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roosterforme · 2 months

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Always Ever Only You Part 32 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: You try to keep it together as much as you can in Annapolis, but that's easier said than done. Bradley realizes that while this week feels unbearable, a deployment would be much worse. And you cautiously tell Bradley there are two people you think should be the first ones to know about the baby.

Warnings: Swearing, adult language, pregnancy topics, angst, fluff

Length: 4100 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

This was written to accompany my series Is It Working For You? along with a bunch of my one-shots and other series, but it can be read on its own! Check my masterlist for the reading order. Always Ever Only You masterlist. Gorgeous banner by @mak-32

Monday morning came way too early on the east coast, especially when you barely slept and couldn't stop throwing up. "Why?" you groaned from your spot on the floor next to the toilet. You had exactly three hours until you had to give your presentation at 10:00, but Cat was already texting you from her hotel room across the hallway about getting breakfast. You'd be lucky if you could stomach a single peanut butter cracker and squeeze yourself into your uniform on time.

You crawled back out to the bedroom and rummaged in your suitcase for one of the ginger candies Bradley packed for you. It couldn't hurt at this point, so you shoved it in your mouth and pulled yourself up onto the bed. It was amazing that you could possibly feel this shitty. Your ribs and back hurt from constantly throwing up, and you were starting to feel dehydrated, but the idea of drinking something was too taxing to even consider.

"Why are you so mean?" you moaned as you rolled onto your side, letting your hand rest on your belly. "I actually love you, and you're being so mean to me all the time. Why?" You sucked on the candy and laughed. "You'll prefer your dad, I can already tell."

You kind of wanted to call him, but you didn't want to wake him up at four in the morning, so you settled on trying to get dressed instead. It was amazing that you did nothing but throw up, yet you were still all bloated and puffy. Your khaki pants were a little too snug for comfort, but you had no other option at the moment. When you looked at your butt in the mirror, you shrugged.

"Whatever," you whispered, buttoning your shirt as your stomach growled angrily. "Please, make up your mind," you begged your body as you heard a knock at your door. You pasted on a fake smile and opened it to reveal Cat Coleman looking like a million fucking dollars while you looked like a sewer rat. "Morning," you rasped.

Her eyes went a little wide as she pushed your door open. "Did you not get any sleep? You look awful."

You huffed out a breath, realizing you buttoned your shirt up wrong. "I'm fine," you muttered as you fixed it. "I'm just not quite ready to go yet."

"Yes, I gathered that much," she replied, eying you up and down. "Are you going to be able to present today? Because I can't do this without you."

You shot her a scathing look. "Of course I can present today. I'm fine. Great. Golden." You were in all honesty on the verge of throwing up again.

"Okay," she said with zero conviction. "Well, just knock on my door when you want to grab some breakfast and head over to the Naval Academy."

"Will do," you promised her. As soon as she was gone, you gagged into the toilet one more time before brushing your teeth and putting on enough makeup to hide the fact that it looked like you were going to fall over.

You felt weak as you tried to eat a pack of crackers so your stomach had something in it. This was a lot easier when Bradley was with you, rubbing your back and holding a glass of cold water for you to take sips from. You moaned softly and fought against the tears. If you thought about him too long, you were going to cry. Or worse... start to get turned on.

"I don't have time for this," you whined as you checked your phone. How was it already 8:00? Fuck, it was still too early to call Bradley, but now your mom and dad were both texting you to see if you were coming for dinner on Thursday. You knew you were going to have to invite Cat to come with you, since you only had one rental car. The idea of trying to get through the night with all of them was too much to consider at the moment.

Ignore it. Ignore everything. That was all you could do. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. Focus on the presentation. Focus on not throwing up. That was the key.

You knocked on Cat's door, and she opened it immediately, dragging the tub of equipment out into the hallway with her. "It's late, so I figured we would eat breakfast and then head right to the conference?"

"Sure," you replied, picking up one end of the tub. But it really was heavy, and you struggled to get it to the elevator with her. "I'm actually not that hungry, so we can just get whatever you want on the way."

Cat scoffed. "I wanted to eat at Waffle House. I miss Annapolis so much."

Just thinking about the sticky floors and smell of maple syrup was turning your stomach at the moment. "Maybe we can do that tomorrow morning instead? Since we don't have our second presentation until Wednesday?"

"Fine," Cat agreed, and the two of you took the bin out to the rental car. She offered to drive, and you let her. Apparently you fell asleep on the ten minute ride, and she had to wake you up to go through security. "They want your ID card to get through the gate," she said, shaking your shoulder.

"Oh," you groaned, digging it out of your pocket and handing it to her.

"Seriously, are you sure you're okay?" she whispered as the guards inspected the car.

"Just jetlag," you promised, resisting the urge to roll down the window and barf. "I'm totally fine. Let's get this show on the road."

-----------------------------

Bradley poked at his burrito bowl in the cafeteria. Even the green hot sauce wasn't helping his mood since you couldn't actually eat it right now. It was just making him sad. He'd written five pages in the notebook for the baby, but it just made him miss you more. He wondered what you were doing right now. Surely your presentation must be over, but he hadn't heard from you. Maybe you had already checked in with Bickel. Maybe he should go up and talk to your boss and see?

"Wow," Nat said, snapping her fingers in front of his face. "Focus, Rooster."

"I'm sorry," he replied, trying to give her his full attention. "What did you say?"

"I asked you three times if you wanted to go see the new Tom Cruise movie with me tonight. I have a coupon for a free large popcorn that's about to expire."

"Yes. Absolutely." He'd do anything to keep himself busy this week. "What time?"

"6:30. I'll pick you up so you can call your wife from the car and talk to her before she goes to sleep east coast time."

"Sounds good," he agreed, taking his phone out to let you know about his plans. After work, when he was eating a bowl of cereal for dinner, you finally wrote back.

Baby Girl Bradshaw: The first presentation went pretty well. Have fun at the movie. I love you.

"That's it?" he asked Tramp after reading the message twice. Nat knocked on the door at the same time he called you.

When you answered with a soft, "Roo," followed by a groan, he had to take a deep breath.

"You okay, Sweetheart?" he asked as he headed for the front door to let his friend in.

"No," you moaned. "I had a rough day. I feel disgusting, and now your voice is making me horny."

This was admittedly not the best time for phone sex. He paused as he said, "Nat just got here, but if you need me to cancel the movie plans, I can do that."

"No," you gasped, "don't cancel your plans. Go have fun. We can talk tomorrow."

He shook his head as he said, "I'd rather talk to you now. I'll cancel."

"No! We can talk now. Put me on speaker so I can say hi to Nat."

"Fine," he agreed, unlocking and opening his front door. Tramp made a run for Nat as Bradley tapped the icon for speakerphone and said, "My wife wants to say hi to you."

His best friend took the phone right out of his hand and had a full conversation with you while she rummaged through the refrigerator and helped herself to a seltzer. Bradley stood there as patiently as he could, simultaneously feeling annoyed that you were telling Nat all about your presentation while also feeling relieved that he remembered to hide the ultrasound photos. You and his friend laughed and laughed together, and then he started tapping his wrist to get her to move things along.

"We'll be late," he told Nat, and she rolled her eyes at him.

"Here's your husband back," she told you. "Have fun in Annapolis. Who knows, maybe you'll meet someone less annoying."

"Don't tell her that," Bradley said as he turned off speakerphone. "Don't listen to her, Sweetheart."

But you were just laughing now as he held the phone to his ear and followed Nat out to the driveway. He had to kick aside so much trash to get in her car, he was about to offer to drive instead, but she was already starting the engine. "This is fucking disgusting," he told her, covering the mouthpiece of his phone. "Clean your shit."

She just tore out of the driveway and said, "Talk to your wife before we get to the theater."

"Are you in the car?" you asked softly.

"Yeah. Unfortunately," he grunted. "Can you tell me about your presentation?"

"I nailed it even though I threw up so much this morning," you told him, but then you moaned. "Am I on speakerphone?"

"No."

"Bradley! I am so fucking horny, Daddy!" Your voice was extra whiny, and the last thing Bradley wanted was an erection in front of his best friend, but he could hear in your voice how badly you needed him. "I was talking to Commander Patterson after my presentation, and I swear Roo, he asked me if Top Gun aviation was a good fit for me, and all I could think about was your cock the whole time. I even told him that things from Top Gun aviation are a really snug fit for me!"

Bradley felt his cheeks warm up. He had no idea who Commander Patterson was, but he said, "I think Top Gun aviation is the place for you, Sweetheart. Nothing else is gonna fit you quite right."

"Bradley!" you whined, and the sound went straight to his cock as Nat adjusted the air conditioner settings. "Fuck, you remember that time you fucked me in the back of our Bronco after I texted you dirty photos at dinner?"

"Yeah," he grunted, closing his eyes and actually trying not to think about it.

"Remember on our honeymoon when you finger fucked your cum into my pussy and then traced my tattoo?"

He growled out your first name. "I absolutely do, but I think perhaps we should talk about that later?"

"Yes, yes, you're right. I'm sorry. I'm going to get my vibrators out and listen to old voicemail messages you left for me so I can get off, okay? Have fun at the movie. I love you."

The call went dead right as Nat pulled into the parking lot, and the trash at Bradley's feet shifted as she went careening over a speed bump. He was trying to catch his breath. All he really wanted was a little more information about your presentation and to make sure you and the nugget were okay, but what he got was a semi that he was trying to keep at bay.

"If I get nachos and a soft pretzel and popcorn will you eat some?" she asked as she parked.

"Yeah," he grunted as he unbuckled his seatbelt.

"Listen," Nat said as she fixed her hair in the mirror. "I know you miss her, and rightfully so since she's way cooler than you, but if you just give me one word answers all night, it's going to piss me off."

"Sorry," he added, trying to remember how to talk. Right now you were possibly getting off while listening to old voicemail messages that you kept? Of him just talking to you? Jesus, why was that making him so hot?

Nat was glaring at him now. He needed to focus.

"I'm sorry. No more one word answers. Let's go. It's time for Tom Cruise."

-----------------------------

When you woke up on Tuesday, you were snuggled up and so warm, you reached for Bradley. "Roo?" But when you opened your eyes, you were met with the sterile looking hotel room through your blurry vision. Now you remembered talking to Nat and Bradley on the phone before masturbating and falling asleep. When you sat up in bed, you definitely didn't feel as awful as you expected. And when you eased yourself to standing, you were surprised that your stomach didn't lurch.

You had one text message from your husband, and when you put your glasses on to read it, you laughed.

Bradley Rooster Bradshaw <3 <3 <3: baby girl, i'm going to need you to describe in detail for me exactly how you got off. while listening to my voicemails? please, as much detail as you can. i hope you came hard thinking about me. i love you. the movie was good. i'll take you next week if you want.

You wrote back to tell him that you did in fact come while you listened to a long rambling voicemail he left you a few months ago about how he left the house without his shopping list and made it all the way to Costco before he realized it. "Your Daddy has a nice voice, little nugget," you whispered, pressing one gentle palm to your belly.

It was 8:30, and you didn't have too much planned for the day other than breakfast at Waffle House with Cat. You had to give another presentation tomorrow, and you were excited to talk to some more superior officers afterwards. You were also supposed to make it to a cocktail hour this evening, but you were planning on ditching it and hoping Cat could network for both of you. It would be nearly impossible to avoid drinking without drawing attention to yourself when there were waiters walking around with flutes of champagne.

You took a quick shower and got yourself ready, and you tapped on Cat's door. When she opened it, she eyed you skeptically. "You look so much better today. Everything okay?"

"I think it was just the jetlag," you told her smoothly. "Wanna go to Waffle House?"

"Hell yes," she replied, turning to grab her bag. "Hopefully we don't run into my ex or anyone I used to work with."

In all your morning sickness and preparation back in San Diego, you had forgotten that Cat also had roots in Maryland. "If we run into Mike, point him out to me. I'll punch him in the face."

She laughed. "I would personally love to see that."

You drove the rental car through the familiar town to the diner you'd been to many times with Cam when you were at the Naval Academy together. You snapped a picture to send to him before walking inside. Sure enough, the floors were sticky, but it smelled like strong coffee, and your stomach started growling. You silently prayed that whatever you ate managed to stay down, at least until you were alone again.

"What are your plans for the rest of the day?" Cat asked you as you glanced at the menu, a little disappointed that they didn't have avocado toast.

"I thought maybe I would take a nap at some point."

"Oh, that's actually a great idea. I might do that as well. I never get a full night of sleep when I'm home with Jeremiah."

You ordered a stack of pancakes and some bacon and then listened to Cat order the signature waffle. When the waitress wandered away, you asked, "Is Jake watching him this week?" with a little smirk. You already knew he was. Well, him and Hondo both were.

She played with the container of sugar and didn't meet your eyes as she said, "I think this week will make or break my relationship with Jake."

"Why?" you gasped.

She was quiet for a moment as she glanced out the window. "He practically begged me to let him help watch Jeremiah. So he and Uncle Bernie are sharing duties. I just... know how my uncle feels about Jake. They clash, and none of it is really Jake's fault. I just need to make some decisions when we get back."

Your stomach lurched. "What kind of decisions?"

She shrugged and poked her silverware. "If they can't get along, then I'll have to decide if I can reasonably keep putting everyone through this. I'll likely never be able to afford my own place, and Bernie is the only family I still talk to. But Jake...." She had a dreamy look in her eyes as she said, "I wasn't expecting to ever fall in love again."

The only thing you could think to say was, "He loves Jeremiah."

She didn't humor you with a response. Instead she asked, "Are you planning on seeing your parents while we're here?"

"Yeah," you answered as the food arrived. "About that... you mind if I use the car on Thursday evening? You're more than welcome to join me, but they want me to have dinner with them at home."

"You can use the car all you want," she replied. "And I'll think about it. Thanks." As you were coating your food in syrup, she asked, "Weren't Bradley's parents from Maryland as well?"

"Virginia," you replied immediately. "They were both from the Norfolk area. Nick grew up closer to the beach, and Carole grew up in the city." As you took a bite of pancake, your stomach growled awkwardly, but a warm thought lit up in your mind. "Hey, so you wouldn't mind too much if I actually used the car today?"

--------------------------

Bradley was in the air all day on Tuesday, and he kept looking at his little collection of photos longingly. He had one of you from when the two of you were dating. You were mid laugh, face lit up, looking right at him. And then he had a wedding photo as well. It was the one the photographer took where the sun was just hitting the horizon behind you. And now he also had a little stack of ultrasound pictures to look at.

When his comms crackled to life, he tucked the photos away and got himself in position for some tactical dog fighting with Nat and Bob. Bradley loved flying, but more and more he had been considering what might come next for him. One day he could get injured or fail an eye exam. Then what? Other than being home with you and the nugget at that point, he didn't know what else the Navy could offer him.

"Tally, tally!" Bob called out, and Bradley easily dodged the attack. He knew he was good. He knew he was the right mix of cautious and impulsive. He had to be. But there also needed to be more, because if this week was teaching him anything, it was that too many long deployments away from his family would be unbearable.

When he finally touched down on the runway at 2:30, he was hungry and thirsty, and Maverick dismissed him to the rec room along with Nat and Bob. When he checked his phone, he had a bunch of missed calls and texts from you.

"Hey, you go ahead," he told them. "I'll be there in a minute."

"Alright," Bob replied, and Bradley watched them walk inside the tower while he read your most recent message.

Baby Girl Bradshaw: I have a little surprise for you. Any chance you can facetime?

He had no idea what you could have in mind for him. A little surprise could be anything. Shit, it could be dirty. He glanced around before tucking himself up against the side of the building with his aviators perched on his nose. He dropped his helmet gently to the ground and ran his fingers through his sweaty hair as he called you.

"Bradley!"

Your gorgeous face filled his phone screen, and he smiled immediately. "Hey, Sweetheart. You look pretty."

"Thank you. I feel good today."

"How's the nugget?"

You laughed. "As finicky as ever."

You were obviously outside somewhere, and the sky was cloudy behind you as you walked past some trees. "Where are you? And what's my surprise?"

You bit your lip and looked between the phone screen and something else before you knelt down on the ground. "I just had this silly idea earlier when I was eating breakfast." You tilted the phone away from your face, and then Bradley knew exactly where you were. "But I thought we could tell them the news together? Let them be the first to know?"

He pulled his sunglasses from his face and stared at his phone screen as tears blurred his vision. "Baby Girl," he gasped as he looked at his parents' gravesite. Both headstones were decorated with fresh flowers which you must have just placed there today, and you had tucked an ultrasound photo underneath a few pebbles as well.

"Do you want to tell them?" you asked, your voice just the softest whisper that made him ache even more.

"Yeah," he managed to say as he fought to keep his composure as a tear slid down his cheek. "Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad. That's not just my perfect wife sitting there with you. That's your grandchild, too."

He could hear you laughing and crying at the same time as you rearranged the pebbles. "Still just a nugget right now, but we'll bring him or her back again someday. Right, Roo?" you asked, turning the phone back to your gorgeous face.

Bradley nodded as he sobbed. "Yeah," he rasped as you smiled at him and swiped at your own tears. "Of course. The three of us will come back together. We can have a picnic. Let the kiddo meet Grandma Carole and Grampy Goose."

"That sounds perfect."

"Hey, Sweetheart?" he managed as he cried. "I fucking love you so much. You know that, right?"

Your voice was still soft, and Bradley wanted to melt into it. "Yeah. I know."

He wiped his cheeks with the rough sleeve of his flight suit as he asked, "You really drove three and a half hours from Annapolis to the cemetery?"

You curled up on your side next to the ultrasound photo as you said, "Yeah. It seemed like a no-brainer. I thought they should be the first ones to know."

"Fuck." He had to fight for composure. "I would marry you a hundred times. A thousand times. I would marry you a million fucking times, Sweetheart."

You laughed softly. "I'd let you."

Those were some of the sweetest words Bradley had ever heard in his life, and you said them as you and the baby were curled up there with the memory of his mom and dad. He would literally never get over how perfect you really were.

Then you popped up and groaned, "Oh no." And Bradley was treated to the vivid facetime experience of watching you run a few feet to your left before you threw up in the shrubs.

"Take some deep breaths," he coaxed, just like he would if you were in the bathroom at home. "Do you have some water and the ginger candy with you?"

"In the rental car," you told him as you set your phone on the ground. "I was doing so well today, too."

He didn't want to say it, but he knew this meant the baby was nice and healthy. "Why don't you curl up with Carole again, Baby Girl. She told me she threw up non-stop when she was pregnant. I'm sure she can commiserate."

"Actually, I think I will," you told him when you picked up the phone once again. "I'm going to hang out with my in-laws a little longer. Have a chat about how much I adore their son. Maybe get their opinion on some baby names."

He laughed. "Don't let them talk you into Bradley Junior."

You shook your head adamantly. "I'd sooner allow you to name the nugget Bronco."

"Hell yes!" he cheered. "Bronco Bradshaw is still on the table."

You cradled your forehead in your hand, but you were smiling. "Get back to work while the nugget and I spend some time with your mom and dad."

"I love you more than life itself, Baby Girl."

----------------------------

She treats him so well. Fuck, this even made me tear up a little bit. Grandma Carole and Grampy Goose would have been the best. Next we will find out what kind of trouble awaits in Maryland. Thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 33

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456 notes · View notes

justcallmesakira · 2 months

Note

HIIIIII

okay, so how about, chuuya, atsushi, dazai, and nikolai with a s/o who loves dresses gothy??? they act cold and mean around others too, other then them?

yayay tyyy, remember i luv youuuu

"Skulls and hearts"

Sypnosis: You are the epitome of goth and a breeze of coldness, how do these lovely men take care of you?

Genre: romance, suggestive (slightly)

Warnings: reader is more of goth lolita than like abosolute goth bcs i have no knowledge on goth, suggestive on chuuya, one wednesday addams joke, please lmk if i didnt manage to quite reach the goth culture-

A/N: HII sweetie hru? just wanted to say i put more of a lolita goth since i am not educated well on it lol-

DAZAI was definetly fascinated by your style, infact when he first saw your dark attire on the day you entered the agency to file a report, his eyes were already sparkled!

The way you spoke so confidently and was non-chalant about it and everything, your formal attire, everything piqued him.

Especially the cold air surrounding you with your blue hued gaze. He love how you did your make up so much you could call it a mini crush at first sight.

So to fill his intrests he decided to stop you for a while to maybe use his charms but unfortuantly for him it obviously did not work out with how deadly your gaze is

"If looks could kill..." he had thought to himself.

Overtime he had started to court you and all though you despised his annoying tactics he seemed quite cute to you so you accepted his "love" for you

He even bragged about how cool and pretty his new girlfriend was all day at the agency especially when you dropped off his lunch at the office saying "I aint nobodys petty little housewife but here`s your lunch, bandaged idiot. Next time i will throw your lunch down the sewers where your rat friend lives" You had spitted t out loud.

Even the agency is piqued in you and your creative insults which you throw at him whenever he does soemthing stupid For example: "Bandagedass" "Suicidal loverman who cant even fix his clothes" "Charming bedbug i picked up from the trash" "Idiot with a handsome face'' and so on!

But ofc like the masochist he his he loves listening to them which made you creeped out and made you use much appropriate words to insult him.

He definetly tries to rile you up by saying suggestive stuff by playing with the hem of your black laced skirt, push him ten feet away if he does because you wotn be able to do that when you get home...*wink wink*

He loves your music taste, though he isnt into goth culture he loves it when you tell him about goth subculture, it reminds him how your closer and more vulnerable around him than anyone else.

You gave him some goth themed band-aids to put around his bandaged arms and neck which he shows them off like a badge of honor!

Put your makeup away from him though he will probably mess it up and make himself look like if wednesday went through a bad eye day.

And later after scolding him for going through your stuff you finally taught him how to properly do goth makeup.

You even taught him some gothic slurs to throw at anyone who tries to disturb him though he will probably use them is someone insults you which we will be on about now.

If someone dares to insult your gloomy atire, well he doesnt need to say anything because you are there already with your gaze sharper than your eyeliner.

But even so hes ready to take care of his goth gf who only soften around him anytime, anywhere!

Of course CHUUYA supports your style why wouldnt he?

If anything the first time you two had met he had a mutual intrest for you, "how pretty yet terrifying at the same time" he thought.

Soon enough he put up the courage to speak to you though the atmosphere around you was quite cold

He didnt really like people who had arrogance in their personality but you maybe seemed nice to aproach.

Of course the person you are you kept calm and maintained formality, if so you looked quite elegant.

Time passed, dates were booked, hands were slid. He finally confessed to you and you calmly smiled at him.

God...how he loved seeing your eyes soften and your matte lipstick lips form into a small smile at his smallest gestures.

Like buying you all types of goth culured dress since he doesnt know what tyoe you wear and he doesnt want to disrespect goth people

And seeing that smile and light hue of happiness form on your beautifully done cheeks

He loves complimenting you too, all the time!

"Babe you look so pretty right now," "Do you like that dress over there? The laces might suite your skin" "That evangeline themed makeup set...The colours suite your eyelids." "All dressed and pretty just for me to ruin,,,Hahh you really want to rile me up, doll, Dont ya?"

He CAN and WILL buy you the whole fricking hot topic.

Oh you like a chain belt there? frick it buys you the whole belt section. Oh you liked the glossy purple lipstick at the side walk shop? buys 10 different shades.

Hes an executive ofcourse he will buy you everything!

Chuuya can make a few suggestive comments too,,,yknow.

"Wow, doll you do your makeup so well? You could be a professional you know?" "Oh chuuya, how you fluster me'' "Well...professional or not imma` bout to ruin that makeup so bad right now."

Dont worry he will help you clean up the mess he did to your face later. Afterall he loves a cute little goth gf!

I wont deny it but ATSUSHI was quite scared by you at first glance, but warmed up soon when he realises that your not half bad afterall

He had met you at cafe uzumaki sipping on a coffee cup while sketching, wow, the fancy sketchbook and the fact that you were drawing while wearing long black dimond studded nails really made him admire you

Though he was shy at first since you had this shilling aura around you, he still took a breathe and walked over you

You kept looking at him up and down as he nervously tries to introduce himself which makes you break your demeaner and let out a soft chuckle "Oh my...what a wonderful laugh they have..."

So the conversation between you two started, infact while conversing you had drawn a very neat sketch of him with your skull printed pencil.

He was definetly shocked on how you drew him so well in such short time.

Over the agency work days, atsushi was quite a bit nervous, which dazai made a few jokes about him having a crush on "The cafe's goth girl"

And so you two became a thing! well after atsushi got somehow rid of his nervousness

Except your the boyfriend in this relationshio ;D

He tries to buy you stuff though, but you always deny and take him to oth stores at the corners of yokohama, to say the least your better guided than him.

I am sure the agency also warmed ap at you! not since whenever you would always have this threatening aura with a ravishing face of dark-hued makeup but when he turned around to speak to you

Your all soft smiling and tilted eyes.

You even dressed him up in goth clothes one time which he looked a bit too silly in.

If dazai ever saw atsushi in scene clothes though...he wil definetly say something like "Ohohoho you two remind me of Morticia addams and um, oh yeah! Gomez addams Hahaha, wait then kyouka can be your..."

You instantly went "Atsushi please, tell your STEROTYPICAL, UNFUNNY, MENTALLY ILL father to get the fuck out of here and go try to drown himself or something"

So now, not only is atsushi scared of you so is dazai!!

He still loves you and your style though, who wouldnt because i would love a goth s/o who would put on the most gorgeous make up ever and rai--

...

He`s both barking and joining your cult.

JUST KIDDING-

NIKOLAI obviously fell in love with your sass at first sight! What an independant and cool woman! he had thought when his emerald and blue eye fell upon you.

You werent even scared of his illy and outrageous tactics instead you just rolled your eyes at him as if hes some freak

Now this is intresting.

I think nikolai has prefernces for goth lolita so if by any chance thats your aesthetic get ready to be filled with flirts and touchiness

He just cant help it! Your so cold to him but cant you see how intrested he is in you? not just your style but your whole personality he loves analizing people!

Which you find about after many tries of him trying for you to at least speak with him, He was annoying especially during the first stages of your relationship

But soon enough you warmed up, realising that though hes a bit fucked up in the head hes quite chill and fun to hang around.

Niko definetly uses his ability to steal your favourite items from hot topic, so be prepared when you see your vanity filled with all kinds of stygian clothes, lingerine, cropped tops, fishnets, corsets, puffy skirts, makeup etc.

That act made you more soft around him and hes just giddy he got to make his infamous "gloomy" dove smile :D

You help him dress up sometimes too, maybe drawing out long triangles under his eyes for his next show or maybe putting on some dark lipstick just to smooch his neck.

Okay i can defiently see him and you be great fashionistas! One with clownish crimson and black attire and the other with a menacing aura of a maginficent raven (got the reference?)

He is just into you okay? Dont question it!

A/N: i had a bit too much fun writing this lol BY THE WAY GUYS DONT BE OFFENDED BY THE JOKE MY HUBBY MADE AT ATSUSHIS PART, HES JUST A LIL SILLY :33

Divider crds!: @firefly-graphics

Tags: @heartsfourdazai @silverbladexyz @ruanais @biscuits-spooky-corner @riiwrites @chuuyasboner @atlasnessie @saelique @tsuunara @elizais

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houseofhyde · 1 year

Text

i. a game of westerosi whispers.

pairing. daemon targaryen x fem!reader

synopsis. the five rumours about you that made the rounds amongst the court and the five times your uncle taught you to use them as a weapon. read part two here!

warnings. niece!reader, targcest, canon misogyny, mentions of infertility and starvation, attempted rape (not daemon), kinda manipulative behaviour from daemon ig, angst, fluff, smut (heavy petting, fingering, dry-humping). disclaimer!! reader + rhaenyra's age may not be accurate to the time of events but i don't feel comfortable writing about daemon going after a minor, so just roll with it.

word count. 5.5k

taglist. @nyctophilic0vitnir

hyde's input. i wrote this on a whim with no clue what the actual plot was gonna be other than the last sentence, so enjoy whatever this clusterfuck of words is. ngl, i felt a little iffy writing targcest but hey, at least it serves as a reminder that i’m 100% not into this shit irl. also, thank you so much for the reaction towards my first (and only other) daemon fic, dressed in white, i'm completely shocked at how many people actually read it and enjoyed it. you're all cute for giving it notes :(

bearing the targaryen name was as much a burden as it was a blessing.

while on one hand it came with dragons and power, on the other it came with prying eyes and hushed gossiping. it was a fact of life: as sure as the sun would rise come the morning, a targaryen’s name would be the centre of the capital’s gossip.

so, why on earth would you ever have believe yourself exempt from this rule, solely on the grounds that you were the second born daughter and not the apple of your father’s eye?

the first rumour was always the worst.

“i heard she threatened to feed herself to her dragon after the king named her sister as his heir.”

“no doubt that’s how she claimed inheritance over dragonstone!”

it hadn’t mattered that you’d never wanted, nor asked, for dragonstone, just the same as it didn’t matter that you’d happily cheered your elder sister’s future ascent to the dreaded iron throne. the ladies and lords who filtered through your father’s name-day feast had staked their claim over the truth, all so humoured by the thought of you, screaming like a small babe and stomping your foot like a spoilt brat, threatening your father with violence against yourself, that they failed to search for the source of such gossip, blindly believing it for the sake of a laugh and fuel to strike up a conversation within the great hall.

like wildfire, the rumour did spread.

lords whispered it into the ears of their dance partners, ladies who would then make their way back to their tables to share the news amongst those sat around it, all of whom would retire to their chambers and muse upon your supposed temper tantrum with their maids and knights, who’d filter out into the streets of king’s landing and spread the word like it were a plague, till even the rats in the sewers were aware of your untrue outburst.

by the next morning, you were branded the scorned princess.

“gossip is where truth goes to die.” he’d startled you out of your own self-pitying thoughts, back pressed up against the tree in the godswoods and book laying open across your knees, not a single page turned in what had to have been well over an hour.

“uncle,” clutching at your heart, your dizzied fright had blinded you to the way the man above you burned his eyes into what little he could see of your developing bosom. with the summer heat in full-swing, you’d taken to lowering the necklines of your dresses and the prince had taken to despising that you’d once dared to hide such a delectable sight beneath layers of clothing. “’tis not wise to sneak upon a woman armed.”

a charming smirk branded his face as you tugged the hem of your dress half-way up your leg, shamelessly letting him gaze upon your supple skin and the dagger sheathed in it’s own miniature scabbard against your calf.

a gift, on the name day in which you had turned ten and seven, from the very man who casted a shadow over you now. (”you told me you wanted a piece of old valyria, little dove. so there you go, your very own valyrian steel.”)

“just the same as it ‘tis not wise to sulk in public spaces, niece.”

“i was not sulking!” the book snapped shut as you rose to a stand, defensive in the way you held it pressed to your chest. his jaw clenched, what little morals he owned swallowing down whatever undesirable comment he had for you newly covered breasts.

his attention redirected itself to your mouth, lips red from the way you'd shamelessly gnawed upon them through all your distressing thoughts, the bottom one jutting out against your own consciousness.

“my brother’s new born babe aegon pouts less than you.” daemon mused, hand reaching out to swipe his thumb over your puckered petal, teasing himself with what they’d feel like pressed against his own. “if your concern is the whispers, ignore them. the cunts in your father’s court mean only to make themselves believe you are lesser than them. they’ll tire by the morrow and move on to someone else in our house to discuss, nyke kivio ao bisa.” i promise you this.

daemon was glad you’d never read into his words too much that day, least he’d have to admit to feigning a drunken state and causing a scene in a brothel that very night just to get your name out of their mouths.

the second time you found your name floating the keep’s halls was a few years after the first.

“they say the princess scarcely bleeds. barren, that’s what the grand maester called her.”

“regardless, she lacks the shape of a proper woman. i’ve seen men with hips more apt for childbearing than her’s.”

once more, no one took notice of the times your handmaidens had stripped your bed clean of bloodied sheets, nor did they pay mind to the fact you’d rushed out your father’s wedding to alicent hightower, dress sporting a bloodied stain and eyes filled with tears of embarrassment.

the scorned princess being also the barren princess? it made for a better story than the truth: a combination of stress induced starvation and lack of sleep had lead to an irregularity with your moon’s blood.

the room around you had long ago emptied itself of guests, those who remained behind either too drunk to make it out of their seats or in too high a spirit to retire to bed.

you were one of the former, head resting against your crossed arms which had found purchase on the table. never having been fond of drinking, it had only taken a few cups of dornish wine to render you inebriated, and thus your pity party had began, lamenting your own withering reputation to whichever poor, unfortunate family member had been a great enough fool to sit themselves next to you.

“father thinks me ruined, hic,” your sentence paused to make space for your drunken hiccups, which served to cover up the little sobs your body shook out. “i heard him speaking to the hand about how he’ll never, hic, find someone to marry a, hic, princess who can not, hic, give any heirs. ziry emagon daor gīda eptan issa, hic, lo ziry iksos drēje!” he has not even asked me, hic, if it is true.

“ao gīmigon skoros ao jorrāelagon naejot gaomagon, byka dove?” you know what you need to do, little dove?

you shot up straight, no longer caring that your face was stained in tears, mind too busy wondering why daemon had been sat next to you and was not off with some whore, indulging in a victory fuck to mark the end of the celebrations for his return as king of the stepstones.

you voiced your curiosity, hand instinctively curling around his own as he reached out for you, the scraping of his chair ringing in your ears when he inched himself closer.

“can i not want to spend time with my niece?”

“yes but we, hic, already broke our fast together this morning.”

“and yet i never managed to speak with you, your father was too busy with his gloats on my return.” he spoke no word of lie, the king had been an unstoppable force of laughter and joy ever since daemon had given him his crown and the crabfeeder’s sword. a part of you had been endeared, watching how he reminisced on his and his brother’s younger days, filling daemon’s cup with wine every time it had emptied, a smile on his face like no other you’d seen since the passing of your mother. “now, you’ve yet to answer my question.”

“your, hic, question?”

“you make for an endearing drunk, little dove.” giving your hand a gentle squeeze, there was nowhere for you to hide from the fondness in his eyes as he brought your intertwined fingers up to his lips, brushing them over the expanse of your knuckles. a chill ran down your spine and a fire lit within your loins. “my question was regarding those who speak on your fertility, or supposed lack thereof. do you know how you must handle this?”

“if i did, do you believe i’d have, hic, made myself so familiar with the wine this evening?”

the prince laughed, you smiled. something sinful flowed through your veins as you took note of his posture, how his whole body was pointed towards you, how his back hunched over enough for him to lean down and level his eyes with yours, how he didn’t seem to take notice- or, if he did, didn’t seem to care- of the remaining guests stares being glued to you both, analysing each detail of your interaction.

“and here i thought you’d turned to drinking to cope with the absence of your favourite relative in these past years.”

“i accepted corlys', hic, absence years ago, kepus.”

“just for that,” he pushed his chair back, hand dropping your own as he stood and straightened out his wrinkled clothing. “i shan’t be telling you what to do about these rumours.”

before he could walk away from you, your hand shot out and grasped at his wrist, foolishly believing you carried the physical strength to hold him in place.

“no!” you were certain everyone who remained in the hall had heard your panicked exclamation, but it mattered little as the desperation to have him near, to have him guide you, to have him tell you how to make everything better took over your sanity. “please, i only, hic, jest! tell me what to do.”

for what felt like an eternity, and was only a mere few seconds, daemon stared down at you, blank in the face. his eyes narrowed in on the tear tracks down your cheeks, and an unspoken- and impossible- vow was made in that instant: he’d pay any price to ensure you’d never cry again.

“what you need to do, niece,” he leaned down, till his lips were near pressed against your ear, ghosting over it with his hot breath and the faintest brush of his moving mouth. “is make sure your future husband fucks you so full of his seed that no one dares question your capability of carrying on the targaryen lineage.”

there still remained plenty a drunken fools and dancing buffoons by the time you decided to retire for the evening, yet you payed no mind to their wandering eyes as you let daemon guide you out the hall and escort you back to your chambers.

you’d awoken the next morning to an aching head and a burning cheek, unsure of whether daemon had pressed his lips against it before bidding you goodnight or if that was but a drunken dream.

the third rumour came not shortly after.

“did you hear about the princess and ser criston? apparently she’s requested he train her in combat.”

“the only combat she wants is within his bed.”

no one cared to enquire on the truth of why a young princess would request to be trained in the arts of the sword, just the same as no one cared to address the fear you’d been left with after an attack on your life within your own chambers, when a knight, angered with his dismissal from the city watch after breaking his vows of chastity, had decided to seek revenge on the king on a personal level, a fatherly level: stripping his daughter of her purity.

your night dress was nothing but torn rags and his breeches were halfway down his legs by the time ser criston had burst into the room.

and though he may have failed at stealing your virtue, he’d succeeded in stealing your safety.

the first few nights, you found no comfort in your own bed, seeking out your elder sister and crying into her welcoming arms till your body grew tired from the sobs and your eyes had dried up. your return to your own chambers had been under certain conditions, your father unwilling to risk putting you in harm’s way again, and thus a collective of knights stood post outside your door at all hours of the day.

none of it made any difference when you fell asleep, however, your slumbering mind taking to bombarding you with nightmares of sweaty palms on your skin and the putrid smell of the knight’s breath as he forced himself atop your helpless body.

when you’d asked ser criston to educate you in manning a sword, he’d taken no interest in asking for a reason, understanding what had been ailing you without you having to relive it through verbalising it.

he was surprisingly patient with his teaching, not caring for the number of times he’d need to repeat himself, nor the plethora of time you’d struck him in the face with the wooden training sword he’d bestowed you with.

but ser criston did not go easier on you, did not lessen the blows he’d deliver your way on account of you being smaller, frailer, nor for the simple fact that you were the princess. he pushed your face into mud, he bruised your skin with his blows, he worked you till you were short of breath and drenched in sweat. all in all, you’d believed him to be a great teacher. perfect, even.

until you found yourself disarmed, a boot digging into your shoulder to keep your back pinned to the ground below and the end of a sword barely gracing the skin of your neck.

“ziry kostagon daor hīlagon nykeēdar gīda lo ziry ropatas hen hen nykeā lōgor.” he could not hit water even if he fell out of a boat.

the heel of daemon’s boot dug further into your shoulder, unknowingly grinding into a bruise you’d earned two days prior, a fair price you’d payed to at last disarm ser criston for the first time.

the man above you glared down in your direction as a series of giggles erupted from your chest, the man already irritated from hearing how you’d taken to training with the cunt in shiny armor.

“ziry kostagon’t sagon sīr quba, lo ziry pyghagon ao isse se tourney.” he can’t be so bad, if he beat you in the tourney.

“urnēbagon ziry, byka dove, ao kostagon find aōla zālagon lo ao tymagon rūsīr perzys.” watch it, little dove, you may find yourself burnt if you play with fire. as if to punctuate his threat, he pushed the edge of dark sister harder against your skin and you felt the unmistakable sting of skin prying itself apart under the sharp pressure. the faintest line of red trickled down the back of your neck, staining your skin and straining daemon’s breeches, much to your own unawareness.

“īlon’re zaldrīzoti, keepus. perzys kostagon daor ōdrikagon īlva, mērī excite īlva.” we’re dragons, uncle. fire can not harm us, only excite us.

the next few moments passed in silence, save for the occasional screech of a bird or the rustling of leaves in the wind. and all the while he was gazing down at you, eyes hooded and chest heavy with each breath. he was contemplating something and you longed to know what.

it went far beyond a longing to know, you wanted to be in his mind, wanted to split his skull in two and burrow yourself in whatever space he may have left for you, taking up as much of his mind as you physically could.

meanwhile, he thanked any god who may exist that you had no insight into his maddening thoughts, safe to imagine you laid out atop his bed and with his hand around your throat rather than the blade of his sword, every rise and fall of your chest punctuating another delicate whine for him to swallow with his own deranged grunts.

only after he’d sheathed dark sister once more did he speak.

“i will inform ser crispin of his dismissal from training you.” it was not a request but, rather, an order. the kind of thing you’d typically quarrel with your father over, yet with daemon you were too busy melting into a puddle under the warmth of his stern tone to care.

“and why,” as he interrupted your own efforts to stand, hand grasping your arm and swiftly pulling you to your feet like you weighed no more than a bird’s feather, you lost your footing, sending you barreling against his solid chest. he stood taller this way, your head having to tilt further back to hold contact with his eyes. “would you be doing that, uncle?”

“because you’ve no need for two swordsmen to train you. it’ll only lead to conflict in training methods.”

“how so?”

“ser crispin is a technical man, commanding the style in which you move and the strategies you must implore to predict his next blow.” his face inched lower, closer to yours and invaded your space in a way only he could. “my training is more... hands-on.”

the fourth rumour was the one you cared the least to disprove.

“i suppose it is only expected that she follow in her family’s tradition.”

“still, i do find it odd how she can lust after her own kin, her uncle! i guess not even the rogue prince’s niece is blind to his charm.”

perhaps the spiders around you were finally beginning to use their countless eyes, staring the truth in it’s face and choosing to spin their web of lies around it, a step forward from their usual habit of spinning straw into gold and staking barbarian claims against your honour.

if they were going to talk, least it be with some truth.

because while no, you had not begged daemon to bed you like the ladies claimed, nor had you followed him out of the castle and spied on his depraved actions in fleabottom as the lords had said, you certainly could not deny there was something going on.

from touches that lingered on the training grounds, your hands clinging onto him long after he’d pulled you back to your feet and his hands remaining on your cheek long after he’d whipped away the traces of dirt.

to public interactions deemed far too intimate for an uncle and his niece, even for the house of dragons. countless feasts passing where neither one of you were keen to take your eyes off each other, whether your bodies were pressed right up against one another in a dance or a sea of people stood between you both on opposite ends of the hall.

two tourneys, one for prince aegon’s first name-day and another for the upcoming marriage between rhaenyra and your cousin, laenor velaryon, and in each the events had played out the same: daemon would stride in on his steed, dressed in the most ridiculous armor one could find, and request your favour, boldly and unabashedly before every gossiping housewife and envious lord, only to defeat his opponents and ruffle some more feathers when declaring you as the queen of love and beauty.

which lead up to this moment in the throne room, the king looming large over both of you from the pile of swords despite his visibly worsened health, anger decorating his features as he spied the wreath of flowers upon your head, still present hours after the rogue prince had crowned you for the second time.

the first time, he’d overlooked it, laughed it off.

the second time, he’d felt his blood boil, shoved his second wife’s hands off him as she whispered in his ear of how his brother meant to ruin his daughter in the eyes of potential suitors.

if the king were half as smart as he was kind, he would have seen the truth in queen alicent’s worries.

“please, father, don’t be so ridiculous! daemon has merely been training me.” you had the nerve to smile at him after he lay the allegations of your indecent meetings at both your feet, trampling them under your pretty words as though they were far too implausible to even entertain with anger.

“i thought ser criston was aiding you with your sword skills.” your father replied, his full-fingered hand curling over the edge of his armrest and supporting his weight as he leaned forward, as though to get a closer look at you.

“there was a conflict of interest.” daemon answered in your place, to which viserys scoffed and kept his eyes on his daughter.

“how so?”

“his methods, i did not find myself... responding as well as i do to daemon’s.” it was only a half-lie, for while you would still argue that ser criston was just as skilled with a sword as daemon, there was no competition when it came to who could hold your focus. in ser criston’s lessons, you’d counted down the minutes till you were free to rest, while with daemon you would often implore him to skip whatever small council meeting required his presence and remain with you on the field. “i have grown good enough to disarm him, though my uncle denies it happening.”

“‘tis my niece who negates the truth of how the rain that soaked us both lead to my sword slipping from my grasp.” the king watched, disgruntled, as daemon spoke towards you, holding you captive in his gaze in a way that was dangerously easy, a power the monarch could recall his beloved first wife held over him. “what she showed was an act of luck, not good swordsmanship.”

when neither three of the targaryens spoke, the echoes of celebrations within the gardens began to travel through the air, as if to mock the king, reminding him that he should be out there celebrating the union of not only his daughter but the realm’s alliance with the lord of the tides becoming stronger than ever, instead of trapped within the seat that brought him nothing but gripe and before his two political headaches- his brother the original, and his daughter the most recent.

the king heaved a sigh.

“very well, you’re dimissed.” he waved what remained of his hand, the stump where fingers once lived a sickening reminder of how his body was slowly falling apart. with a nod and a curtsy, you both made to leave the king’s presence, only for his voice to ring out once more. “not you, daemon. you and i need to discuss something.”

with you bidding them both goodbye, dress trailing behind you as daemon allowed himself to glance back just once, the doors slammed shut and trapped the two bother’s within.

viserys pulled himself off the throne, hardly feeling as a blade sliced through his decaying palm. while the king grew closer, daemon grew bolder, traveling up the steps and meeting his brother midway.

perhaps an act of kindness, to spare him the trouble of exhausting himself.

more likely a show of disregard, to remind him that he wasn’t one of the puny the lords who sat within the small council, ready to be pushed and pulled in whatever direction the king sent them.

“pray tell, brother.” the younger doned a smile and clasped his hands behind his back. “what is it we need to discuss?”

“my daughter.”

“i’m fairly certain it’s rude to discuss a lady when she is not pres-”

daemon was cut short, words dying as a sense of shock took over him upon viserys’ hands clasping the collar of his doublet.

“if i so much as hear of you putting your hands on my daughter without her permission, i’ll-”

“kill me? have me sent to the wall? turn me into a eunuch?” all sounded like awful outcomes, yet the prince wondered if getting his hands on you, even if it was just once, would make it all worth it. he decided not, for he was certain he would find no antidote to the poison of tasting you other than to taste you again and again and again, till his blood ran dry and his skin melted off his bones. “and if she permits me to? what if she is the one to put her hands on me?”

“then i will see to it that you both perform your duties as servants to the crown and have your affairs in order under the eyes of the seven.” he spoke like a king, distant and unfeeling, a man who’s only job was to lead the realm.

and so daemon graced him with an answer fit for a king.

“are you saying what i believe you to be, your grace?”

“yes. i’m saying i would wed you to her.”

the fifth rumour is when you decide enough was enough, the time had come to use their own love of gossip against them.

“the king’s expected to announce her search for a suitor soon.”

“i do pray for her future husband, whoever he may be. it’s doubtful he’ll find any joy married to such an ungrateful, infertile harlequin.”

every step you took that evening was calculated.

from the seat you sat at the royal table, trading your usual post beside rhaenyra for one next to daemon, to the number of lords you entertained with a dance and a laugh, three to be exact: one of them your soon-to-be brother by law laenor velaryon, another the son of the hand, ser harwin strong, a fierce knight and the object of your sister’s desires, and, lastly, cregan stark.

the stark was by far your father’s most favoured suitor when it came to your hand, anyone with a pair of working eyes could see. where his first born’s marriage had secured the relationship between the crown and the sea, his second daughter's would secure that of the capital and the cold, unfeeling north.

only, your father had made one fatal flaw in his game of chess: he’d mistaken you for a pawn, when in truth you were a rook, unwilling to be moved so easily.

betrayal was your initial reaction to the news of your father’s meeting with the starks, an encounter he had not even the good graces to include you in.

your second reaction was defiance.

and, so, you laughed with the stark lord, you let him refill your goblet as he spoke tales of his travels south to the capital, you danced with him before the entire court and stepped on his toes enough times till he politely dismissed himself, claiming he was in need of relieving his bladder before he left you in the centre of the dancing pairs.

just in time for him to swoop in.

“ao jāhor mazverdagon nykeā sȳz ābrazȳrys, byka dove.” daemon wrapped you in both the safety of his arms and the use of your ancestral language, guiding you into the next dance. you will make a fine wife, little dove

“nyke pendagon lo issa valzȳrys jāhor agree rūsīr ao.” i wonder if my husband will agree with you.

matching the other couples, daemon commanded you to spin in his grasp, hands firm as one held onto yours and the other made repeated contact with your waist, spinning you faster and faster, till you tumbled over your own feet and had nowhere to turn to but his strong, dependable hold, hands splaying out on his chest as his own found rest upon your lower back.

even that was not enough for the man, who squeezed you closer to his own bod.

“you’re tired, niece.” the swirling pairs around you turned their heads at his voice, exaggerated in it’s volume as he at last addressed you in a way they understand.

“so very tired, uncle.”

“then i shall escort you to your chambers. the dark hallways of the keep are no place for such a defenceless lady.”

the weight of your father’s stare followed you out of the banquet halls, lungs only refilling with air when you round the corner that leads upwards, the steps to your own chambers lit with torches and manned by several guards who stood guard at your door.

the same guards who payed no mind to how you welcomed your uncle into your chambers.

the same guards who likely felt against their back the vibration of your own body slamming against the shut door.

daemon was a force to be reckoned with, hands coming down to cage you against the wooden surface and render you defenceless to the incoming attack against your mouth.

there was no patience in the way he kissed you, mimicking a man starved for weeks who’s at last been handed a morsel of bread. neither was there gentleness, lips moving with yours in a frenzy of clashing teeth and knocking noses. it was nothing like the books you’ve read, where a pretty princess at last convinces the honourable knight to kiss her, pulling back immediately to stare in bewilderment.

nor was it how rhaenyra had explained kisses to be: boring, unexciting, a waste of time.

daemon licked his tongue into your sweet mouth, chest shaking under your palms at the satisfied groan he released. you caught up with his pace, lips finally moving to the rhythm he’d set, no longer being lead but rather fighting to lead him in the dance of your mouths.

when he pulled away, the hunger in his eyes could only be levelled by that of his dragon’s as it flew into battle, thirsty to burn everything beneath it.

“ao issi tolmiot tolī gevie naejot sagon jurnegēre rȳ issa raqagon bona.” his voice lulled you out of your trance, confused, even if just for a moment, as he spoke to you in your blood’s tongue, instead of one the guards outside your door would understand. it dawned on you slowly that he spoke only for you in that instant. you are far too beautiful to be looking at me like that.

“raqagon skoros?” like what?

“raqagon nyke mazverdagon ao biare.” like i make you happy.

the prince wasted no time in stripping you bare, knowing he’d lose the ounce of little control he had left if he were to gaze upon your heaving breasts and your glistening cunt.

he settled for sneaking his hand under the layers of your skirt till he found his holy grail.

“you’re soaked, little dove.” he spoke in pure awe, as though he hadn’t lay with a thousand whores and tasted every kind of woman the realm had to offer.

daemon was no stranger to maidens nor the feeling of touching them, yet none had ever welcomed him in as much as you, no fear in your darkened gaze as you spread your legs further apart while the middle finger stroked over your velvet lips which dripped with honey and ached to suck his digit in between them.

it was as though you were made for him alone, body trained to take anything he’d offer, and he tells you so as he made contact with your aching bud, calming the buzzing nerves with slow strokes.

“is that nice, niece?” you nodded your head and were met with a disapproving look, quickly correcting yourself with a loud moan. “is kepus making your little cunt wet?”

“yes!”

he rewarded your precious reply with the breeching of your hole, his finger forcing it’s ways into your tight walls as he released his own noises of satisfaction.

the descent into madness was swift from then onwards, with daemon knowing only the feeling of your sticky walls clamping down on him as your eyes rolled back and your mouth fell slack would be enough to sedate him. one finger became two and he watched you mold yourself into the perfect little whore for him, unabashed to call out his name and beg for more.

“have you touched yourself before?” his breath was haggard, as if he was the one having his insides toyed with by you, chasing his inevitable peak with wanton groans and sporadic kisses to your throat, collarbones, chest. “or are mine the first hands to touch this precious cunt?”

when you hit your crescendo, it was with shaking limbs and desperate cries, hands having found home in the tresses of his hair, pulling on their roots as he kissed over your chest, fingers continuing their repeated assault on your entrance till your essence dripped down to his elbows and you shook your head in protest to his touch, his pretty baby too sensitive from her first peak.

he let his resolve slip moments after bringing his soaked fingers up to his mouth, the taste of you sending him to all seven hells and back for all the things he longed to do to you. arms caging around your frame, he lay his forehead to rest against yours as his hardness began to grind against your waist.

“just wait, my little dove.” even as he put on a show, he was mindful to sweet talk you with the names he called you, aware you were not ready yet for all the things he longed to call you, preferably as you lay face down in his sheets, your sweet flower on full display and ripe with honey for his taking. “wait till i paint your insides with my seed, filling your little womb up till it swells with my babe.”

much to his own preference, daemon shortly spilled within his breeches, soiling his clothing in an uncomfortable manner he'd need to clean up later.

in all his years he’s never fought as hard a battle as the one to lead you to bed, all the while you begged in your mother tongue for him to take you, for real this time, to fill you with his cock even after the sun had risen and the royal guards stormed your room demanding answers for the king.

as he finally parted ways with you, this time for sure pressing his lips to your cheek, daemon nodded curtly at your guards who refused to meet his eyes and he swallowed down his amusement, the walk back to his own chambers filled with only one topic: how long till the news reached the king's ears.

after all, the ladies of the court never were good at whispering.

#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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dcartcorner · 6 months

Text

a fantasy/dnd au because i can't help myself and the thought of ancient blue dragon simon who disguises himself as a human brings me joy.

please enjoy this small one shot ft. s1 adventuring crew (please excuse any errors, writing is not my strong suit!)

Rumours at the Tavern Characters: Tim, Simon, Sasha, Martin, Jon Ships: none

It wasn’t what Tim would consider a nice tavern. He had performed in nicer ones, ones where the counters were meticulously cleaned and the patrons were at least passably polite to the serving staff, and a mug of ale would set you back a silver piece. This place was not quite like that.

Then again, Tim had been to worse sorts of dives.

The Lazy Storm sat right smack in the middle of the two kinds of taverns, perched on the cliff side overlooking the choppy seas of the western coast, amidst the fjords in the town of Killn’s Rest. Not a bad place, not a good place. Just a place, somewhere to find some warmth, a quick meal, and something to drink. It was also the sort of tavern that didn’t take fire hazards all that seriously, if the number of people making merry that evening within its walls was any indication of the owner’s outlook on safety. It was busy, to the point where crowds spilled out onto the street even though the summer had come to a close and the winter, with its biting chill, was fast approaching.

Perhaps that’s why Tim noticed him - the old man. Because he was sitting on the bar top.

There were few other seats around. Sasha had managed to charm their way to a table of their own earlier in the night while Martin tried to see about rooms, and their party had stayed planted at said table all night as the crowds slowly but surely filtered in for the evening. They were lucky, in this regard, as many other people were forced to stand shoulder to shoulder. Not that old man, though. Perched on the edge of the bar like a bird, smiling kindly at the person next to him.

And his choice of seat was not the only peculiar thing about him, Tim thought. He wore clothing that Tim could only describe as ornate. If this was one of those nice taverns Tim had played in, he might have expected that sort of the look, but this wasn’t one of those places. This was the Lazy Storm, and that man was incredibly overdressed.

“It’s weird, right?” Tim said aloud. Martin looked up, then glanced around. Sasha craned her neck to look at him. Jon didn’t look up from his book. Tim nodded in the direction of the old man. “Someone dressed like that in a place like this. That’s odd, isn’t it?”

“Not really,” Sasha shrugged.

“Where?” Martin asked.

“Good on him, getting dressed up to go out for a night,” said Sasha.

“I think it’s weird,” said Tim. Because it was.

“Where?” Martin asked again. “Oh. Him? I mean. I suppose it’s… well, it’s a little odd.” The twist of a frown at the corners of Martin’s mouth. “Someone should offer him a seat.”

“Seems happy enough where he is,” Sasha said with a huff of a laugh as the other man at the bar leaned closer to the old man and whispered something to him.

“Could we please focus,” Jon finally interjected, shutting the book.

Tim rolled his eyes as he took a swig of his drink. It wasn’t silver coin ale. This was a copper-piece-per-tankard-ale, and it tasted like it. Which was to say, it tasted like a good night in the making.

“Have any of you actually asked anyone about any jobs yet?” Jon said.

“Asked just about as many people as you,” Tim said. By this, Tim meant: none.

“There’s a rat problem in the sewers,” Sasha said, “according to one guard. Doesn’t pay well, but at least it pays.”

“There are bandits, too,” Martin added. “Uh, just out east of here. Somewhere. Apparently they have a den in the woods? But I think someone might’ve already taken that one.”

“Mm.” Jon was not impressed. He looked over at Tim. “Anything?”

Tim raised his hands. “Don’t look at me, I can get a job whenever.” Plenty of people out there who were willing to pay for some good music. “Or did you forget who bought the rooms and drinks?”

Jon leaned his elbows on the table and put his face in his hands momentarily. Then looked up at Tim and said, “Could you please just. Ask.”

“Jon, maybe we should just… take a night off?” Martin suggested. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing…”

Jon shot him a look and that was the end of that conversation.

Well, didn’t matter. Jon didn’t have to join them in having a good night if he didn’t want to. Tim wasn’t going to let it bother him, and he got up to go order another drink with his own hard earned money, ignoring how much lighter his coin purse was compared to earlier that day.

Why was it his problem anyway, that they didn’t have much in the way of coin? He wasn’t going to let it get to him. It wasn’t getting to him. He and Sasha and Martin were just some poor souls dragged along on Jon’s pointless quest to find some answers that had nothing to do with any of them. So why did it matter?

It didn’t matter.

Dammit.

The old man was not the first person he asked that night about a job. As he waited for a drink he asked the person to his left and to his right, but neither of them were keen on talking - and it took him a little too long to realize they were part of their own adventuring party based on the matching bands on their arms, and wouldn’t be sharing any information with him. He tried to ask the bartender as well, but she was too busy to give him any answer that was not a look of inconvenience.

Tim sighed. And he kept asking, until finally his route around the tavern brought him to the old man at the bar. Sat there, dressed strangely, looking for all the world like he should be just about anywhere else.

“Are you quite alright?” the old man asked him. Tim blinked. “Not that I mind, but I’ve been told it’s rude to stare.”

Had he been staring? “Sorry,” Tim said. The old man smiled at him.

“Something I can do for you?” the old man asked.

Tim looked around briefly. The other person with whom the old man had been speaking earlier that night was gone. “Don’t suppose there is,” Tim said. “Unless you know of any get rich quick jobs around this place.”

The old man chuckled. “Well now, I can think of a few, but I’m not entirely sure those are the type you’re looking for,” he said, resting his hands on the head of his cane which he had propped up on the empty edge of one of the bar-stools. “Tough times, out there. Or so I hear. Something about the supply and demand of it all, I think. Too many adventurers, too few problems that need solving! At least around these parts.” The old man sighed thoughtfully. “This coast isn’t what it used to be. Time was you couldn’t take two steps on the road without running into bandits or cultists or a proper mountain troll. Now you’d be lucky to find a good sized rat nest to clean up.”

“Yeah, well. Killing rats doesn’t pay well,” Tim said.

The old man smiled, watching Tim over the rim of his glasses. His eyes were sharply blue, Tim noticed. “No,” the man agreed. “No it doesn’t.” He tilted his head. “Terribly sorry, but I’m afraid you’ll have to go further afield to find anything.”

“Thanks anyway,” Tim said, defeated.

“Although,” the old man said as Tim was turning away. Tim paused and looked back at him. “I’ve heard a rumour. There have been a few ships that have come into the harbour with some particularly strange news out of the Shivering Straight. Up north. Word is there have been a handful of whaling ships that have gone missing around Helkelson Bay. Only a couple of survivors. Those that do manage to best the frostbite say… well. You know how sailors can be, always creating the most fanciful stories. A ghost ship, they say! The mayor of Helkelson isn’t altogether convinced it’s anything so peculiar as that, though I hear he’s offering a handsome reward to anyone willing to… solve the problem. Whatever that problem may be.”

“Helkelson?” Tim said.

“That’s right,” the old man replied with a smile. “Ask around the docks, I’d say. Plenty of merchant ships coming and going that way. Of course, it’s only a rumour.”

Tim smiled back. “Better than nothing.”

It was at that moment the old man’s companion returned and gave Tim a wary look. Tim took it as his cue to leave with a nod of thanks and an imaginary tip of the hat before he returned to the table to join his companions.

“Let me start,” he said to them, “by saying you’re welcome. Now, any of you been to the Shivering Straight?”

#tma #the magnus archives #dnd au #fantasy au #tim stoker #sasha james #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #simon fairchild #fic #one shot #yes tim is a bard #fanart

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nevarroes · 6 months

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idk if i'll put this right but for all that you have Cas insulting Gortash and being like, supernaturally mean and vain, I also feel like the 'gortash come get your dog' part of them is really important 2 me too. Like, Gortash doesn't REALLY care what Cas looks like either. And he likes the violent nastiness of him more than anyone-he knows about more of it than anyone. I think that Cas sometimes is just completely depraved and disgusting or violent or w/e around him, and when Gortash doesn't care or likes it it makes him feel insane. He'd kill everyone on earth for this little grody banite, forget bhaal. am i nearish to the mark here

god yes. hit the mark w it 100% and you said it so well too... thank u for taking the time to send me this

I like to draw their more casual, insult-y, bickering business partners type of relationship more often than the serious one clearly but... just know that Cas would throw his life away that he fought so hard to keep without a second thought for Gortash, let's not even talk about killing anyone that dares to oppose or threaten him or their ambitions.

also at the end of the day. Cas is pretty obsessed with all the things he roasts his ass about even if he'd not admit it💖 I always see Cas as someone that strives for perfection with his own self and appearance but because of that he was always quite fond of the way Gortash looks (like he does not give two shits about how exactly people perceive him. like a wet, dressed up sewer rat lets be honest here)

#blakemail #i just mentioned this vaguely before but cas tried to face off mephistopheles in his past #it ended with him disgraced his wings ripped out in a public display (naked cause... fuck that incubus etc)#anyways I wrote his past before I even thought about Gortash in this context but i always thought it kinda fell together beautifully #because this implies that he really went back to the Hells where hes still wanted dead without a second thought to get that crown #risked his whole fucking existence for a shot at greatness next to gortash although he doesnt gaf about bhaal's plans🧐#no homo tho….#gortcas lore

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hackerqueen · 10 months

Text

Another Love

Chapter 3: Runaway

Previous chapter <-

warnings: none i think but if you catch any, let me know in the comments!

A week has passed. 7 days, 168 hours since I last saw Jessy. I tried not to think about it, I was absorbed in preparations for the upcoming wedding and bachelorette party. I forgot my behavior in the car and the messages from Lilly I received on the evening of the ill-fated day.

Lilly: I know it's hard for you

Lilly: I know you see him too

Lilly: But that's impossible.

MC: I won't let you make me insane. Not this time.

Lilly: I'm not saying that at all. But it's impossible that you saw him.

This message was followed by a minute of silence, followed by another heartbreaking one.

Lilly: You can't see him because he's dead

I did not reply. In fact, the blonde didn't even wait for an answer. She simply closed the newly opened wound, which was slowly sticking together.

I looked at my reflection, searching for the old sparks that I knew had left my brown eyes forever. I scanned my body clad in a red dress that reached my mid-thighs. Seen view.. was decent. I was like a rose, though not fresh and fully bloomed, but dried up. Tonight was supposed to be a good evening. I was supposed to drink, play, dance and forget about God's world. Have fun like there's no tomorrow.

I heard a loud horn of a car that approached my block. I came down and immediately recognized Dan's black Volkswagen. I walked inside and breathed a sigh of relief as I smelled a familiar scent that only reminded me of this man. It had a very distinctive perfume, and in combination with the air freshener it calmed my senses and heart.

– Well, well, well. Someone struced up like a rat for the opening of the sewer.

I looked at him with narrowed eyes, but my feigned indignation couldn't last long once I saw his expression. I burst out laughing, nudging his shoulder hard.

– Gallant as always. – Dan chuckled and drove out of the parking lot. – You know, you keep on being nice to me, and I'm going to think you like me.

The man looked at me again, his other hand lowering his sunglasses to the tip of his nose.

– Who says I don't like you, honey? – he said, deliberately lowering his voice to sound like a lover in a cheap romantic comedy

I rolled my eyes, but there was a wide smile on my face.

– Eyes on the road, Jack Daniels.

I loved those moments when I got into that car and forgot about everything. Sometimes it was friday nights, other times we disappeared for the whole weekend. There was nothing dirty or romantic about our relationship. Of course, it was true that Dan was trying his luck by asking me out to watch horror movies together two years ago, but I'd never agreed to that. We realized that our connection is only platonic and that our hearts belong to someone else. Dan was unlucky in love with Jessy. He confessed this to me six months ago when I drove him drunk from Aurora. It was our first meeting with the whole group, even though I had been living in Duskwood for a year and a half at the time. I had no contact with them all this time, because the group completely shut down. Jessy was experiencing Richy's death, Cleo and Thomas tried to help Hannah in the meantime assimilating with the whole situation. Dan told me everything. About how he tried to be there for the redhead, but she rejected him.

The pack of friends was rapidly falling apart and no one knew how to fix it. I flew to Duskwood two years ago for Richy and Jake's funeral. And I don't even know how or when I stayed here until today. I left my old Californian life behind for a small town. In the States, I had no one worth staying for. I didn't have a family, and a handful of friends accepted my decision rather quickly. I thought it would be different here. That I will start all over again.

– And here we are. – he announced in an optimistic, cheerful voice getting out of the car – I'll bring alcohol and I'll take Tommyboy on the best party in his life.

Hannah's bachelorette party was to be held at her house. It was big enough to party, and she didn't want to do that in Aurora. We walked into her place and I was immediately hit by the loud music. I said hello to each person and showed Dan where to put the crate with various alcohol. We were still standing at the kitchen counter, discussing the evening ahead. We stay here, while Thomas and his friends go to Aurora.

Finally our eyes fell on the opposite end of the room where Hannah and Thomas were. They were joking about something, looking into each other's eyes while looking so happy. They looked like fulfilled lovers who overcame many adversities to finally stand on the wedding carpet and connect for life.

– How sweet. – Dan mumbled, and I immediately sensed the irony in his voice

– You have to be a jerk your entire life. Why not take today off? – I replied teasingly as he rolled his eyes

Although we always joked and turned it into sarcasm and irony, deep down we envied them a lot. That they succeeded and we did not.

– Oh, MC, you're here! – I heard a loud scream of Cleo who came over to me and hugged me – Hi Dan. Shit, I forgot to bring my phone upstairs.

– I'll bring you. I have to go to the bathroom anyway. Will you make me a drink? – I suggested to which she immediately agreed.

I did my physiological business and went to Hannah's room where the phone was on the bed. Picking it up, I saw that she was calling and showing her mother's number. I started to head to the ground floor of the house, where I heard loud screams. Looks like they're having fun already.

– Where the fuck have you been?!

I recognized Dan's voice, who was furious. I stood on the penultimate step looking at the group of people in front of me.

– Cleo, your...

The woman turned to me, and only then I saw the person standing in front of the front door. A shiver ran down my spine and my feet dug into the ground. The man was dressed in dark colors, and the hood of a black sweatshirt slightly covered his face. But even from this distance, I knew who he was. He was a ghost who haunted me on what was supposed to be my stepping stone. He couldn't let himself be forgotten.

I saw him lift his head, look from an enraged Dan to me. I felt his blue eyes piercing me. Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, I heard his voice.

– Hello MC.

I knew that voice was the thorns decorating my tense body. That voice was the beginning of my end. So without thinking, I turned around and started running upstairs, leaving them all behind me.

I ran away from him although once I would run for him.

#duskwood jake #duskwood #duskwood fanfiction #duskwood fandom #everbyte duskwood #duskwood jake x mc #jake duskwood #duskwood game #duskwood mc #everbyte studios #duskwood everbyte

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eruden-writes · 2 years

Text

Room & Board - Part 8 - (Tabaeus x Reader)

Anon submitted this prompt: For the prompt submissions a vampire that feels guilty after feeding/attacking someone so they leave obscenely valuable ancient artifacts as payment/an apology?

Part 1 | Previous | Masterlist | Next

x x x x x

If you like what I create, please consider my patreon or my ko-fi!

Comments, tags, and reblogs are real motivators for me, too! (●ˇ∀ˇ●)

x x x x x

After the ordeal of dealing with Jemma and setting up a cage for the gliders, the following weeks, ironically, were quiet.

Or maybe you were just so laser-focused on finding a house, nothing else permeated your thoughts.

Tabaeus and you continue the established feeding schedule. They still ‘snacked’ when they could get away with it. However, they did honor your denials. An unforeseen benefit of the sugar gliders was Tabaeus wasn’t prone to lonely wanderings to find you when you went to work. It was honestly a relief. The day after he brought the new furry family members home, you’d been so concerned they’d show up again. It was almost eerie when they didn’t.

Your real estate search also eventually bears fruit.

The house you find, the one that calls out to you, is an old house, built in the 1800s, with four bedrooms and two bathrooms. A lovely shade of blue, with a large porch and fenced-in backyard. There’s even two stone gargoyles that keep watch from the stoop.

It is located downtown, in an older part of the city. Which essentially means a diverse neighborhood filled with old homes, remodels, renters, and homeowners along with families, childless couples, and singletons.

With two stories, plus a basement and attic, it’s roomy enough for your - grudgingly - growing family- …er, roomateship? Plus there’s a detached garage and roomy kitchen with plenty of storage for appliances. Off the dining room, a greenhouse is attached. The basement is unfinished, which means Tabaeus is less likely to sleep there, but the freezer the previous owner left behind made up for it.

Strangely, it has been on the market for the better part of a year. Either no one had placed an offer or the owner was excessively picky. Regardless, you contacted your real estate agent and asked for a tour. You and Tabaeus walked through the house, pointing out little things you liked and little problems that would need fixing.

By the end, however, the two of you agreed it certainly felt like home. From there, it had been back-and-forth discussions, inspections, and negotiations. It looked like the closing was on the horizon. Which meant gathering the additional funds together for the house and closing costs was needed.

That led you to your current undertaking with Tabaeus. Which entailed the two of you bumbling about in the local sewers.

“Why in the world do you have a cache of treasure here?” It’s not the first time you ask the question and it likely won’t be the last. Every inch of your body is covered in clothing, plus a mask to fight off the stench of the sewage. The acrid scent still manages to get into your nose and you’re certain you’ll have to burn the clothes once you get back to the apartment.

Tabaeus throws you a look, as if to say ‘Are you genuinely asking that of I, your amnesiac vampire friend?’ Their expression is no less stormy than yours.

They are dressed in just as much as you, in a dark hoodie, their hair tucked under the hood, and long pants and boots. Only their red glowing eyes are visible above their mask. An odd comfort, you realize.

Your expression doesn’t falter and they sigh, shoulders slumping as they turn their flashlight back down the corridor. “I honestly do not know. I just know it is here.”

“Well, hurry it up. We’re not even supposed to be down here.” You hiss, jumping out of the way of a rat scurrying by.

“Patience,” Tabaeus sighs, swinging their lone beam of light to and fro. They’re mumbling to themselves, their gloved hand tracing the wall. There’s no way a hidden compartment or room is down here, you think. There’s literally no way. The city would know about it! And if the city knew about it, it would’ve been pilfered a long time ago.

Something pinged at Tabaeus’s memory as they started to stride with more purpose. You followed after them, weakly hoping this wasn’t an utterly useless endeavor. It would just figure that, once you pursued a house, your vampire patron would run dry in finances. Or just not be able to find their literal treasure trove.

You’re not sure how they managed to do it, but you watch as Tabaeus’s touches a certain spot in the wall and twists a nearby knob. For a breathless second, you tense, waiting to hear the clatter of broken pipes or heightened water pressure. But you hear the sound of metal and rock shifting and your eyes widen as an entryway slides open in the wall.

Tabaeus glances to you over their shoulder, a teasing smirk in their voice as they hold out their hand to you. “See? The universe rewards those who hold their tongue.”

You accept their hand, but shoot them a sharp look. It only makes their smirk broaden as they turn to lead you through the darker-than-pitch corridor. Your heart pounds as the world around you turns to deep shadows. There’s no way to spy any silhouettes or make out faint shapes of pipes or gaskets. It’s all so dark. And quiet. You don’t even hear the skittering of rats.

It grows even darker as the door slides shut behind you. You jerk, turning to look, but only see a blanket of black. Fear dances in your stomach.

Sensing your apprehension, Tabaeus gives your hand a squeeze. “I am here.”

“I know,” you mumble as you turn back around, your face flaring with embarrassed heat. Their presence is part of the problem, though. They are a vampire. They feast on your blood. And though you two have grown closer, more amicable, you’re worried where this all will end. It may not be tomorrow or in the year or even in ten years, but Tabaeus could always turn on you and then go on with their life.

Whenever you think of the disparate lifespans between you two, you find yourself wondering if you made a mistake.

“I believe this is it,” Tabaeus says, rousing you from your thoughts. “Shield your eyes a moment.”

You do as they say, before you listen to Tabaeus fumble in the dark. There’s a click and you see lights flash behind your eyelids. Carefully, you squint open your eyes, letting them slowly adjust. After a few rapid blinks, your eyes widen.

It appears to be a huge corridor, with a tiled ceiling - plastered with cobwebs - and arching buttresses. Thankfully, it seems relatively dry, with no oozing sewage to squelch underfoot. It’s not until your eye catches the dip in the floor, where railroad track is laid, that you realize this is an old train station or, perhaps, a closed section on a route. You take a few steps farther down the line. The lighting casts a slightly yellow tint on everything in the vicinity. And there is certainly a lot in the vicinity.

Furniture, racks of clothing, mannequins, shelving. It’s a mishmash of things from different decades, perhaps even eras. You try to peer down the corridor, but the haphazard piles seem to go on forever with only carefully carved paths between their bases. The mingling scent of dust and mildew hang heavy in the air, along with rotting wood, but there’s perfumes you wouldn’t expect. Faintly, you wonder if there’s colognes or potpourris in the mess of miscellany.

Tabaeus suddenly appears again at your elbow and you jump with a yelp.

“My apologies,” they say, offering you an awkward smile. At some point, they had lowered the mask they wore and it hung beneath their chin. In their hands is a large wooden box, an ancient latch on its side.

You nod to it. “What’s in there?”

“Replenished funds!” With a flourish, they open the lid to show off the contents. Inside are more gold coins and jewelry and gems. Much of it looks about the same time period as the other payments you’ve taken from them.

“Why don’t you live here?” The thought strikes you quick and you glance around again. It is roomy and, with a little bit of elbow grease, you’re certain it can become a livable place. Heck, there was probably an old abandoned train car somewhere further down the track. “I’m sure there’s enough things to live comfortably and you could probably head up top for… food, when you need it.”

You stumble when you think of what Tabaeus would have to do to survive in this place. Without thinking, you rub at the spot on your neck that has grown bruised from multiple feedings. The courage to let Tabaeus feed from somewhere else has yet to take root.

“There are a number of reasons,” Tabaeus admits, closing the wooden box. Their shoulders hunch a little as they gaze about, their fingers playing with the latch of the box in their arms. “It is grimy and dusty. Not to mention rather isolating.”

At that last point, they wince. You can’t help the curiosity needling through your thoughts. Thus far, Tabaeus hasn’t mentioned other vampires nor anyone else for that matter. Even if his amnesia was a result of a long sleep, you think there’d be someone they’d remember.

“Besides, I have found I quite enjoy being in the presence of others. Especially you.” You focus on Tabaeus again. They smile crookedly at you, their red eyes flickering from your gaze to your reddening cheeks. More than once, Tabaeus has admitted to enjoying how your cheeks color.

Needing to break up the sudden warm heaviness surrounding you two, you scoff, “That’s me, your little blood bag.”

That draws Tabaeus’s eyes back to your own, an ember in their red depths. “You’re my amata trinkaĵo, actually.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve been upgraded to a drink instead of a bag,” you snort and roll your eyes. Tabaeus had actually taken to calling you Amata on occasion. And each time, you shot them a dirty look. In return, they’d only grin.

This time, however, Tabaeus’s smile is soft and a little sad. They notice your stare and instantly reel back, clearing their throat as they cast their eyes about.

“Can you hold this? I might be able to find other little bits that are fairly valuable,” they ask, holding out the wooden box to you. With a nod, you relieve Tabaeus of the crate, grunting as you realize how heavy it is. They don’t seem to notice your struggle as they turn, off to investigate further.

“Do you think you’ll remember anything if you poke around here?” The question comes so sudden and soft to your lips, you almost think Tabaeus didn’t hear it. But, they did, and they stop suddenly, turning their eyes back to you. It’s a roundabout question that you hope will stir their memories or a nugget of information to research. “There’s got to be tons of memorabilia here.”

“I… do not know.” A complicated expression creases at Tabaeus’s face, their eyes drifting from one item to the next. It wasn’t a complete refusal, though, and they wander toward an old wardrobe. You watch as they pull out the drawers and shuffle through them. Papers, knick-knacks, photos. Picking every little thing up and examining it carefully.

“Some things stir memories,” they admit, after a long few moments. You perk up, edging closer to them, though your loot weighs you down. Tabaeus tilts a photo toward you and you squint, looking over an array of faces frozen in time. “I feel I know these people. As if I grew up with them, but I cannot tell you their names or what year this was taken in.”

They flip the photo back into the drawer it came from, before pulling out another paper. It looks like a letter, typed up on an old-timey typewriter. “And this here. I recognize the name Reginald Taylor. He was a chemist at a general store on Gooseberry Boulevard. Where that is, though, or how long I knew him, I have not the foggiest.”

With a sigh, Tabaeus drops the note into its home drawer. With another look cast about the corridor, creases of wretchedness continue to mark their features.

“What is it?” You start to lift your hand to touch their shoulder, before realizing you’re still hauling the gold around.

“There are many bad memories,” Tabaeus shakes their head, taking a few steps away from you. Their expression is strained and you think you see their eyes growing glassy, wet. “Deaths by feeding and other means. Blackmail. Extortion. Cruelty.”

You’re not sure what to say, so you just remain quiet. Though your mind races with questions and theories.

It’s when Tabaeus speaks again, their words making your stomach lurch, your worries solidify. “I… I do not believe I am a good person.”

“What?” Without thinking you take a step closer. Your heart pounds and a spike of adrenaline has made you grow hot. A small fear of betrayal lashes in you - they said ‘am’ not ‘was’ a bad person - but you hold it down. “What did you remember?”

At that, Tabaeus’s eyes dart to your face. A pained expression crosses their features briefly, before they manage to push it away. Their eyes draw away from you, their shoulders hunching. “Must I speak of it?”

Boldly or foolishly, you take another step forward. Your voice hardens. “Am I in danger?”

“No, not from me,” Tabaeus startles at the accusation, their eyebrows drawing upward. “Never from me.”

You press on, ignoring how a nervous flutter at those two words joins the pounding of your heart.“ Do others pose a danger to me?”

Tabaeus’s lips pressed together, looking sad and wretched. Once more, their eyes flicker away from you, their fingers fidgeting with each other. “That I am not sure of.”

“I would appreciate knowing whatever you know, Tabaeus.” They flinch at the hard sharpness in your tone, but it’s something that has to be said. Your mind is going a mile a minute, trying to confirm Tabaeus is a threat or make excuses for them. The longer you look at the misery dancing on his face, you sigh. “The memories may not be yours. They may be that of those you’ve fed on. Or maybe you have some sort of tactile memory powers.”

That makes curiosity cut through their gloom. “Tactile memory powers?”

With a shrug, you try to explain as simply as possible. “It’s like the ability to see memories tied to an object.”

“Have you heard of such things?” Skepticism has Tabaeus’s eyes narrowing, obviously not believing you.

“I mean, in comics and stuff.” Now it’s your turn to shrug. You’re suddenly aware that you’re still holding the box of valuables, your muscles aching from holding it. “You’re literally a vampire, so I figure we keep our options open?”

“That is true.” They do not sound convinced, though. Their dismal gaze scans the room, the furrow between their eyebrows deepening.

An awkward silence falls between the two of you. Tabaeus quietly wanders off after a polite amount of time, digging through items on the far side of the corridor. Still holding the box of treasure in your hands, you’re not entirely certain what to do. Carefully, you set the valuables down on a larger trunk. After letting your arms rest, you decide to poke about the area yourself.

Half of your brain is looking for valuables or anything of interest. Any old little oddity or fascinating book or strange gadget. The other half is looking for information on Tabaeus. Photos, documents, anything that may lead to information.

“I know you are searching ways to kill vampires.” Tabaeus’s words, coming from behind you, makes you freeze.

You spin around, staring wide-eyed at Tabaeus. Suddenly, you are very aware you are underground, in a hidden place only Tabaeus knows of. Without thinking, your eyes dart around, hoping to scope out an exit. However, your brain starts wondering if the mounds of items are hiding dead bodies in their depths. Are those bad memories that keep Tabaeus from living here actually the souls of his victims?

“My apologies! I did not mean to startle you. I am not angry about it, I understand the need to protect yourself,” they rush to explain, their own eyes widening as they realize how worried you were. You believe they would raise their hands in supplication, if it weren’t for yet another box in their grasp. Warily, you stare at it, wondering what it could hold.

“I recalled this being here. Tied to those awful memories.” Tabaeus mumbles before you can ask. Slowly, as if they were approaching a scared animal, they hold the box out to you. It takes you a breath to realize they’re offering it to you to take. With lips pressed tight together, you don’t take the box, but instead flip the lid open.

As you look at Tabaeus, a rush of confusion swarming your brain, they look away. Their shoulders jerk, as if to hunch in on themself, but holding out the box keeps them from performing the action.

“What is this, Tabaeus?” With a shaking hand, you reach into the box and pull out a wooden stake. It’s old and gnarled looking, but there is a heft to it that isn’t like other modern day wooden items you’ve held. There’s other items in the box, as well.

Herbs and vials, bits of silver, a cross, a mirror, bound bags of who-knows-what, and more. At the very bottom, under everything, is what looks to be a notebook - perhaps a journal - with a crackling leather cover.

Their answer surprises you. “From what I remember, this is a vampire hunting kit.”

“Why would you have this here?” It didn’t make sense to you. Why would they have things around that could kill them? Though a small, dark part of you answers.

“I may have killed a few vampire hunters in my time.” Tabaeus shrugs, as if taling about murder is no big deal. Though, you wryly suppose it’s more self-defense, if these hunters were trying to kill Tabaeus. Your momentary amusement is gone when they voice what that dark part of you guessed, “Or perhaps it is just something all vampires keep. In case eternity becomes too great a burden.”

You gently place the stake back into the box, closing the lid with a snap. “And why are you showing me this?”

“It is yours. For your protection.” It is not a threat, you realize. Their words are too soft, their eyes downcast, their body language submissive for them to seem dangerous. “A token of my sincerity that I will never hurt you, but if I ever do, do not hesitate to use what is in this box.”

The logical, paranoid part of you snorts derogatorily at the statement. There were any number of ways a sly vampire could sully a vampire hunting kit. The wrong herbs, fake silver, tap water in place of holy water. And it wasn’t as if you hadn’t left Tabaeus alone for long swaths of time for them to concoct such a ploy.

You had already begun stashing a cache of items at home and planning to grow anti-vampire herbs in your new greenhouse. Getting stakes was even easier, you’d found out, after being pointed toward the varieties available in the camping eisles. Nothing in lore said it had to be a wooden stake.

It is a struggle to believe Tabaeus would put together a fake vampire hunting kit. It seems too maliciously conniving. But, you suppose, if this was all an act, you wouldn’t know what Tabaeus would or wouldn’t do. Now would you?

Although, you are very curious to know what was in the journal. That is the only reason you relieve them of the box and offer up an uneasy smile to them, “Thank you, Tabaeus. I appreciate the understanding.”

For once, they do not reply. They merely nod, humming an acknowledgement, as their gaze refuses to meet yours.

“We should head back home. I’m sure Bjarka and Liuva are missing you.” You attempt to lighten the mood, balancing the much lighter box on your hip. With an nod to the heavier treasure-filled box, you ask, “Can you take that one? You’re stronger than me.”

With a silent nod, they shuffle to the other box and heft it in their arms. You can’t even tell if it weighs anything to the vampire. There’s no strain to their muscles, no bowing of their back.

Tabaeus finally looks at you and opens their mouth, as if to say something. But it instantly snaps closed and they look away from you.

“What?” You take a step closer to them, cocking your head as your free hand lightly touches their arm. The touch draws the attention of their eyes. Slowly, their gaze travels up your arm and tingles follow their path.

“Will you miss me?” Their words are soft, almost lost under the buzzing of the overhead lights. “When we part, I mean. Whenever that is.”

You raise your eyebrows, trying to ignore the heavy grief painting the air around Tabaeus. “Are you planning to leave me?”

“No.”

There’s no ‘not yet’ or any other implication they ever thought to leave you. Just a simple ‘no.’ You wonder how far into the future Tabaeus has thought, has planned. Are they thinking just a week ahead? A month? A year? Ten years?

The thought brings a rush of conflicting sensations, warring for dominance in your chest. Overwhelming emotions make you feel the slightest bit dizzy. Abruptly, you pull your hand from Tabaeus and turn back the way you came, crisply saying, “That’s better to ask when your leaving is inevitable, don’t you think?”

You feel Tabaeus’s eyes on your back. It makes those rush of contrary feelings spike and you swallow down uncertain tears. Finally, their feet start to shuffle after you and they say, a little defeatedly, “Yes, I suppose you are correct.”

The two of you walk in silence, both carrying your own heavy baggage as you traverse the dark. When Tabaeus turns the lights off behind you - your hand already on the fabric of their jacket to be guided out - the forgotten world of items is plunged back into darkness.

You can’t help but feel the two of you carry much more than the two boxes out of that place, though.

x x x x x

If you like what I create, please consider my patreon or my ko-fi!

Comments, tags, and reblogs are real motivators for me, too! (●ˇ∀ˇ●)

#exo writing #vampire #vampires #2nd pov #2nd person pov #exophilia #monster lover #vampire x reader #monster men #monster datemate #monster romance #monster fudger #ugh tumblr srsly?#anyway got some drama after last chapter's lolz #enjoy!#room & board #tabaeus x reader #tabaeus #monster x human

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sgtmickeyslaughter · 3 months

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I thought your tags on the Ian + striped T-shirts gifset were really interesting. Not something I’d thought about but I think it’s perhaps, Ian trying to fit in and be normal? To, sadly, not look so much like he’s obviously from the South Side? Idk. I think clothing and outfits are very interesting to analyse on the show. Maybe there’s no intentional meaning behind it but I think it’s interesting to discuss! 💖

Ian's clothing choices were always the most interesting to me, but the clothing department (I think?) did a really good job using clothing as a narrative/thematic tool. Wether repeating outfits, changing style, altering the condition of items, they didn't overlook the power of clothing.

I will say they slept a little when it came to applying those tools to female characters on the show, but I will forgive them for the way Veronica was consistently styled throughout the show, she looked incredible every episode and those bellbottoms she was wearing a lot at the end of the series, fucking incredible

buttt anyways- Ian. Throughout seasons 1-4 they literally dressed him like a beloved child cartoon from the 1950s; things were well-fitted, not particularly faded/damaged, and used recognizably all american brands. I think it was supposed to be a clear symbol of the contrasts in his character.

hes the only openly gay character but also the most conservative in some ways, ie. not politically conservative the way we would think of it but he wants to join the army, he predominately works legal jobs for money (in contrast with Lip), he's gay dude not queer etc. also he has this "public life" of being the more buttoned up version of himself and his "private life" of his situation with Kash and hooking up with the local delinquent/sewer rat

im writing a lot more of this part of the analysis into a fic as we speak but so much of early seasons Ian's who ideology is I am who people think I am so as long as people see him as the well dressed, straight laced kid going to West point, that is all he is and everything else doesn't matter

But then when he leaves and we see him battling his diagnosis you see elements of his old style, red converse when hes passed out in the snow outside the club contrasting with the small tanktop he's wearing and its visual marker of poeples ability to see the instability seeping through

anyways idc about any of his outfits past that tbh, I fucking hated those red shoes with a passion i cant even tell you but idk switching his style to nice shirts worn unbuttoned with a tank top and looser jeans and terrible, horrible ugly shoes probably indicate a happy medium between the southside part of him and the more straight laced version of him and being slightly less concerned with other peoples perception of him

but its also almost directly copying lips style from earlier seasons once he moved on to his tank tops-playing dad-jeremy allen white got ripped style

I also loved the calla lily on his wedding suit, i think it was a lovely touch so bravo to mickey for that one

#i feel like i just cornered you at a party #im so sorry #thank you for sending tho!#sgt says

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fenrirmitsuki · 11 months

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Random Professor Ratigan Headcanon

So, this one is really off-topic for what I usually post, but I only have the one blog and refuse to make a second one, so sorry to the usual folks and the newbies that wonder in. But I’ve had this headcanon for Professor Ratigan, from The Great Mouse Detective, rattling around in my head for years and after chatting with a Ratigan AI on CAI, I finally feel like sharing it. So, for the like 12 people who might care, here are my thoughts: (And I never read the books, so this only applies to the Disney version)

So let’s take a quick look at the stuff we know - Professor Ratigan is the Moriarty-expy nemesis of the Holmes-expy Basil; he is a rat though he absolutely hates having it pointed out; he dresses, conducts himself, and decorates his hideout in a manner fitting of high society; and he is a criminal mastermind. Let’s start with that second point. As stated, he hates being called a rat, even though it’s fairly obvious he isn’t a mouse - even setting aside his larger size and fleshy tail, he has five digits on his hands, as opposed to the four on mice hands. And sure, being a parallel of human society, mouse society may have similar connotations for rats as humans do, but there may be more to it than that. So, lat’s take a quick look at his name, Professor Padraic Ratigan. Both are of Irish origin, similar Moriarty being an Irish surname. Thus, we might infer something - that in a similar way as how British society of the time looked down on the Irish, mouse society may have similar attitudes towards rats. Either way, it’s not hard to see that rats are “othered” in mouse-dominate/centric society.

So with all that in mind, what can we speculate about the largely nebulous backstory of the Professor? Well, he was likely looked down upon and mistreated throughout his youth by society at large, despite his budding intellect likely being obvious. If he followed a similar path as his inspiration character, then he likely put in a lot of hard work to achieve professorship, possibly in mathematics. But in spite of his accomplishments, he still turned to crime. Why? Maybe it could be that he was dissatsified with a mundane professor’s life and wanted more action? Maybe his ego desired more power and recognition? Or maybe, inspite of how far a rat made it in a mouse-dominate academia, he was still looked down on and disregarded? Maybe if his brilliance wouldn’t be recognized in a mouse’s world, he’d make them recognize his cunning via crime? By usurping the very throne?

But even if he did stage ingenious crimes that shook the vert foundations of society, he was still a “filthy, detestable sewer rat”. So, he did everything he could to divorce himself from the stereotype - this habit likely starting in his youth, and was maintained through his academic career, all in an effort to fit in. But as he turned to crime, he kept the affectations in order to further cement just how different he was from how society cast him - he wasn’t some “criminal sewer rat”, he was an aristocratic mastermind that rocked the mouse world with his devious mind. But ask anyone with even a passing understanding of psychology, and they’ll tell you that repression of unwanted thoughts and feelings, especially anger, will fester and find someway of seeping out. And his anger was further compounded by his crimes constantly being thwarted by an insufferable detective - a mouse detective. Not only was his criminal brilliance being challenged by dogged detective, but he was once again being undermined by a mouse. At all added up to what we saw in the film - a mastermind of the criminal underworld unfolding his greatest scheme yet to finally get the recognition he deserved, only to once again have his goals squashed by that same detective that emboddied the rest of society, and it finally pushed him over the edge.

TL;DR - Professor Ratigan was a victim of systemic racism.

#the great mouse detective #headcanon #professor ratigan #prof ratigan #ratigan

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diagonal-queen · 1 year

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a post with the following text existed on my blog for about three seconds before i realized i posted it because i wanted you to see it and that’s it so uh. i’m just going to send you an ask like a reasonable person now

wouldn’t it be so silly if i revived my writing skills for the first time in months just to shove some detective agency and/or decay guys in a game of phasmophobia together

jkjk. unless

(all jokes aside though i’m like maybe 25% into this and i’m still questioning whether or not i should actually finish/post it because a) this is a really stupid idea and b) half of it is going to be keyboard smashes and not actual good writing so if anybody were to see it they *cough cough* you *cough* would think i am a less good writer than i actually am. except im really not much better than shitpost content anyways so i have no idea why i’m even worried about this)

anyway uh. opinions on this idea

can i admit something very pathetic?

i've never played phasmophobia and i've never seen anyone else play it. i had to take to the gc and ask the gang what it was about. so now i know. and oh my god, please write that omg. that sounds like an absolute riot. also i'm bottom leaning so i'm fluent in keysmash what who said that

i would read the shit out of that ngl. and no i promise just because it's silly n goofy doesn't make you look like a bad writer trust me i promise <33333 make sure you tag me in it when it's finished though ok?

have a meme i found on pinterest

#dia's discourse #thoughts: well-dressed-sewer-rat

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donnietheterrapin · 11 months

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Splintskirt lore

this will probably be edited and added onto a LOT

its also very disorganized so you can read as many or few paragraphs you want in whatever order

CW for mentions of death and seizure, as well as general themes of prejuduce

So the kraang dropped mutagen bombs on Earth a few decades ago (60-ish years). It was a series of mutagen bombs similar to those in the mutant apocalypse but a LOT smaller. Like instead of the whole world, it was parts of cities being glossed in mutagen ooze, causing people to mutate and evacuate.

This mutagen was cleaned up pretty quickly, and stored in facilities around the world, that way nobody could get all the mutagen in bulk, and scientists could experiment and work on anti-mutagen. Of course, capitalism, so the anti-mutagen is super expensive. This means that only the richest mutants can get their hands on it, which means Splinter cannot.

Mutants are fairly normalized, but there is a lot of prejudice against them for being "different", "feral", etc. They are part of society, but they are highly underprivileged and not on a level playing field in work and school scenarios.

Splinter is a descendant of a rat mutant. (Yes this means im retconning my lore but stay with me here it makes more sense to me this way). He had a long-time girlfriend named Tang Shen, who was a turtle mutant. She had 4 kids from a previous marriage, all being turtles with a bit of human dna sprinkled in. She dieded though. Tang shen was already struggling with health issues, but she died from a seizure that caused a heart attack. thankfully the turtles were way too young to remember their mother's death, but it struck splinter HARD. Now, he had to support a family of 5 on one income, deal with the traumatic death of his girlfriend (basically wife), AND navigate his children's lives with them being mutants and just children in general.

Splinter met Kirby O'neil after their mail kept getting mixed up. Soon after tang shen's passing, kirby stepped up as the kid's uncle in a way. He is the embodiment of "he's confused but he's got the spirit!" because he is supportive of splinter, even if he doesnt understand everything. This is how the turtles also met april :> in splintskirt, mutants are known of. They are a huge minority in society instead of a secret from the world. They can do everything normal people can do, they just get a lot of hate for no goddamn reason.

Splinter is genderqueer. He uses he/she/they pronouns. He still has her turtle kids, but they are raised in a small apartment complex's basement rather than the sewers.

Splinter gets his money by working as a dish cleaner for a nearby pizza restaurant, but he also gets money by visiting clubs and seducing drunken people, and pickpocketing them. It never goes any farther than kissing, as Splinter is not interested in that. Splinter is demi-aro-ace, and just uses kissing people as a distraction. This is the main reason Splinter is so interested in skirts and dresses. Soon after the turtles were in his care and Splinter was desperate for money (which they were already struggling with), splinter realized that he got more money at clubs if people thought he was a girl. Her appearance is pretty androgynous other than her beard, so he shaved it off and started wearing skirts and dresses to clubs to seem more feminine. This kickstarted a gender crisis, and now Splinter is genderqueer.

Splintskirt's timeline takes place pretty early in the turtle's life. They are about 10-13 years old, so too young to be on their own, but still old enough to have decently developed personalities.

The biggest change is that none of them are ninjas. Splinter is still Asian, and the turtles were raised with cultural influence no doubt, but they have no need to learn how to fight, as the kraang and shredder are not huge plot points. Its more of a realistic setting imo, where shredder is like a mega toxic clingy ex-friend instead of a murder machine

#tmnt #tmnt 2k12 #tmnt 2012 #mmmmm tortl #teenage mutant ninja turtles #splinter #2012 splinter #splinter tmnt #splintskirt #donnie drabbles

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sharoscylla · 11 months

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Your turtle iteration is so cool! Can you tell me more about your iteration? Maybe some more stuff about April and Casey?

Have a lovely day by the way!

Thanks!

So, April is the first one to meet Casey and brings him to the turtles for help. I am working on a comic book script for this event to try to learn how to write comics, so hopefully I'll be able to show it on here soon!

April is 15 years old. She's super into horror media and video games, and has known the turtles for about a year. Raph met her first and she considers him her BEST friend, but the other turtles are all a very close second. The two of them play video games online a lot even if they don't see one another in person that day, and they're working on a horror game together. She is kind of the opposite of Raph and Mikey - they both dream of being normal kids and being able to be normal and live around other people, but she hopes and wishes her mom would somehow fall in love with their dad, pull a brady bunch to fuse their families together, and give her unlimited Turtle Little Brother Time in their world instead of having to return to the human world. Donnie is teaching her some Turtle First Aid (as well as what Human First Aid he knows) and the two of them watch How It's Made and do cute things together. Leo and Mikey are both teaching her martial arts - Leo because he thinks it would make their dad proud if he did a good job teaching her (despite Splinter currently not knowing she exists,) Mikey because he's wracked with anxiety and has terror-visions of her being defenseless against Bad Guys. (Raph does not feel like he has to teach her anything, they're just friends who have fun together and are making fun stuff together and he really feels like he needs a friend who doesn't... depend on him for anything, poor boy.)

Casey is 16 and he's had a very rough life so far. Meeting Casey (and by extension meeting April, who introduces herself to him this way) is like a thirty-second process from Splinter going "Oh no a human" to "Oh no, a human THAT I MUST ADOPT, POOR BOY." (He does ask if April needs to be adopted, which adds fuel to the "April wants to Parent Trap Splinter and her Mom" fire, but she politely declines FOR NOW) Casey is VERY into the Fallout games and pretty explicitly models his way of dressing/weapons of choice/general aesthetic after Fallout New Vegas, which the turtle boys are too young to have played but April knows what's up. All four of the turtles feel incredibly obligated to teach Casey how to fight and take care of himself, especially when they find out that he's on the run from the same apocalyptic death cult that mutated them* mutated their dad into a rat** and chased them from Florida to the sewers of New York***. Casey likes all of the turtles equally, but has a special attachment to April, Donnie, and Mikey for nebulous Genders Reasons that he is not equipped to deal with at this time.

*= a lie

**= sort of true and sort of not true

***= only in the vague-est sense possible

(Splinter has fallen into the trap of Making Shit Up when he's not sure of the answer or is ashamed of the truth and despite having good intentions he has caused bonkers problems for his boys, mentally)

(also: Leo's decision to train April started with Leo going "Hey, Dad, GIRLS can be ninjas too, right?" and Splinter, Trans But Awkward, Firmly Stating, "ANYONE can be a girl." which did not really answer the question but Leo decided it would work as permission until he did a grand reveal of Girl Ninja April)

(Splinter then spent a couple of months trying to State To The Room that any of his sons can be a girl if they want and they can just tell him if they're a girl, that's normal and fine, just let him know, he has girl names lined up if anybody's interested)

(Donnie is Not A Boy either but he's too caught up in "Thinks He Might Not Be Alive" to put too much thought into it right now. give him a few years)

#thanks for the ask!#tmnt au #mutant ninja florida turtles au #florida boy turtles au

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levmada · 2 years

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Afab Levi who’s always been masc presenting. It was one of the first lessons that Kenny had taught him: how to hold a knife, how to pickpocket, how to be a boy. Lessons often beaten into his little body.

Levi didn’t really get it at first. He’d always been his momma’s little girl, her princess. He understood once he got a bit older. The underground was a cruel place for women, young girls included. It was safer to be a boy, to be a man.

He’d worried about it as he got older. That his body would betray him as puberty struck, hips widening and breasts growing. They didn’t though, the lack of sunlight and severe malnutrition had prevented that. Even as he got more successful as a thug and food got more plentiful, the signs of his femininity were often scarce.

Levi didn’t do sex or relationships anyways, never really had any interest, so it didn’t really matter how he was perceived. He told Farlan and Isabel, though. They were the only people he really trusted down there.

It wasn’t until Levi reached the surface, until he met you, that he really felt comfortable in his own skin. Her own skin. It was an adjustment, some mannerisms she’d never really shake. She’d never be her mothers little princess again, but she’d try to be yours.

(I had this whole thought in the shower and had to send it! I’m sorry if it’s too much 🙈🙈)

EE tay thank god for that shower bc i fucking love what i wrote here. i hope u like it. the beginning is my favorite

(im using the plot of ACWNR from the manga btw)

summary: Three glimpses into Levi’s search for self-love—Levi, who was born a woman and forced to present as a man.

content/warnings: fem!Reader, Levi dressing as a pretty princess ok, kid!Levi and Kenny, injury recovery, descriptions of blood, romantic tension (Farlan and Levi), two moments of physical abuse towards a child (hitting), trying on clothes, fingering (f!receiving), subby Levi

wc: ~5.6k

Levi’s hand shook madly, the silver clippers Kenny put in her hand not even an inch shy of her thick head of black hair. It’s a rat’s nest, lying in thick shaggy strands down her upper back, which she knows is bad, but at least she clipped her bangs back with clothespins so she could see.

My raven, Mama used to say. In the picture-books she read to Levi, Mama showed her things called birds, and that’s why. They were black, like her hair, but theirs shined. Hers was dull. Hurt to brush.

“Are you hurryin’ the fuck up in there or what, kid?”

Kenny's voice is a boom, even all the way through the old bathroom door through to the kitchen, where Levi has learned people are supposed to eat. She has only lived in one room before.

Her eyes shut instinctively at the sound, the trembling clippers stopped in midair. Mama never, ever cut her hair short, but Kenny says that’s what’s going to have to happen if she doesn’t want to end up like her.

The door swings open, causing Levi to suck in a gasp and spin around towards him fast. Since she started eating a lot more, she’s been faster in general, like she wasn’t properly awake before.

Kenny isn’t all dressed up for once. A clean shirt is still tucked into his pants with knives and guns and shivs and such on his belt, but no coat. His hat is clutched in his hand, down by his hip.

He sighs, long and heavy, and plants his other hand on his hip too. “What the hell have you been up to all this time? Starin’ at yourself?”

“No,” she replies defensively, brow pinched.

“Ah. I see. You like lookin’ like a sewer rat, is that right?”

Kenny kicks the door open with his boot, making it thwack the drywall. “What the hell’s your problem, Levi?”

She starts to shiver even though she doesn't feel cold, and turns back. The sink is so rusty it’s turned red and brown near the bottom, so it’s all dirty-looking. She rubs at the stiff stains in the metal, but nothing comes up.

“Well? Speak up.”

“...I’ll mess it up,” Levi grumbles softly. “I never done it before.”

Kenny smacks his gnarled hand down on that dirty metal, making her stiffen, and stares down with a certain look. Mama never gave her that look when she was unhappy with Levi, but the men did.

Her eyes go like saucers.

“Tough shit. Your mama’s not ever gonna do your hair again, and you’re gonna have to do somethin’ about that.”

She sucks in a breath, and starts to whimper. “Not your way! I’m not a fuckin’ boy!” she cries.

“Not my way?” His eyes turn hard. “You take your scrawny ass out in those streets all by yourself, and see how long you last.”

“Fuck off.”

Kenny laughs at her. “You’re pathetic.”

“Not a boy,” she snarls.

“That’s too fuckin’ bad, Shorty. ‘Cause y'are one now.”

“I’ll mess! It! Up! Asshole!” Levi screams, leaning up on her toes to get up in Kenny’s face, which was more like his middle.

Kenny’s face is like a solid flat stone, except chipped and dirty. His face reminds Levi of the pillars that hold the roof of the Underground up.

Her bottom lip trembling, she throws the clippers down with a shout and furiously wipes her wet eyes. Kenny says she can’t cry because then people will know her weaknesses, but so many tears cramp inside her chest all the time since Mama died (“Your mother’s dead,” Kenny told her, that one time with a kind voice.) that she can’t help it.

Kenny makes another face. “Quit the waterworks, you brat. It’s just some hair.”

Levi shakes her head. Her attempts to obey result in these fluttery, wet gasping noises that Levi knows are ugly and would make Kenny angry with her, but she can’t be strong, no matter how hard she tries.

Then a big hand wraps itself around her upper arm, and Levi shouts. She kicks at his knees as hard as she can, but that doesn’t affect Kenny any. He sits her on top of the sink so she’s more level with his face, but still not really.

She peers up at Kenny’s glaring face, teeth grinding, but still tearful. No one Levi has met has ever been as tall as he is; he’s like those giants people talk about sometimes.

“You’re bustin’ my balls here, Levi.” He sighs roughly. “Fine. Stay there.”

Kenny’s grip on Levi’s arm vanishes. Near the corner, he swipes the clippers off the blackened floor, which is supposed to be wood. His big boots scrape dust and glass.

Levi does as he ordered, staring down at her lap. She’s not much used to wearing pants (or a tunic this nice). The other women like her Mama used to play dress-up with her, they said like a ‘princess’.

She misses Moira’s shiny makeup. Dust in all some different colors that even glittered. Black pencils that made her eyes look totally blue instead of grey.

Glass cracks under Kenny’s boots as he steps toward her again. “I’m serious, kid. Some hair is nothin’ worth cryin’ over; this’ll make it easier for you not to die.”

Marta, who said she was from Above—Levi talked to her a lot because Mama and her were best friends. She said Levi’s eyes were like the sky when the sun was going down.

She also explained that the sun is warm, and too bright to even look at. Levi wonders what the sky looks like when the sun is all the way up.

“Brat,” Kenny barks, smacking the side of her head. “Are you deaf? Look at me.”

Cringing, she grunts and rights herself again. Kenny is so strong, that even when he doesn’t mean to, he hits hard.

She looks up at Kenny, in his eyes. It’s easy with his hair slicked back like that. Maybe having that wouldn’t be so bad.

“I’m gonna make a deal with you. I’ll cut it for you this one time, so you can get some kinda idea of how you want it. And I mean that.” Kenny holds up one long finger. “You remember the first thing I taught you?”

Levi deadpans. Kenny is always teaching. She isn’t stupid. “My word is my bond.”

“Uh-huh. So you get what I’m saying?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What’d you say?” Kenny holds his hand up to his ear. “Couldn’t hear ya, kid.”

Levi knows Kenny heard her. She straightens up like a rod, and says it like she means it: “I fuckin’ got it!”

“Good.” Kenny casually tosses the two clothespins that she used to pin her bangs back to the floor, and replaces them with bobbypins.

“Hey, don’t gimme that sad doggy look,” he says. “Those worked fine, but these’re better.”

Levi grunts softly. She’ll do that from now on, then.

Then Kenny sighs, short and rough while Levi is in the middle of knuckling the sink so she won’t be jerked around.

“What?” Levi mumbles.

“I’m not wastin’ money takin’ you to any shitty barber. That said, I’m no barber, either.

“If you hate how it turns out after…” Kenny parts the clipper’s shiny blades, looking pensive. “…I’ll let you wear my hat for the day.”

Levi’s eyes widen into dinnerplates.

“But you’re on your own after that. Find some way to style it.”

She bites her lip. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Kenny parts her hair into sections, split with more bobby-pins. “This shit’s desperate for a cut. You can’t go around lookin’ like a slob, Midget. No one’ll take you seriously.”

Midget?

“I’m not a midget, and I know. I’m not deaf,” she grumbles. Kenny tells her that most of all, how important being respected is.

“Nah, you are. Now sit still.”

“Asshole.”

He ignores her, and so it begins: one snip, then two, then six, seven, eight. The whole idea as far as her bangs go is to make it so she can see better. She doesn’t have any choice in that.

“Well?” Kenny is asking from her side. “Use that mouth a’ yours. Whaddya want?”

Her lips press. She can’t think of anything specific. “...I want it to be a raven.”

“Raven?” Kenny laughs in her face. “What kinda hair is that?”

Levi shrugs, glaring down at the black strands littering the floor, and screws her nose up. She’s thankful she has proper shoes now. “That’s what Mama used to say I am.”

A scoff sounds over the snipping.

“…I guess it doesn’t mean nothin’.”

“Anything. Talk right. People’ll look down on you if you sound like an idiot.”

“Shit. Sorry.”

“You better not’ve used that shit mouth around your mother. A proper lady like her never woulda spoke that way.”

Levi feels angry heat twist her twist. “Duh... That’s how you talk.”

Kenny barks a giant laugh. “Great, then. Ya learned it from me! Most people are babies, brat. Talk some shit, and you’ll get a lot more heads turning than some ‘educated’ noble pigs.”

“Got it.”

“And don’t apologize for some shit that doesn't matter. You fuck up, you fix your mistake and move on.”

“Got it.”

More raven is pushed behind Levi’s skinny shoulders, gets chopped, then lands, tickling her hand. She shakes the pieces off.

“You’re not a bad kid, Shorty. Just stupid. Good thing ol’ Kenny the Ripper’s here to show you up from down, huh?” he laughs.

Levi doesn’t know what to say to that, so she seals her lips and just doesn’t say sorry again. She’ll get smart, then. She’ll learn everything, and hit hard without trying, just like him.

Kenny’s rough voice again breaks through the snipping once he’s done with the back of Levi’s head. It’s weird, just feeling air there.

She feels it. It’s shaved down to peach fuzz, actually, until she reaches up a little more. It’s like a blanket.

“Look, kid.”

She looks up at Kenny’s grizzled face. For once, he looks serious.

“You knew your mother better than I did, so—”

She frowns. “I thought you were friends.”

“Hey.” He shoves her head down. “Don’t interrupt while the teacher’s fuckin’ teaching.”

Kenny glides the blade up and over Levi’s ear, shaving more raven way down. “I could’ve been a better friend. You be good to your friends, Levi, or the wrong ones’ll come up and kill ya one day. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“I don’t know half a shit about what she coulda meant by ‘raven’,” he muses. “That’s gonna have to be up to you. So you take that stupid raven and run with it, alright?”

His eyes pierce Levi’s. “Got it?”

Levi has never seen a raven in real life, but she knows what Mama meant by it. Black hair. Maybe short: pictures of ravens have short hair. Clean, so it shines.

She gathers her wits again and looks Kenny back in the eye.

“Got it.”

“Walls, Levi.” Farlan’s anger is betrayed by the urgency thick in his voice. “Work with me here!”

Bracing his middle—where bright wet red has soaked his shirt in one sweeping, solid arc—climbing up the steps to the hideout, plus shoving Farlan away all at the same time isn’t working out. His mind rocks, high and hazy, inside his skull.

“Asshole just got lucky,” Levi grunts, giving Farlan another weak push.

“You’re so full of it.”

“Tch.”

They toddle up more stairs, Farlan’s arm like personal handcuffs around his waist.

If Levi really wanted to knock him away, he could. Just, the crazed look in Farlan’s (bruising) eye is something he’s never seen on him. He isn’t about to be in some real trouble, but if he can’t get Farlan to believe that, convincing Isabel will be impossible.

She didn’t join them this time. Fact is, she’s still new, still a little brat, and probably still sleeping off that cold—another one.

No matter how often she comes down with the sniffles, it never fails to make Levi jittery, like he has a hundred tasks to get done without knowing what any of them are. Hence the random “shopping trip”.

Asshole just got lucky.

Now clear of the top step, Levi shakes Farlan away, for real this time, and gets support from his own two feet. He wavers a little as he jabs the key in the lock, breathing labored, but doesn’t fall. To Farlan’s credit, Levi has lost some blood, but nothing vital was scraped.

“Take care of the girl,” Levi says under his breath. “Fucks sakes, Farlan. You’re a nervous wreck.”

“She’s asleep.”

“Yeah.” Levi calmly opens the door. “But she hasn’t eaten dinner, now has she? Feed her.”

Farlan actually growls. He steps in behind Levi and slams his hand down on the door, banging it against the wall.

Sneering, Levi whirls around and glares daggers at him. He doesn’t have the energy to lecture him for denting their wall.

Farlan looks more serious than he has since Levi has known him, which is saying something.

“You’ve never gotten hit this bad, Lev’.”

“Exactly. Which is why you shouldn’t be treating this like it’s the end of the world.”

Farlan ignores him, and brushes past him into the pristine kitchen in search of first-aid.

“And why? You never told me that part.”

Levi did. He glowers in the mouth of the kitchen, his fingers tacky with blood. “She’s sick, idiot.”

“I remember the things I was up to at her age, and I bet you do too. People like us’re fighters. We aren’t helpless,” Farlan goes on ranting. “Izzy included.”

Levi joins him in fishing in the cabinets for that little white box. “I’m on my death bed, or like you say, and you plan to tell me another story about your old gang?”

“That’s not my point.”

Levi huffs, and winces with his neck craned up. Only Farlan would’ve put it up that high.

“Hey,” Levi grunts, and nods towards it.

Farlan grabs it for him, but before he can do anything else, Levi snatches it out of his hand, and retreats to the dining table for a place to sit.

He sighs like the weight of the world is being exhaled through his nose. “...Sorry about the wall, Levi.”

“Worry about it later.”

Levi plants himself in a seat, biting on a wince. Pulling his hand back from his belly, he huffs. Red. Strings of blood are even clotted dark, dark maroon—proof that they spent too much time arguing about the blood at all.

Farlan plants a hand on his hip. “But look: Isabel isn’t a little kid. She says so all the time.”

“Little kids will say all sorts of shit,” Levi corrects him, unwrapping gauze. “Kids are dumb. That’s why we’re here.”

Farlan scoffs. “The outcome of that really depends on the teacher.”

Teeth grit, winds some coarse gauze around his hand and presses down through his shirt-turned-blood-rag. “Just be glad she’s got someone. Women have it a lot worse down here than men, and they get a lot worse things done to them, too. Don’t tell me—”

Barefeet stomp down the hallway. Isabel appears in the doorway and aggressively stamps one foot down. “I can hear you screaming all the way from my bed, you guys! What’s the big idea!?“

Levi’s eyes harden for a different reason as he moves to cover his middle. The girl still has sleep crud in her eyes, for fucksakes. The sight of him as he is now isn’t a pretty sight to wake up to.

“Glad you asked, Izz,” Farlan says conversationally.

Levi shoots the most fatal glare at the side of Farlan’s head that he can manage. “You shut up, Farlan, if you still want use of your arms five seconds from now.”

Not only is this slip-up not a big deal, but they don’t know who Levi really is, or is pretending to be.

Levi has mastered the art of mimicking a man without question: lowering his voice like a man’s, talking like a man, and dressing so nothing would show—especially when his body started changing.

Seeing how the lucky hit from the “pharmacist”’s (he’s more of a smuggler from the Surface than anything) hired muscle nicked his chest wraps, he’s a little surprised Farlan hasn’t already noticed. Without them, he still doesn’t show much, but still.

Farlan, it turns out, doesn’t need to say a word for Isabel to come stomping into the kitchen. She gets one look at Levi, then does a double take.

Levi sighs, bites back a cringe. “Brat, go back to bed. I’m fine.”

Her eyes grow into the size of dinnerplates at the sight of him. Blood has oozed between his fingers and drips down into his lap.

She’s smart enough to know she won’t get a straight answer out of Levi.

“Farlan.” She whirls around towards him, fists tight by her sides. “Who got bro!? Is he gonna be okay?”

Suddenly, Farlan is on Levi’s side in all this. “He's gonna be fine, Izzy.”

“No! That's not good enough! Where did you two even go?”

That cold of hers seems to have worn itself out on its own, at least. More medicine for next time, then.

While Isabel rants to Farlan, who is doing his damndest to get one word in, Levi presses thick, folded gauze firmer against his belly, through his shirt. Maybe taking it off isn’t necessary.

He holds his breath as fire tears through the injury, causing the world to once again wobble.

Dammit. It’ll take more fight than Levi has left in him to shoo them somewhere away. Isabel is in hysterics.

“You shoulda told me!” Isabel is screaming through tears up at Farlan (she’s even a little shorter than Levi). “I coulda helped!”

Farlan gapes. “You were passed out, sick.”

“That doesn't matter!”

“What’s exactly the point of getting you medicine if you go out with us and die anyway?”

“But you’d both be there! You wouldn’t—"

“Both of you!” Levi cuts in. “Either shut up or take your fight somewhere else. I’m busy.”

Their own little argument bubble pops. Isabel steps to Levi like Farlan just disappeared into thin air, and yanks the first-aid kit towards her.

“You're gonna need more gauze than that,” she whines. “Levi, you're really hurt.”

Farlan agrees. “Look, you were right. Isabel’s okay, so it’s your turn now. Could you take off your shirt so we can have a look?"

Levi protectively clutches the collar of his shirt and considers Isabel's grabby hands.

Nudity is no concern. He has given Isabel plenty of baths in the past (in order to teach her how to clean up properly), and rushing water in the Underground is just a fairytale; only a few first-rate brothels can afford private bathrooms.

It’s not entirely because of his pride, either. It’s the other thing.

Then, Isabel whimpers. Her eyes are two green fishbowls full of tears. “Don’t do this, bro. Let us help.”

She’s right. The longer he goes on without properly stopping the blood, it will grow serious. No choice, it seems.

Levi pinches the bridge of his nose with his clean hand, sighs. “Farlan, gauze. Izz, c’mere.”

Farlan does as Levi asks—though not without muttering, “Finally, you see reason,” under his breath—and so does Isabel.

She crouches down and immediately goes about working the hem of Levi’s shirt free of his waistband. The cotton is plastered to his skin where the injury is deepest, winding up to the right of his navel; his body has clotted some of the blood already.

Before she can slowly peel it past his belly, Levi’s hand lands around her wrist. “Hey, stop for a second. You’re about to learn something about me that’s gonna surprise you. I’m warning you.”

Isabel’s lips press. “You’re so dramatic. It’s fine.” She slaps his hand away.

More gauze and a flask of whiskey to disinfect in hand, Farlan crouches at Levi’s other side. “We’ll worry about surprises when that blood’s under control.”

Fine, then. They’re both completely oblivious, but fine.

Once he’s able, Levi works with Isabel to tug his tunic-turned-blood-rag up and over his head. He keeps wary of stains. Meanwhile, a line of gauze lands over the highest part of his wound, at the bottom of his sternum, as soon as it’s exposed, causing Levi to grunt.

The shirt lands on the table with a wet splat.

Levi covers his breasts with one arm, jaw grit so hard his teeth grind. His waist is still in plain sight, how curvy it is.

“Oh,” Isabel says.

What’s left of the bandages is a mangled mess of cloth that immediately sags down around his lap; it’s partly bloody. Levi tugs them away like nothing has happened, not looking at either of them.

“Huh?” Farlan tears his eyes away from the problem at a hand—“Oh, shit!”—then slaps his arm over his eyes, like he’s been blinded. “Levi, you have—"

Levi gives him a swift kick in the shin. Farlan is lucky this is serious, else he would’ve landed that kick somewhere else.

“That isn’t news to me, you idiot. Don’t get too excited.”

“No!—That’s not what I—!” Farlan seems to be waging an internal war of whether to pull his hand off Levi’s navel or not. “I just didn't expect that.”

“I warned you,” he hisses. “I thought we were worrying about surprises after the blood was under control.”

“I just don't want to... disrespect, or...”

“You’re both idiots,” Isabel softly retorts as she pours whiskey onto a bandage. “Get ready.”

He does, and squeezes his eyes shut with his head turned as she cleans the wound. The sting, high and bright, zaps through his blood, but he takes it.

Farlan doesn’t move, and no one speaks. After settling between Levi’s legs, Isabel gets to work wrapping up his small waist. He holds the bandages in place, his silent breaths quaking.

She goes on. “Warning is stupid, ‘cause…” Her eyes flicker up to Levi's pink face, “I get why. ‘N it's still bro. And you—!“ She reaches, and tears Farlan’s elbow off his eyes, “Quit being weird and just help."

Levi pins his tongue between his teeth and feels his face heat even more. He wasn’t sure what to expect here, but he certainly didn’t predict Isabel being the mature one in this situation.

It feels... nice.

“Okay. Okay.” Farlan squints at first, then takes smaller, sticky bandages out of the kit.

Promptly, Levi shifts his hold so Farlan can do his thing. “Thanks, I guess, for your weird way of respecting me.”

“Ha-ha... Sure. It’s worse down here for women,” Farlan says quietly. “And with you being the strongest, it makes sense, you wanting to keep an image. I just didn’t expect it. I never would've guessed, honestly. You hide it well.”

Frowning, Levi pins his cleavage down a little more. His belly is screaming in agony. “Women can be strong just like some men’re weak. It’s how I’m perceived by them that matters to me.”

“Mm,” Isabel agrees, then glances. Farlan is beet red. “You’ve been acting really weird. What, you never seen a woman’s body before, Far’?”

Farlan’s eyes widen comically. “What?”

“Or have you realized something about your feelings toward our bro?”

Levi’s eyes grow a touch wide. “Don��t you dare answer that, you pervert.”

“Ha!” Isabel cackles. “You hear that? Don’t be a pervert, Farlan! Bro will kick your ass."

Teeth grit, Farlan gets to work sliding clips onto the bandages that will keep them in place. To the tips of his ears, he’s blushing madly. Harder than Levi, even.

He shakes his head. “I heard.”

Levi feels himself relax, looking away from his friends despite himself. A sudden sense of wrongness hit him over the head when Isabel blatantly called his body, him, a woman. That feels right in his head and in his heart, like a large bird rising up inside his chest.

He hasn’t heard himself be referred to that way in a long, long time.

As much as he appreciates the sentiment, it tastes bitter, too. Considering his total disinterest in all things—relationships, sex, and any closer family than these two—that would lead to his nature becoming a secret thing he can find comfort in, considering his total lack of options, how natural it has become to fake it—

It’s going to be a long, long time before he feels this way again.

If ever.

“Levi?” you say gently through the closet door. “How’s it going?”

Levi glares at her own reflection in the long mirror, which casts an image of her own body back at her, and then some. Her lips tug downwards.

Shooting a glance at the assortment of outfits she bought, and some you encouraged her to buy, she frowns even deeper, because none of them look right suddenly—even the summer dress she has on now, which was her favorite in the shop.

It hugs her waist and chest just right, as do the straps hang onto her small frame. The hems, several hues lighter than the main cerulean color, flow around the bottoms of her thighs where she steps, as if the fabric itself was flowing. Sky-blue brings out the color of her eyes, but she just. Can’t. Seem to...

“Levi, sweetheart?” Your voice is as gentle as a breeze.

“I’m not dying in here... Just give me a second.”

It has been several minutes of this.

Levi lets her arm fall from her full chest. Even after joining the Scouts, she never truly stopped binding her chest until you started to encourage her.

She decided to always keep her same hairstyle, though. The short, neat cut represents her mother in a way she could never part with—even though it wouldn’t suit a woman. What upsets her is the stark contrast it makes in her appearance.

And her hands. Her mother’s hands were always silky soft, even dainty, but Levi’s aren’t. Hers are torn by violence. Scarred. Tough.

“I changed my mind,” she tells you dryly through the door. "I’m not putting anyone through the disgust of seeing me like this.”

“Can you at least put me through it...?”

She snorts softly at the way your question ends on a hopeful high note.

Forget the outfit for a moment.

Levi steps closer to the mirror and admires the thick lines of eyeliner you drew on for her. You even groomed her brows, and painted on a pale shade of pink lipstick for her. She had forgotten too much from her early years with her mom “playing princess”.

No earrings. Her ears aren’t pierced, and the idea of wearing clip-ons feels pathetic, even though she did it all the time as a little girl.

She swallows an ugly shame, blinking a time or two. “W-What did you say?”

“Can I see, please?”

“Yeah," she replies. “As long as you’re not taking no for an answer.”

A soft sigh, muffled. “After doing something one way almost your whole life, even if you hated it, it’s hard to change... even though it feels right now. Princess?”

She shuts her eyes as a bright thrill shoots up like a firework in her belly. This whole back-and-forth is petty of her, she knows—mostly it’s unfair to you—but this echo chamber inside her is loud and encompassing. But rusting.

“Yeah?”

“If you decide you want to stop all this, at least for today, it’s fine. I won’t judge you, sweetheart."

Levi bites the inside of her cheek so as to not let the way she feels show on her face, but fails. “I know.”

And she does.

All this, it’s a new development since she allowed you to start helping her in ways she once accepted were helpless. Who she is, who she was, who she is not.

Certain mannerisms—the way she sits down, that straight walk than doesn’t sway her hips, the unconscious lowering of her voice when she speaks—they won’t go away, or not without a lot of fight.

But then she agonizes over how useful these mannerisms really are: the Underground is far behind her, but she remains in a position of important power.

She realizes it’s a shitty way to think, but she doesn’t know how to believe that being the way she wants will earn her the respect the opposite has always guaranteed her.

When Levi is with you, however, all this agony drops off into the background. Affection, attention, touch—it’s so simple for you. She doesn’t feel the need to perform mental gymnastics to fit into a category around you.

She is confused enough on her own as it is.

The sweet names you save just for her, the reverent brush of your palm across her cheek, and it being you, whom she admires so much, treating her in such a way; not like a man acting the part of a woman, not even like a woman acting the part of a man—but as Levi.

It is enough.

For once, it is enough.

Stepping away from the mirror once more, she glances down at her pale, shaven legs. They look to her like a bunch of bony, hard lines to her, but you think differently: you like to point out how long they are, how toned, how thick.

The garters are the color of midnight, in stark contrast to her summer dress, are felt lace. The thin fabric squeezes the soft muscles of her mid-thighs just right, but your opinion on those are worth more to her than her own.

Levi’s hand falls on the doorknob, and turns.

Delighted surprise lights up your features to see her, followed by your look darkening into something much more saccharine.

“Wow,” you murmur, eyes gleaming, which floods Levi full of confidence.

Using that, she sets her hands down around your waist and eyes the collar of your blouse, which has evidently been loosened since she slipped into the closet to change.

“Don’t look so starstruck,” she murmurs. “I couldn’t even pick what shoes to wear... you better not expect me to dress up as well those noble women.”

Her eyes are torn from your collar to your face when you scoop her chin up. Desire oozes off your expression.

Her heart flutters, then soar as two warm palms settle on either side of her full hips.

“Is it...” Levi trails off. “Tell me honestly. Do I look fine?”

Your lip quirks to one side. “Fine? Look at you...”

Your soft lips kiss her on the mouth, trailing down her jaw, causing Levi to huff. Her hand dives into your hair.

“Sorry,” you murmur by her ear. “I just don’t wanna mess up my pretty girl's lipstick, that’s all.”

Levi’s lower half warms to life. Softly she gasps, feeling her face heat. “You better mean that,” she snips as she plays with your blouse’s trimmed hems, knowing. It just reassures her to hear it, to hear you call her your girl.

“I’ll prove it to you, if you want.”

While your soft lips leave a trail down the slope of her neck, Levi’s hand glide up under your top. No bra, just your bouncy, full tits she swallows into her palm. Her clit throbs dully.

“You… really know how to flatter a woman,” she huffs roughly.

“A woman like you?”

Her eyes snap shut. “Yes.”

“Don’t close your eyes,” you murmur, soft and low. “Tell me, how much do I flatter you?”

Levi whines under her breath. She thought the heat of your palm on the back of her thigh, endlessly snapping her garter back was maddening. But now that same hand drifts up between her thighs from the back, lifting light cerulean cotton to expose her delicate pair of sheer panties.

“You look gorgeous in white,” you murmur. “I knew you made a good choice.”

It’s her favorite color.

You stroke her swollen slit tenderly through the thin fabric—just enough to make her flutter, but not enough to please her.

“Fuck,” Levi whispers over your shoulder, clinging.

“This wet already?” You pull up on the hem above her toned ass so it’s taught and tight, and push and pull. Lace slides through her slit and rubs her clit just right.

“Fuck.”

“You’re so sensitive,” you muse, as if your panties weren’t dampening just from doing this to her.

With one hand still working her panties, the other pushes underneath, and effortlessly buries two fingers into her soft pussy.

“Fuck!” Levi gasps. It’s the only thing she can say. Her balance on her own two feet wavers.

You hum shakily her ear, circling her fluttering rim in time with your pull on her panties for her precious clit. “You didn't answer me. How much am I flattering you, Levi?”

“Why the fuck are we still standing here?” she complains. That’s your girl. “You can flatter me b-by fucking me. Properly.”

You relish her heavy breathing by your ear, and the way she can’t even focus to flick your hard nipples any longer. All her energy is going into staying standing.

Her pussy clenches as you piston your fingers with ease, deep inside. So tight.

An urgent hiss of your name vibrates against the shade of your neck.

“Is this not properly fucking?” You’re now fully supporting her with one arm hooked around her waist. You give it to her harder. “Your pussy seems to think so.”

“Mm...!”

Holding her waist means pinning the loose swoops of her dress to the small of her back. Little does Levi know, you get to admire her through your reflections in the mirror. Even though you can’t watch your fingers, now oozing with her cum, push in and out of her, those garters (one size too small), her tight ass, her pretty panties—those are all for your eyes.

Her soft, soaked cunt starts to gush, but you have needs too.

“‘m gonna make you come, okay, angel?"

Levi gasps as your fingers curl in deep, scraping that perfect spot, gaping.

“Y-Yeah? Then what?” she squeaks.

You hiss under your breath, your own pussy fluttering around nothing. The attitude Levi still has in her despite you being knuckle-deep in her cunt in front of your closet door does sinful things to you.

“Anything you want.”

“Wanna, make you come,” Levi speaks faintly by your ear. “Be...”

“Uh-huh? Want you to say it.”

She shudders a soundless moan as you slam them inside, her back curling into perfect arch—just as your knees were starting to grow wobbly.

“Levi,” you moan softly.

She whimpers, so quiet you can barely hear. “B-Be your princess.”

“Good girl.”

You shift, just enough for your thigh to scrape her clit. The heat you feel on your cotton pantleg is searing, then soaking wet.

“Ngh.” Levi’s hips twitch until she finds a rhythm, smearing her clit down in quick, rapid motions.

You firmly fuck three fingers into her tightening cunt. She’s getting close.

“When you make me me come, you’re gonna be smearing your pretty lipstick on my clit.” You curl your fingers. “How’s that sound, baby?”

“Good,” she moans.

That’s your girl.

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istumpysk · 2 years

Text

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ASOS: Daenerys VI (Chapter 71)

Jon imprisoned, accused of being a traitor -> Tyrion imprisoned, accused of treason -> Daenerys, and her two deceitful knights.

Meereen had a score of lesser pyramids, but none stood even half as tall. From here she could see the whole city: the narrow twisty alleys and wide brick streets, the temples and granaries, hovels and palaces, brothels and baths, gardens and fountains, the great red circles of the fighting pits. And beyond the walls was the pewter sea, the winding Skahazadhan, the dry brown hills, burnt orchards, and blackened fields. Up here in her garden Dany sometimes felt like a god, living atop the highest mountain in the world.

Do all gods feel so lonely? Some must, surely.

Only one direction to go from here, God.

+.+.+

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

You'd think I would like this about Daenerys, but she prays at the Church of House Targaryen, so she gets no credit from me.

+.+.+

One day she hoped to see this fabled isle of Naath. Missandei said the Peaceful People made music instead of war. They did not kill, not even animals; they ate only fruit and never flesh. The butterfly spirits sacred to their Lord of Harmony protected their isle against those who would do them harm. Many conquerors had sailed on Naath to blood their swords, only to sicken and die. The butterflies do not help them when the slave ships come raiding, though.

I hope you find the time!

+.+.+

Today she wore a robe of purple samite and a silver sash, and on her head the three-headed dragon crown the Tourmaline Brotherhood had given her in Qarth. Her slippers were silver as well

Neat, a Targaryen dressed like a Targaryen. The author is always so mindful of these things.

+.+.+

When she was dressed, Missandei brought her a polished silver glass so she could see how she looked. Dany stared at herself in silence. Is this the face of a conqueror? So far as she could tell, she still looked like a little girl.

Look, she's like her fandom on tumblr.

Perhaps try examining your actions, not your face.

+.+.+

Aegon the Conqueror had won Westeros with three dragons, but she had taken Meereen with sewer rats and a wooden cock, in less than a day. Poor Groleo. He still grieved for his ship, she knew. If a war galley could ram another ship, why not a gate? That had been her thought when she commanded the captains to drive their ships ashore. Their masts had become her battering rams, and swarms of freedmen had torn their hulls apart to build mantlets, turtles, catapults, and ladders. The sellswords had given each ram a bawdy name, and it had been the mainmast of Meraxes—formerly Joso's Prank—that had broken the eastern gate. Joso's Cock, they called it.

[...]

She heard the city fall from half a league away, though, when the defenders' shouts of defiance changed to cries of fear. Her dragons had roared as one in that moment, filling the night with flame. The slaves are rising, she knew at once. My sewer rats have gnawed off their chains.

When the last resistance had been crushed by the Unsullied and the sack had run its course, Dany entered her city. The dead were heaped so high before the broken gate that it took her freedmen near an hour to make a path for her silver. Joso's Cock and the great wooden turtle that had protected it, covered with horsehides, lay abandoned within.

Please don't tell me she used a turtle. Bwah!

My sewer rats have gnawed off their chains? Nice.

+.+.+

"How many?" one old woman had asked, sobbing. "How many must you have to spare us?"

"One hundred and sixty-three," she answered.

She had them nailed to wooden posts around the plaza, each man pointing at the next. The anger was fierce and hot inside her when she gave the command; it made her feel like an avenging dragon. But later, when she passed the men dying on the posts, when she heard their moans and smelled their bowels and blood . . .

Dany put the glass aside, frowning. It was just. It was. I did it for the children.

+.+.+

Her bloodriders were waiting for her. Silver bells tinkled in their oiled braids, and they wore the gold and jewels of dead men.

The iron price!

+.+.+

Daario and Ben Plumm, Grey Worm, Irri, Jhiqui, Missandei . . . as she looked at them Dany found herself wondering which of them would betray her next.

G. All of the above.

+.+.+

The dragon has three heads. There are two men in the world who I can trust, if I can find them. I will not be alone then. We will be three against the world, like Aegon and his sisters.

Regardless of who you think these two men will be, this is going to be hilarious.

Sorry, off topic. Quick question. What's the cost of a fleet?

+.+.+

She was pleased. Meereen had been sacked savagely, as new-fallen cities always were, but Dany was determined that should end now that the city was hers. She had decreed that murderers were to be hanged, that looters were to lose a hand, and rapists their manhood. Eight killers swung from the walls, and the Unsullied had filled a bushel basket with bloody hands and soft red worms, but Meereen was calm again.

If you think this is appropriate punishment, ask yourself if Bran would give the same order.

+.+.+

"We will rid ourselves of the corpses, then. Starting with those in the plaza below. Grey Worm, will you see to it?"

"The queen commands, these ones obey."

"Best bring sacks as well as shovels, Worm," Brown Ben counseled. "Well past ripe, those ones. Falling off those poles in bits and pieces, and crawling with . . ."

"He knows. So do I." Dany remembered the horror she had felt when she had seen the Plaza of Punishment in Astapor. I made a horror just as great, but surely they deserved it. Harsh justice is still justice.

Haa, she doesn't like to be reminded of it.

Didn't I just talk about two characters who are similar?

+.+.+

"My name is Ghael. I bring greetings to the Mother of Dragons from King Cleon of Astapor, Cleon the Great."

Dany stiffened. "I left a council to rule Astapor. A healer, a scholar, and a priest."

"Your Worship, those sly rogues betrayed your trust. It was revealed that they were scheming to restore the Good Masters to power and the people to chains. Great Cleon exposed their plots and hacked their heads off with a cleaver, and the grateful folk of Astapor have crowned him for his valor."

[...]

Missandei leaned close to Dany. "He was a butcher in Grazdan's kitchen," the girl whispered in her ear. "It was said he could slaughter a pig faster than any man in Astapor."

I have given Astapor a butcher king.

Shocking developments. I think we all assumed that would be a seamless transition.

+.+.+

Dany felt ill, but she knew she must not let the envoy see it. "I will pray that King Cleon rules well and wisely. What would he have of me?

Is this sly shade from the author, directed at Daenerys for putting no thought into how Astapor should be governed?

Why yes, I think it is.

"You see that at the end of the ['Lord of the Rings'] books, when Sauron has been defeated and Aragorn is king," Martin told the Advance. "It's easy to type, 'he ruled wisely and well,' but what does that constitute?" - George R. R. Martin

+.+.+

Great Cleon bid me tell you not to be afraid. Astapor remembers. Astapor will not forsake you.

LMAO.

+.+.+

All my victories turn to dross in my hands, she thought. Whatever I do, all I make is death and horror.

Yes.

+.+.+

When word of what had befallen Astapor reached the streets, as it surely would, tens of thousands of newly freed Meereenese slaves would doubtless decide to follow her when she went west, for fear of what awaited them if they stayed . . . yet it might well be that worse would await them on the march. Even if she emptied every granary in the city and left Meereen to starve, how could she feed so many?

Since the Red Waste, food scarcity has been a dominant theme in her story. I never noticed.

+.+.+

The thing that surprised Dany most was how unsurprised she was. She found herself remembering Eroeh, the Lhazarene girl she had once tried to protect, and what had happened to her. It will be the same in Meereen once I march, she thought. The slaves from the fighting pits, bred and trained to slaughter, were already proving themselves unruly and quarrelsome. They seemed to think they owned the city now, and every man and woman in it. Two of them had been among the eight she'd hanged.

It's okay, these aren't the prized slaves.

+.+.+

"We have no slaves for sale," said Dany.

"My queen?" Daario stepped forward. "The riverside is full of Meereenese, begging leave to be allowed to sell themselves to this Qartheen. They are thicker than the flies."

Dany was shocked. "They want to be slaves?"

+.+.+

Perhaps it was not so shocking, if these tales of Astapor were true. Dany thought a moment. "Any man who wishes to sell himself into slavery may do so. Or woman." She raised a hand. "But they may not sell their children, nor a man his wife."

"In Astapor the city took a tenth part of the price, each time a slave changed hands," Missandei told her.

"We'll do the same," Dany decided. Wars were won with gold as much as swords. "A tenth part. In gold or silver coin, or ivory. Meereen has no need of saffron, cloves, or zorse hides."

Uh oh, lmfao.

Wait!

"It is a tax on whoring," said Tyrion, irritated all over again. And it was my bloody father's notion. "Only a penny for each, ah . . . act. The King's Hand felt it might help improve the morals of the city." And pay for Joffrey's wedding besides. Needless to say, as master of coin, Tyrion had gotten all the blame for it. Bronn said they were calling it the dwarf's penny in the streets. - Tyrion V, ASOS

CALL IT MHYSA'S TENTH.

+.+.+

Yet the thought of seeing Jorah Mormont again made her feel as if she'd swallowed a spoonful of flies; angry, agitated, sick. She could almost feel them buzzing round her belly.

This chapter has no business being this funny.

Daenerys has flies in her belly! Same chapter:

"Flies are the dead man's revenge." Daario smiled, and stroked the center prong of his beard. "Corpses breed maggots, and maggots breed flies." - Daenerys VI, ASOS

Aww. :(

+.+.+

Ser Jorah's mouth tightened. "We won you this city. We sewer rats."

All hail rats who win.

+.+.+

A few of the freedmen were frightened of the huge rats until Strong Belwas caught one and bit it in two.

Better hope he makes it to the end, Daenerys.

+.+.+

"Some truths are hard to hear. Robert was a . . . a good knight . . . chivalrous, brave . . . he spared my life, and the lives of many others . . . Prince Viserys was only a boy, it would have been years before he was fit to rule, and . . . forgive me, my queen, but you asked for truth . . . even as a child, your brother Viserys oft seemed to be his father's son, in ways that Rhaegar never did."

"His father's son?" Dany frowned. "What does that mean?"

The old knight did not blink. "Your father is called 'the Mad King' in Westeros. Has no one ever told you?"

"Viserys did." The Mad King. "The Usurper called him that, the Usurper and his dogs." The Mad King. "It was a lie."

"Why ask for truth," Ser Barristan said softly, "if you close your ears to it?"

Seemed to be his father's son? Did that concern you?

Remember how Barristan initially planned to offer his sword to Viserys? Stumpy remembers.

He was a good knight but a bad king, for he had no right to the throne he sat. That was when I knew that to redeem myself I must find the true king, and serve him loyally with all the strength that still remained me."

"My brother Viserys." - Daenerys II, ADWD

I can't stand this guy. I hate characters like this more than the bad guys.

+.+.+

The truth is, I wanted to watch you for a time before pledging you my sword. To make certain that you were not . . ."

". . . my father's daughter?" If she was not her father's daughter, who was she?

". . . mad," he finished. "But I see no taint in you."

Barristan Selmy, well known for his strong judge of character.

He was his father's son. Wasn't he? Wasn't he? - Jon VI, ACOK

A Lannister is not a lion. Yet I am still my father's son - Tyrion I, ADWD

One of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn't belong.

+.+.+

King Jaehaerys once told me that madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. Every time a new Targaryen is born, he said, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.

Why put this here if all the remaining Targaryens are good?

Are they hoping Aegon VI is the mad one? Lol, good luck.

+.+.+

"Snakes? And what are you, ser?" Something unspeakable occurred to her. "You told them I was carrying Drogo's child . . ."

"Khaleesi . . ."

"Do not think to deny it, ser," Ser Barristan said sharply. "I was there when the eunuch told the council, and Robert decreed that Her Grace and her child must die. You were the source, ser. There was even talk that you might do the deed, for a pardon."

[...]

"I . . . I but suspected . . . the caravan brought a letter from Varys, he warned me there would be attempts. He wanted you watched, yes, but not harmed." He went to his knees. "If I had not told them someone else would have. You know that."

Varys wanted her watched, not killed.

Bet he'll regret that one.

+.+.+

"I never meant . . . forgive me. You have to forgive me."

"Have to?" It was too late. He should have begun by begging forgiveness. She could not pardon him as she'd intended. She had dragged the wineseller behind her horse until there was nothing left of him. Didn't the man who brought him deserve the same?

That wouldn't be the first time you brutally punished others, while overlooking the same crime committed by Jorah Mormont.

+.+.+

"Daenerys," he said, "I have loved you."

And there it was. Three treasons will you know. Once for blood and once for gold and once for love.

Stupid, how is that a betrayal for love? God, she's so bad at this, I love it.

+.+.+

"The queen has a good heart," Daario purred through his deep purple whiskers, "but that one is more dangerous than all the Oznaks and Meros rolled up in one." His strong hands caressed the hilts of his matched blades, those wanton golden women.

Interesting little sequence there.

"What if he met another woman, some princess of the Lhazarene?" - Daenerys II, ADWD

I'm building a theory!

+.+.+

There was no sign of Viserion, but when she went to the parapet and scanned the horizon she saw pale wings in the far distance, sweeping above the river. He is hunting. They grow bolder every day. Yet it still made her anxious when they flew too far away. One day one of them may not return, she thought.

Someone will get Viserion, I know it in my heart.

+.+.+

Jaehaerys. This old man knew my grandfather. The thought gave her pause. Most of what she knew of Westeros had come from her brother, and the rest from Ser Jorah. Ser Barristan would have forgotten more than the two of them had ever known. This man can tell me what I came from.

Bring me the book I was reading last night." She wanted to lose herself in the words, in other times and other places. The fat leather-bound volume was full of songs and stories from the Seven Kingdoms. Children's stories, if truth be told; too simple and fanciful to be true history. All the heroes were tall and handsome, and you could tell the traitors by their shifty eyes. Yet she loved them all the same. Last night she had been reading of the three princesses in the red tower, locked away by the king for the crime of being beautiful.

"A knight of the Kingsguard is in the king's presence day and night. For that reason, our vows require us to protect his secrets as we would his life. But your father's secrets by rights belong to you now, along with his throne, and . . . I thought perhaps you might have questions for me."

Questions? She had a hundred questions, a thousand, ten thousand. Why couldn't she think of one? "Was my father truly mad?" she blurted out. Why do I ask that? "Viserys said this talk of madness was a ploy of the Usurper's . . ."

"Viserys was a child, and the queen sheltered him as much as she could. Your father always had a little madness in him, I now believe. Yet he was charming and generous as well, so his lapses were forgiven. His reign began with such promise . . . but as the years passed, the lapses grew more frequent, until . . ."

Dany stopped him. "Do I want to hear this now?"

[...]

"When you are ready, I will tell you all."

Do you ever get the sense that Daenerys doesn't actually give a shit about learning real Targaryen history?

Let's ask the author.

Martin is good at keeping secrets, but he does offer up one tidbit—a reminder that the royal Daenerys Targaryen was given the histories of her world as a wedding gift but neglected to read them. - Vulture, 2014

This is a book that Daenerys might actually benefit from reading, but she has no access to Archermaester Gyldayn’s crumbling manuscripts. So she’s operating on her own there. Maybe if she understood a few things more about dragons and her own history in Essos, things would have gone a little differently. - Esquire, 2018

Thought so.

Anyway,

Yet he was charming and generous as well, so his lapses were forgiven. His reign began with such promise

Hello??

+.+.+

Later, when the time came for sleep, Dany took Irri into bed with her, for the first time since the ship. But even as she shuddered in release and wound her fingers through her handmaid's thick black hair, she pretended it was Drogo holding her . . . only somehow his face kept turning into Daario's. If I want Daario I need only say so. She lay with Irri's legs entangled in her own. His eyes looked almost purple today . . .

[...]

A cool breeze was blowing through the open terrace doors. Irri slept soundly beside her, her lips slightly parted, one dark brown nipple peeping out above the sleeping silks. For a moment Dany was tempted, but it was Drogo she wanted, or perhaps Daario. Not Irri. The maid was sweet and skillful, but all her kisses tasted of duty.

Sorry, what happened to you not wanting a bed slave?

Dany stepped away from her. "No. Irri, you do not need to do that. What happened that night, when you woke . . . you're no bed slave, I freed you, remember? You . . ."

"I am handmaid to the Mother of Dragons," the girl said. "It is great honor to please my khaleesi."

"I don't want that," she insisted. "I don't." She turned away sharply. "Leave me now. I want to be alone. To think." - Daenerys II, ASOS

Gross. You're gross.

Second time she thinks about those almost purple eyes.

Daario had plundered himself a whole new wardrobe in Meereen, and to match it he had redyed his trident beard and curly hair a deep rich purple. It made his eyes look almost purple too, as if he were some lost Valyrian.

Gives me hope the other two heads of the dragon won't actually be Valyrian. :D

+.+.+

She was Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, khaleesi and queen, Mother of Dragons, slayer of warlocks, breaker of chains, and there was no one in the world that she could trust.

"Your Grace?" Missandei stood at her elbow wrapped in a bedrobe, wooden sandals on her feet.

Not Missandei interrupting that thought!

+.+.+

Dany took the younger girl by the hand. "Never lie to me, Missandei. Never betray me."

"I never would," Missandei promised. "Look, dawn comes."

Is it Missandei? Is that the blood treason? She wants to go home with her brother?

+.+.+

"Your Grace, the slavers brought their doom on themselves," said Daario Naharis.

"You have brought freedom as well," Missandei pointed out.

"Freedom to starve?" asked Dany sharply. "Freedom to die? Am I a dragon, or a harpy?" Am I mad? Do I have the taint?

Yes.

+.+.+

"What will you do then, Khaleesi?" asked Rakharo.

"Stay," she said. "Rule. And be a queen."

Hey, finally a good decision.

Let's see how she fucks it up.

Final thoughts:

I actually might miss her, nobody makes me laugh harder.

-> return to menu <-

#operation stumpy re-read #asos #daenerys vi

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