#gixrsecretsanta2023#genshin impact x gender neutral reader#genshin fluff#ayato x you#genshin x gender neutral reader#genshin scenarios#genshin imagines#ayato imagines#! notepad.txt#genshin impact scenarios#genshin x you#genshin impact fluff#genshin impact x you#genshin x gn reader
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Dirty
Warnings! 18+(minors do not enter, go on now-get!). Unprotected PinV(don’t be like this- too many risks), bar bathroom sex, fingering, mirror play, alcohol consumption, consensual, cussing
Not really any description of reader besides clothing. Pics from Pinterest on the mood board thing(I made it, first one ever. Can’t ya tell? 🤣)
A/N: First smutty piece. Just decided to go for it. @jay-zzle read it over and seemed to like it so hopefully someone else does too ❤️ Not tagging character cause that’s a surprise part of the story. Constructive criticism is welcome but I won’t tolerate assholes. Here we gooooo
Masterlist
Reader X Surprise!Pboy
*****
“Oh fuck!” You gasp while being pressed against the sink in this dingy bar bathroom “Yes! Please, right there!”
Is this how you saw your Friday night going? Not really. Are you disappointed? Not at all. It was a spur of the moment decision. A recent break up calls for some debauchery.
*****
“I don’t know. You really think this is a good idea?”
Your best friend, Laurie, looks at you like you grew a second head. Breaking up with your boyfriend of four years on a Wednesday afternoon wasn’t in your plans for the future but it happened. While you thought he was too focused on his career and succeeding. Come to find out, he was actually too busy fucking his assistant.
“Uh yeah! Fuck Dean! If he couldn’t see what was right in front of him then he’s an idiot. But we already knew that” She says, “It’s Friday night! We need to go out and have fun!”
She was the decision maker in your outfit for the night. A tight red strapless dress that stopped just before your knees, fit your curves in all the right places, black heels, and a full face of makeup that you almost didn’t recognize yourself when you looked in the mirror. It’s been so long since you dressed up like this. In all reality though, you need this. You need to feel wanted, you need to feel attractive, you need this like the air you breathe.
*****
After going to a few clubs the only place left that would serve you alcohol was a dingy local dive bar. Laurie is already three sheets to the wind. You’d sobered up a teensy bit when you got in the cab to come to this place. There’s a jukebox in the corner with a small dance floor where people are making their best effort to dance, well worn black leather seats at the bar, and plenty of drunken entertainment around you. You look up from the drink you’ve been sipping on and make eye contact with a stranger across the bar. You can’t make out many details of him besides the white shirt and leather jacket combo, brown hair, a little bit of scruff on his jaw and that he’s alone. He looks decent enough from a distance with this bar's dim lighting. You decide then and there if he continues staring you’ll have to go up to him, this is what this night was about after all, right?
It continues, it’s like you can feel his eyes on you. This random man who can’t look away. Occasionally you glance in his direction. Still sitting alone, still observing you like he’s waiting to see if you’ll make the first move such as a game of chess. Your drink is down to the bottom, you look over your shoulder to search for Laurie. Seeing she’s occupied by her own stranger for the night, you decide to make your move. Getting up you saunter over to the stool next to him.
“Is this seat taken?”
“All yours if you want it.” The stranger replies.
You sit and get the bartender's attention to order another drink.
“Put it on my tab.” He tells the bartender when your drink arrives.
“Oh, well thank you!!” You say, giving him a slight smirk.
“What uh… brings you to this place dressed like that?” He asks, looking you up and down.
“Only place left that would still serve us booze.” You laugh.
“Ah, I see!” He says grinning like the Cheshire Cat “Makes sense.”
You cock your head to the side chewing on the small straw.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just don’t see many gorgeous women dressed like that in here.” He shrugs.
“If I didn’t know any better I’d think you’re trying to flirt with me” you giggle
“Maybe I am.” He says with a wink downing his own drink and signaling the bartender for another.
*****
With a subtle nod of his head and standing up from his stool, you follow. It didn’t take long at all for this stranger to lead you towards the back where you can only assume there is some sort of privacy. The stranger grabs you suddenly pushing you against a wall. His face is so close you can smell the whiskey he’s been drinking on his breath.
“Wanna have some fun?” He asks smiling
“It’s why I’m here.” you softly laugh
He closes the gap between you pressing his lips to yours. Kissing someone new is always exciting, not even knowing this man’s name seems to make it even more so. You didn’t realize how touch starved you were til this moment. Some stranger simply kissing you already has your panties soaked. Grabbing the back of his neck and pressing into him more you feel the cool material of his leather jacket against you, sending goosebumps across your skin. He deepens the kiss and willingly you open your mouth for him to explore. The sound of a lock being undone and the jiggle of a door handle has you both separating, trying to control your breathing he gives a friendly nod to the person who walked out of the bathroom.
“Come on.” He says, grabbing onto your hand and pulling you into the bathroom.
He closes the door and you hear the lock click. Grabbing a hold of your waist he presses you against the door. He grabs your face, craning your neck up while slowly moving one hand down your throat, collarbones and landing at the top of your dress.
“Do you want this?” The stranger asks toying with the material.
“Yes.” you whisper, trembling under his touch.
“Good.” He says, moving his mouth to yours again.
It feels like he’s everywhere all at once. His hands were moving with a mind of their own grabbing whatever and wherever they could. Your neck, your breasts, your waist, til they move down to the hem of your dress. His knuckles slowly trace your inner thigh moving up, up, up. He brushes against your clit and you whine.
“Already whining and I’ve barely done anything?” The stranger chuckles.
With one hand around your neck and the other under your dress he moves you swiftly deeper into the bathroom. You can feel the sink digging into your lower back shifting your dress up to give him more room, all of a sudden you’re being lifted. When did his hands move? You can’t seem to focus on anything but the way his mouth moves against yours, all you know is this handsome stranger is making you feel things you haven’t felt in years. His tongue in your mouth, his hand moves your thong to the side.
“Jesus. So fucking wet.” He hums as he swipes a finger through your folds. You can’t even think straight. This man, this handsome stranger, he’s all consuming. He starts rubbing your clit with such precision it’s unreal. When was the last time someone just touching you has gotten you this worked up? Panting relentlessly, already so close to the edge. He inserts a finger into your dripping core, moving in and out at a steady pace.
“Fuck!” You whine. “Yes, baby, it feels so good!”
The stranger withdraws his fingers with a smirk. His hands make busywork pulling his pants down and his cock springs free, you’re mesmerized. It’s long and thick. Like nothing you’ve seen before. Giddy with anticipation of what’s about to happen. He grabs you again and turns you around to face the mirror.
“I want you to see what’s happening.” He whispers in your ear.
He grabs himself and begins rubbing his tip up and down your seam. The sounds coming from your throat surprise you. Never has it felt like this. Never has someone driven you up the wall with want like this.
“Ready?” He asks. All you can do is nod. Feeling his tip at your entrance slowly teasing. “Words, baby. Words. I need to hear you say it”
“YES! Please!” He plunges into you with so much force it’s hard to breathe. The feeling of his cock inside your dripping heat feels as if you're on another planet. You shouldn’t be so close this fast just from his teasing.
“Wanna see you come.” The stranger says. You nod, focusing on the pleasure of his cock inside you. Feeling his hands slid up to your face pushing it toward the mirror so you can see. “You look so good on my cock! Look at you.”
Sliding his hands down your back, he grips your waist. His thick cock spearing into you feeling like you’re going to split in two. His lips are on your neck giving open mouthed kisses and little nips. There are no words coming to you, your brain is blank from the pleasure, all you can do is feel his cock punching into you at a relentless pace, and moan. With each thrust you can feel your hips digging into the sink. Suddenly he hits a spot that has your breath becoming ragged and you can feel that coil in your belly tightening.
“You feel so fucking good,” He groans setting his head on your shoulder blade.
“Fuck! Right there!” You moan out. “Don’t stop, don’t stop!”
“Yeah?” He breathes out, moving his head to look at you in the mirror. Winding one of his hands around your waist to the top of your mound and finding your clit. He begins to circle that button and you can’t help but bite down on your lip to keep from screaming at the feeling of it.
“Oh fuck!” You gasp. “Right there, right there, I’m gonna come. I’m- I’m gon-“
The tingling starts at the base of your spine and begins to climb up. Back arching, head resting on his shoulder, your orgasm washes over you, fanning out from your head to your toes.
“Fuck me!” He groans, working his hand a little faster. “So fucking tight.”
“Mmhhmm.” You whine. Winding your hand to the back of his neck to hold him, slightly tugging the curls at the base of his neck, trying to ground yourself. His pace begins to falter, you can tell he’s getting close.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck. Where?” He asks, grunting.
“Ass.” You reply. He pulls out placing his dick on your ass, you can see his arm moving at a fast pace in the mirror. His face begins to twist in pleasure, eyebrows knitted together, moving his face down to watch his spend shoot out on your ass.
“Fucking hell.” He sighs. “That was amazing. Thank you!”
“You’re welcome?” You couldn’t help but laugh. “Don’t know if anyone has ever said thank you to me after sex.”
“Well, my mom always told me I needed to be polite.” He shrugs, grabbing a paper towel from the holder on the wall. He gently begins wiping his come off you. You can’t help but stare at him in the mirror as he situates your thong and dress back into place. You make eye contact when he looks up again, both smiling at each other. He grabs your waist and turns you around to face him, arms wrapping around his neck, playing with the curls that rest against his neck.
“Speaking of being polite,” He says, kissing you softly. “The name’s Marcus.”
“Well hello Marcus, nice to meet you!” You giggle telling him your name.
“So, I know we did this totally backwards but could I get your number and take you out sometime?” Marcus asks, cheeks turning crimson in color.
“I think we can manage that.” You say with a wide smile.
#fanfic writing#pedro pascal characters#smut#Pedro pascal character smut#fanfiction#be kind#fanfiction smut#pedro pascal
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I want to make it clear that I like Dragon Age Inquisition. That’s literally not the issue.
But I’ve had this long standing, unnamed problem with the Inquisitor themselves and I think I know why.
Because they’re a literal blank slate.
In Origins and in DA2, we start off in the middle of a very personal story. The Warden is a Casteless dwarf that becomes Champion, they’re an elf who has to escape her captors and fight her way to her friends, they’re a noble’s child who watches their whole life burn down in the course of a few hours.
And we can tell the King to his face “I murdered my cousin’s rapist” “my parents are dead”. We get an outside element who reacts to us and even shares our grief.
There’s an immediate, emotional reason to CARE about them because it starts off as THEIR story and then they become the person that the whole world’s fate is hinging on. But they start as a person and we make them a legend.
With Hawke, about 90% of the game is how these people’s interpersonal lives affect things and how they affect the world and the world-ending stuff doesn’t happen until the very end as a culmination. You start as a penniless refugee outrunning the apocalypse and your first immediate concern is the fact that the only person who’s going to save you from that is YOU.
The Inquisitor wakes up in the Fade and is immediately made the Herald of Andraste. We get literally two? lines of dialogue that even vaguely let us react to the absolute insanity happening around us. But becoming the Herald literally consumes everything. And that’d be a really awesome story if we knew who the Inquisitor was before? But we get two vague lines about our background on the origin selection page, a smack on the tush, and we’re off to save the world.
We don’t get that same kind of emotional foothold with the Inquisitor that we do with our Warden and our Hawke. Your inquisitor doesn’t HAVE a story in game.
And the biggest place where this is noticeable is with Clan Lavellan.
Whether your clan is destroyed or saved, nothing changes. You don’t get a dialogue to acknowledge your grief or your relief, you don’t get anything from your companions, you don’t even really have any involvement in it besides moving some chess pieces around. It just happens in text and then absolutely nothing.
That’s it. Something that should fundamentally destroy your character just happens and the only person who reacts to it at all is the player and the Inquisitor is just our little hand puppet and THAT is the disconnect.
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For the fruit shop store request, something between Kinger and Gangle, cause those two have stolen my heart and I think they’d be good friends. I was thinkin “strawberries”, “pear” and “mangoes”.
So, Gangles comedy mask breaks again, so she goes to Kinger for comfort, starts with a hug, he finds out she’s ticklish and lovingly uses that to his advantage, then she gets revenge, and it ends in a little comforting cuddle in the end. All platonic ofc. Does that sound doable? If not, I understand:)
Fruit(s): Strawberries, Pears, Mangoes
OKAy plot has been outlined! Gangle is the wet cat of this fandom and I love it. Kinger gives off crazy dad vibes as well; it’s always fun to flesh those out! I’m pretty sure I nailed everything you asked for Anon! Thank you for requesting, and I hope you Enjoy!
Lees: Gangle, Kinger
Lers: Kinger, Gangle
Summary: Gangle's comedy mask is broken once again, upsetting her and leading her to seek comfort. Kinger helps her out, and while his silly method does work, he soon learns just how effective it is.
Warnings: none! This is a tickle fic, so if you don’t like that, scroll away!!
Gangle cradled the halves of her comedy mask, eyeing them wistfully. The tears on her mask quivered, small whimpers escaping the ribbon entity. Not again…
She had just convinced Caine to fix her comedy mask for her; a task that took many, many hours of begging. Less than a day later, though, the ringmaster had planned a wild adventure, leading to her mask getting broken once again. He had refused to fix it again so soon, leaving her without a “working” smile.
When she got really sad, Gangle only knew of one character who she could go to for both emotional and mask-related help. She tried not to cry as she lumbered towards the pillow fort, small sniffs and whines slipping past her defenses.
Kinger heard the girl coming before he saw her. As Gangle approached the fort, the “door” opened without a sound, a kindly chess piece greeting her. She showed him the broken mask with a whine, the line of her mouth quivering. He led her inside, replacing the front pillow and sitting her down. Kinger was mostly stable that day, his hands only shaking a little if he let his mind wander.
“What happened this time?” He reached under a purple pillow, pulling out some white tape. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do. Kinger started to tape up the mask, listening to whatever his fellow circus member had to say.
“C-Caine’s NPC’s knocked my m-mask off…” Gangle brought her knees up to her chest, hugging them as best as she could. Her poor comedy mask was always getting cracked, chipped or outright smashed during Caine’s adventures. Why did she have to be so fragile?
Kinger finished taping her mask up, holding it up and checking his work. It was nowhere near as good as Caine’s reset-powers, but it would have to do. He handed it to her, rubbing the back of his head. “Uh, it’s not good, but it should work…”
She put the mask on, blinking a few times to test it out. Gangle was smiling, but it was so small… Definitely not what he wanted to see. “Hey, Gangle…do you want a hug?”
The ribbon girl nodded, her smile growing a little. Kinger wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close and hugging her. It was nice at first, the hug helping cheer her up.
Kinger moved a bit in the hug, rubbing her back. She liked the touch, but the fuzzy white material of his robe was rubbing against her front ribbons, right where her stomach would be. Gangle tried to keep quiet, squirming and pressing her mouth shut.
It took the supposedly older man all but a few seconds to realize what was going on. He chuckled, getting a tighter grip on her and sitting back. Kinger moved one hand downwards, gently scratching the ribbons of her side.
“EEP! K-Kihinger!” She squealed, giggles filling the fort as Kinger scritched on her sides. While it was a bit silly, he’d learned that that method of cheering-up worked on most of the circus residents. Gangle seemed especially receptive to it.
While Gangle did love affections from Kinger, it still tickled. She squirmed and twisted in the hug, giggling and squeaking her mask off. If she wanted to, she could have just untwisted her ribbons and slipped out of the hug. There was no fun in that, though; besides, she kinda liked being held close, and laughing around her trusted friend felt nice.
“What? I’m just helping my friend cheer up! You need to smile more, Gangle; it looks good on you.” He hummed fondly, moving his wiggling fingers to the middle of her stomach ribbons.
She squealed, kicking her legs and flailing as much as the tickly hug would allow. “KIHIHIhingeher! N-NYAAAHAhahaho!” Gangle might not have had a definite body like the other characters, but she was definitely still ticklish. It didn’t make much sense, but then again, what in the circus did?
Kinger loved hearing his friends laugh. Life in the circus was crazy; there were some days where he could barely keep a grip on his sanity. Others, he was solid. Hearing his fellow circus members laugh meant that they weren’t on the brink of total insanity. It wasn’t much, but it was a comfort.
“Ihihit tihihickles! P-pleheHEHEASE!” Gangle’s pitchy laughter jumped all over the place, a red hue dusting the cheeks of her mask. Another thing that doesn’t seem possible; ceramic gaining a color that’s the result of raised blood pressure. But eh, who needs logic?
“You have a nice laugh, Gangle. Should let us hear it more often as well.” He sounded so calm and playful, ultimately making everything twice as bad. Another squeal rang through the fort, one of Gangle’s bright red arms patting Kinger’s hand. It was a sort of tap-out; she was at her limit.
Kinger backed off, switching to gentle rubs on her back ribbons as he tried to help her settle back down. Gangle giggled off the leftover tickles, still a bit giddy from the “help” her friend provided. “Ohoho gohosh… That was mehean!”
He chuckled, sitting her down on a pillow and shaking his head. “Is it really mean if you enjoyed it?” She grumbled, smirking as she poked his side in retaliation. Surprisingly enough, he yelped, jolting away from the touch with a small giggle. Oooh, revenge!
Gangle chuckled mischievously, a spark of confidence taking over. She wrapped her leg ribbons around his middle, digging into his sides. The chess piece snorted, his large eyes squeezing shut as he squirmed. While he probably could’ve tossed her off, he was kind of enjoying her “payback.” It was apparently just as fun to laugh as it was to hear it from his friends.
“Gahahangle! *snrk* Whyhyhy are you tihickling mehe?” He wriggled around, but he didn’t actually put any effort into escaping. He was having as much fun as she was.
The ribbon girl laughed with him, enjoying herself. “Because you started it!” She squeezed where his hips would be, making the chess man squeal. “IHI WAHAHAS *snrk* CHEHEERING YOU UHUHUP!”
“So am I!” She moved one arm, using the end of her ribbon to brush along the neck-base of his piece. Small squeaks and squeals broke through his snorty laughter, making her smile. Gangle loved his laugh-y noises.
Kinger tried to scrunch up his shoulders, twisting more as she upped the ante. “B-BUHUT I AHAM *snrk* H-HAHAPPY! GAHANGLE!” It was getting harder and harder to stay still…
“That’s because I’m making you happy!” She knew it was a bit mean, but she was having fun! Kinger rarely had good days like that; she had to take advantage of it!
Kinger wanted to protest the sensibility of all that, but he was too busy laughing his proverbial ass off. Gangle was surprisingly good at tickling him. Being a little less resilient than Gangle, he quickly ran out of energy.
One of his hands pat at her leg ribbon, showing that he was down for the count. Gangle unraveled her legs from around him, smiling and sitting back to watch her friend. While her comedy mask was far from perfect, she felt a lot better than she had when entering the fort.
Kinger rubbed his hip and neck area, calming the residual tickles and taking a few deep breaths; he was tired. With a small yawn, he grabbed the softer pillows in his fort, setting up two for him and Gangle. He didn’t even need to ask her if she wanted in. It had been a sort of pattern for them: someone got sad, they both cheered eachother up, and cuddled afterwards to recharge.
With a small giggle, she crawled over to him, careful not to hit any support pillows. When Kinger laid down, she cuddled up right beside him, wrapping her arms around his middle and getting cozy against the soft pillows of the fort.
Exhaustion hit them both like a ton of bricks; apparently, all that tickling had worn them out. Kinger pulled a blanket over them both, relishing in the peaceful moment as he drifted off to sleep. Gangle was close behind him, a smile still on her face. She loved his cheer-up sessions...
#kasey's fruit shop#tadc tickle#lee!gangle#ler!kinger#ler!gangle#lee!kinger#sfw tickling community#tickle fic#tickle#fruit shop event#ticklish!gangle#ticklish!kinger#switch!gangle#switch!kinger#the amazing digital circus tickle#tadc gangle#tadc kinger
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WujiWatch: CQL Rewatch Episode 11
This episode is jam-packed – so jam-packed that I can’t remember whether Meng Yao is thrown out of Qinghe Nie Sect at the beginning of this episode or the end of the last one, but the last post was way too long so I’m putting it here regardless! I’ve got two things on the scene where Meng Yao is kicked out, and one thing on that weird scene where Wen Chao tries to ambush Lan Wangji on the way back to Cloud Recesses.
Fanon Meng Yao is this master manipulator, the smooth talker who moves the people around him like chess pieces—but the thing that stands out to me, watching the scene between Meng Yao and Nie Mingjue, is that Meng Yao’s behavior here is a masterclass in how not to influence people. Like, genuinely, I hope he wasn’t even trying, because otherwise, I’m embarrassed for him.
He starts out okay, talking about how the captain mistreated him, day after day, humiliating him, abusing him—Nie Mingjue says, “And so you killed him,” and if Meng Yao had said, “Yes. That’s why,” I really think Nie Mingjue would have understood. He wouldn’t have been happy about it—he still looks mad when he says, “And so you killed him,” but he’s not disgusted. He knows how long Meng Yao has been taking that kind of abuse from the other disciples, he’s tried (ineffectively) to protect Meng Yao from that, and if Meng Yao just couldn’t take it anymore and snapped, that would therefore be partly Nie Mingjue’s fault for failing to protect him.
But instead, Meng Yao, supplied with a perfectly good excuse for murder, the kind of thing that the hot-tempered Nie Mingjue could easily understand, says, “No, it wasn’t that.” He then raises and immediately discards another perfectly good explanation, saying it wasn’t because the captain repeatedly insulted his mother—which Nie Mingjue could also have understood just fine, and perhaps even found honorable, as a particularly bloody exercise of filial piety. Why even bring it up if you’re not going to claim it as a defense!?
Instead, Meng Yao says it was because the captain claimed credit for Meng Yao’s work. If I were trying to think of the least persuasive excuse you could possibly make to someone like Nie Mingjue, that would be up there. To Nie Mingjue, even admitting that you care about getting credit for your work is distasteful. To kill someone over it? Once he hears that, he’s not just mad, he’s revolted. It is not hard to foresee this reaction. For Meng Yao not to see it coming, or for Meng Yao to see it coming and think Nie Mingjue likes him enough to overcome that reaction, is a huge miscalculation.
Is Meng Yao a talented manipulator? Clearly, he is, in some circumstances. But at some very key points—this scene and the confrontation with Qin Su particularly stand out—that skill deserts him. I think, in both cases, he cares too much about the people he’s confronting, and it impairs his otherwise sharp judgment.
The other and last thing I want to say about this scene is that it is no accident that the “Meng Yao gets thrown out” scene takes place in such close proximity to the scene in which we meet Yu Ziyuan. It would have been easy to introduce her character at several previous points, including the meeting breaking up the engagement she arranged, or a scene during Jiang Cheng and Jiang Yanli’s return to Lotus Pier. But the writers choose this moment: the moment when the viewer has just learned—and Wei Wuxian has just been reminded—that even a highly valued, talented sect member with an important role can be tossed out with nothing but the clothes on his back, at the sect leader’s whim. Wei Wuxian carries himself like the typical powerful, comfortable young master, with his expensive clothes and blithe disrespect for authority. But this is the episode where you see what’s underneath—where you come to appreciate how precarious his position truly is.
One last little random thing, about the scene where Lan Wangji is walking (why?? he can fly!) back to Cloud Recesses and is ambushed by Wen Chao, first by a sinkhole opening up in the road (why?? again, he can fly!), and then by a physical attack from Wen Zhuliu. Wen Chao tries to intimidate him verbally, calling him “Lan Zhan” (Wen Chao’s beef with Lan Wangji, like Jin Zixun’s, is so weirdly personal) and saying that he hates Lan Wangji’s condescending tone, which is fucking hilarious because Lan Wangji has never in his life said a word to Wen Chao. Lan Wangji fends the Wens off with one of Wei Wuxian’s sparkle-distraction talismans and then vanishes.
What I find interesting about this scene (besides the fact that I literally always forget that it exists and am surprised to see it again when I rewatch haha) is that, after all of the above goes down, Wen Chao says, “That’s Wei Wuxian’s [Name of Talisman] Talisman!” (I’m serious, my recall of this scene is so poor, even after five times.) This is one of the very few clues we get in the series that teenage Wei Wuxian is famous throughout the cultivation world for his inventive genius with talismans. Wen Chao might have been able to guess that the talisman came from Wei Wuxian just based on the fact that Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji are friends, but the only way he would know the specific name of the talisman is if he’s heard about Wei Wuxian’s inventions, even all the way in Nightless City where they’re all busy pretending the rest of the cultivation world has nothing to offer. (And this isn’t the writers using Wen Chao to pass along information the viewer needs – we have no need to know what the talisman is called, it won’t come up again.) Kind of neat!
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Okay, commentary based on rough translations for servamp chapter 139 under the cut
Mahiru gets to use his uncles weapon to make the night sky as bright as midday (aka what mahiru's name means). That's so cool!!! I'm a bit suprised that he can use the weapon though because he's has no magic abilities according to tooru and I thought the weapons could only be used by magic users? Maybe being an eve helps? Or maybe it has something to do with whatever is special about mahiru. Anyway, the ritual requires a moon to work so I guess turning night into day might help to stop that.
On another note, tooru is still badly injured and starts to bleed again, please don't die on us uncle tooru.
Kuro finding the strength to stand up again as he sees mahiru's light was sweet to see. I believe the sloth demon says something about always going to remember mahiru's name when he sees dazzling light and kuro tells tsubaki that midday is no time for vampires.
I think misono is telling lily that he doesn't believe lily that it was all a farce, that he does have expectations of others and that he does want to repent for his sin, calling back to misono's talk with the lust demon at the end of the lust arc. Don't trust my translation on these things though. Anyway, misono says that you can't end a game of chess without the kings on the board by a checkmate, but you can end the game in other ways like a stalemate in which no moves are possible anymore, which is the situation misono goaded lily into, ending the game and freeing misono from the spell. Ironically the only pieces remaining on the board are pawns (aka characters/chess pieces lily seems to see little value in). Back in the garden lily turns into butterflies and vanishes while misono is confused because it should be night, but it's as bright as midday.
We also return to sakuya and mikuni. Mikuni attacks sakuya, but sakuya reveals that he used his powers and the spot he attacked was the sakuya from five seconds ago (?). Then sakuya attacks mikuni, but it's not the real mikuni either? I didn't really get it, but there seem to be multiple mikunis (I think 13 or 12 now that sakuya killed one) in different locations and tsubaki's subclass are facing them trying to stop tsubaki from destroying himself (whatever power tsubaki is using right now seems to harm him and he can only keep going because of mikuni's help. If mikuni would stop helping tsubaki might be forced to stop the ritual/would not be able to complete it. Or maybe it's about some barrier spell mikuni used? I'm not sure what exactly mikuni is doing to help tsubaki).
Higan is facing one mikuni and something prompts him to talk about the time he lived with a woman who for a short time made him feel like an artist and not like an abnormal being.
All in all it seems as if things seem to turn around this chapter! Mahiru got to use a powerful attack that seems to have filled the other heroes with hope, even though we don't know yet what exactly it managed to do (is pandora finally destroyed so the eves and servamps can finally split up into smaller battles again?), but since the moon seems to be a big part of the ritual it might help in that regard.
I still have no idea why the hell mikuni is doing any of this (his main attack, granted he developed it when he was 16, was about judging those who kill humans. So why is he okay with killing millions to gain power? Has envy's curse turned him insane too?) and I guess lily returned to his side after misono freed himself?
It's great to see that misono is now free and able to share what he learned from lily once he runs into the other characters again.
With tsubaki's subclass now also trying to stop mikuni and lily's plans (and tsubaki from destroying himself) the protagonists should be able to convince them to fight together with them right? Now that they have the same goal.
Really liked this chapter, servamp has their protagonists on the losing end a lot more often and longer than I'm used from other stories so it's nice to see the protagonists get some wins.
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Laundry
Media The Queens Gambit
Character Benny Watts
Couple Benny X Reader
Rating Flirty
I was sitting on the small ottomans in the basement that Benny called home, Next week was Paris and we were going together as Co-Champions this year. He had graciously offered his apartment so I didn't have to book a hotel so we could train and prep for the games ahead. Plus I wanted to come to New York for some shopping anyway. But this place isn't exactly what I imagined... then again now thinking about it, I'm not sure I did imagine Benny to live any better than this, but it's just a little jarring when it's true. I glanced away from my book and looked around the grey dimly lit basement, the shower in the corner, no sofa, frosted window to the bedroom, the kitchen not much more than a fridge, a counter and a single stovetop. And there he sat utterly in his element at his table no shoes but still black socks, his dark jeans his belt sat comfortably his knife in its holster, a black t-shirt with his green textured shirt on over it with the sleeves rolled up, his chains against his chest and his arms, rings across his fingers, he sat his coffee cup on the table fixed his facial hair and focused back to his board moving the piece he had been contemplating for the last ten minutes.
"Benny?" I asked
"Yeah?" He asks glancing up
"I don't mean to ... pry into your personal business -"
"But you're going to?"
"I am going to," I nodded "Do you actually live like this?"
"Yeah?"
"This isn't like some elaborate prank? And this is like where you store your chess board or something and you actually have a decent semi-detached townhouse in Queens?" I asked
"You're really struggling with this aren't you?"
"I'm just... curious."
"I like it"
"I mean I know New York isn't the cheapest place but..."
"But ?"
"But come on. I cannot repeat this enough: your shower is next to your fridge. You wash your ass beside where you make food. You have a window in your bedroom. That's not wallpaper that's just concrete"
"I like it"
"Really? Because I'm pretty sure you can afford better"
"Are you now?"
"We're co-companions I know how much you earn. Unless you're getting a bonus because of your additional appendage"
"Appendage?" He asked looking confused
"Your penis"
"Oh. No y/n, price money does not differ between appendages"
"Every other job I've ever worked does"
"The chess federation doesn't give a damn about appendages y/n"
"Still..."
"I like this place"
"...that brings up a good point actually... I'm not seeing a washing machine. Anywhere?"
"No,"
"Is there... a secret Washing machine?"
"No"
"Okay, do you need to go to someplace in the building and do laundry?"
"You wanna do some laundry?"
"Yes please"
"Alright, get your stuff," he says getting up and heading into his room, I gathered my laundry unsure what to do with it all and he returned with a large drawstring bag "Throw your stuff in here," he says dropping it on the floor with a thud
"In there?"
"Yeah"
I pulled the bag a little to peek inside "Ahhh I'm not putting my laundry in with yours!"
"Why not?"
"Because that's gross!"
"But we're taking it to clean? So what does it matter?"
"It just does Benny!"
"You can put it in the bag or you can carry all your laundry by hand, up to you"
I sighed and out of my clothes, getting my bag and my shoes as he got his shoes and his jacket grabbing the bag and putting it over his shoulder
"Come on then," he says heading out so I followed him he locked the door behind us and we headed up to the dirty New York streets I followed him down the pavement past cars and trash bags for a good while, it felt like we'd been walking forever at least ten blocks by now until finally we arrived at a little hole in the wall laundromat between a record store and a pizza place we headed inside and it was much as you'd expect a little place with a line of washers on one side and dryers on the other a few tables and chairs in the middle and the back wall has a few vending machines on it and a change machine in the centre.
"This is where you do laundry?"
"Well yeah?" He shrugs slipping his jacket off throwing it over a chair and bumping the bag In Front of a machine heading to the back getting change from the machine "You can pop the first load on" he says throwing me a coin from the machine
"I am not touching your underwear"
"I didn't ask you to,"
I sighed and put the first of what I'm sure will be many loads in "washing powder?" I asked
"Uhhh cherry blossom, clean linin, or tropical?"
"Whatever cheapest"
"They all the same"
"Cherry"
"Alright, here," he says getting it from the machine and throwing it over so I put the laundry on and sit at the table
"So we're just gonna sit here all day?"
"Yep"
"Why not go back to the basement?'
"Because by the time you walk back to the apartment, it'll be time to turn around and walk back and the machine will just have finished" he explained sitting down too "It's up to you"
"Fine" I sighed "Why do you come here though? It's dead and it's so far from your apartment? You're not telling me this is the only laundromat in New York?"
"I like this place, it's quiet. Everything is machined so I don't have to deal with people, it's cheap, and the place next door does great pizza"
"The more I get to know you the weirder I think you are Benny" I sighed
"Thanks?"
'It wasn't a compliment"
"I'm taking it as one" he shrugs getting a deck box from his jacket pocket opening it up pulling out a very nice deck of cards which he shuffled in his hand "You can pick"
"Poker"
"AHH nothing to bet with I don't play poker unless I'm better try again'
"fine rummy then" I answered so he shuffled and dealt the cards letting us play for a while "Why do you use this place? really?" I asked as he put the next load on
"You really wanna know?" He sighed
"Yeah,"
"Fine" He sighed sitting back in his seat, "The Guy who owns this place, and the two places next door"
"The pizza and the record store?"
"Yeah, he's also my landlord"
"Okay..."
"So long as I pay my rent I get free pizza and free records, he even takes money off my rent when I do my laundry here"
"Hu... What a nice man"
"Yeah he's great, and I like helping him out. he's doing his best to make it on his own and get out of the family business"
I was confused a moment before it clicked "Holy god- If your landlord is a maf-"
"Yes. His dad runs the New York Mafia. He wants to go straight so I'm more than happy to help"
"Your life is insane"
"At least it's not boring."
"I'd argue this is incredibly boring"
"I don't know, I like the quiet routine of it all"
"Had it ever occurred to you Benny that you're boring?"
"I think I'm pretty damn excited"
"Do you? Really? Like honestly Benny?"
"My life is very exciting."
"Sitting in a laundromat for six hours? Watching your underwear go round and round?"
"I don't know," he says "I've heard many lovely ladies complimenting the excitement of washing machines"
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm sure many ladies find washing machines exciting." He says
"Do they?"
"I have read."
"Read?
"I have read. Such."
"Ohh in your pervy penthouse magazines?"
"I'm simply saying most girls would like being able to sit on a washing machine for a few hours"
"I doubt that"
"I don't know, I'm sure this would be more exciting if you sat yourself on the washing machine" he smirked
"That's not a real thing Benny"
"I'm sure it does"
"Its not"
"You willing to prove that?"
"I'm not sitting on a washing machine to amuse you"
"It's not going to amuse me it's to prove if it's true or not"
"You're disgusting" I sighed getting up and grabbing my bag "I'm going next door for pizza,"
#thomas brodie sangster#tbs smut#tbs imagine#tbs imagines#thomas sangster imagine#thomas brodie sangster imagine#thomas sangster#thomasbrodiesangster#thomas brodie sangster smut#tbs#benny x reader#benny smut#benny fanfic#benny imagine#benny#tqg benny watts#benny watts smut#benny watts imagine#bennywattssmut#benny watts
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