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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 11 months

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gevivys (beauty) │ Chapter 4: Love

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Daemon returns to King's Landing after ten years in exile, intent on rekindling his affair with Rhaenyra. He wasn't expecting you - the revelation changes everything.

Here be the fourth chapter of the rework - you’ll all recognise this one! There’s some minor changes made to flow on with the previous stuff, but beyond that, it’s the OG third chap. Thank you to @ewanmitchellcrumbs, my slap daddy lobster Ange, for reading through this chapter for me and making sure I’m not uploading total shite!

TRIGGERS: incest, purity culture, objectification of women, age gap.

Daemon supposes it is true what they say about Targaryens—that they are proud and violent and easy to incite to desire and madness. He lives up to the name, he supposes.

Now that his want has come to light, he cannot erase you from his mind. He withdraws to his chambers for the next few days, making his presence around the Keep as scarce as he can so that he might avoid you. The prospect of looking at you—your wide-eyed innocence, trusting open expression, still his littlest girl beneath all that ripening—and recalling the depths of his degeneracy each time he meets your eye seems an insurmountable task.

But a new issue arises. He finds he quite literally cannot rid the image of you from his musings, the enemy that is his own thoughts discovering some new wretched path to you in all he does to seek distraction. His books remind him of your love for old Valyrian histories and poetry, of sitting with him, a great tome spread out further than your little arms could extend and reciting the letters in a halting tongue. Training with the sword strikes memories of how you’d fiddle with the pommel of Dark Sister whenever you stood by him, alerting him to your presence far easier than his own eyes ever could. Attempting to govern a bout of cyvasse is utterly dull with only himself as an opponent, and—blast it all—prompts reminiscence of how you’d choose to sleep soundly in his lap as a tot, wet smacking mouth darkening the front of his doublet as he’d match minds against Viserys with only one hand free, the other keeping you chained to slumber with gentle pats to the bottom.

Resistance is fruitless. And so, he gives into the desire. For the first time in years, he unfastens his breeches and takes his cock out with the intention of spending in his own hand.

How mightily I have fallen, he thinks drolly, spitting in his palm, grasping his shaft and allowing his imagination to conjure the likeness of sweet eyes and full mouth and shapely breasts, a precious little gift just waiting for the right recipient to unwrap and play. He thinks of your soft little hands and soft little voice, how darling you would look with those same hands on his cock and your stare wide and trusting, whispering his name in naïve question as he coaxes you to his completion, gifting you a pretty pearl necklace for a pretty little girl—

“Fuck!” he moans, seed splattering over his fist.

It stains his breeches and drips over his boots, inspiring sudden gladness that he hadn’t thought to revisit Sirille’s whore or seek out another of his old haunts, for not bending some meaningless fuck over and exerting his lusts on a cunt worth mere coppers in coin. The speed of his release would have been thoroughly humiliating. Wiping his hand distastefully upon his shirt, he wonders at how best to resolve his growing problem.

It is a problem. How you have unmanned him! How insipid it is to long for a girl of seventeen as though he is some pockmarked, upstart lad of lesser standing! If he were dull-witted, his ire at himself might very well drive him to rail at you for the manner in which you’ve ensorcelled him. But doing so will not aid his particular malady.

The brothel…Perhaps the answer lies in the past. The instant he thinks it, he wishes he hadn’t.

No. He shouldn’t ruin you. He will not ruin you. Besides, you had been deterred rather than encouraged by even his lightest provocations, his half-hearted flirtation failing utterly. In the face of his veiled innuendos and covetous stares, you had retreated into yourself, pulling away and levelling him with that soft, reproaching little mouse-glare of yours. Any other maiden and he would double down, pursue until he had overrun them and given them little choice but to lift their skirts and let him steal away their virtue. Yet, this brings him distinct discomfort. He cannot abide the notion of despoiling you so ignobly.

Daemon wonders at the hesitation, for it had brought him little pain to do the same to his eldest niece. He considers that because it had always been his intention to shore up his own succession—by either wedding Rhaenyra or destroying her reputation, getting her out of his way—the thought of doing the same to you had never crossed his mind.

Hm. What can he do, then? Wait for this—this feeling—to pass? He is the blood of the dragon, true; and, like the flame from which those winged beasts were born, he burns hot and bright and stinging—until the flame flickers away, doused by the merest brush of air or touch of water. In moments of want, it becomes a need, something he would kill and die to possess, and then another obsession takes hold. Men of passion—men like him—are so rarely faithful to their fancies.

Alas, you are no ordinary woman; it stands to reason that his lust is no ordinary yearning. You are everything he has ever envisioned in an ideal bride. The right bloodline. The right family name. The right temperament. These things alone…

It does not even take into consideration the simplest fact—that, though time and circumstance has changed so much, there is nothing that can destroy his deepest affection for you, his sweet little niece.

No closer to devising his way forward, Daemon does what he can to evade encountering you. It is hardly an effort, for you seem to perpetually cycle between the same activities and yet, simultaneously, are nowhere to be found. He shuns the obvious places—the library, your Hightower siblings’ rooms, Rhaenyra’s solar, the courtyard, the garden—and even deigns to add the training yard and the kitchen to the list. Luckily, he seems to have either frightened you off or had simply chanced upon a rare occurrence in which you were discoverable.

After four more mornings, he is unsurprised to see you absent once more from your father's table to break your fast. You have missed the previous occasions, too. A sennight and a day had been more than enough time for him to decide that he detested these mealtimes. Quite obviously an attempt on his brother's part to foster unity between the squabbling factions in his family, he is usually faced with the choice of either indulging in the bickering of the children or pretending he gives a fuck about anything the Hightower woman has to say. Not that Her Grace has been particularly interested in engaging him in conversation. Instead, she carefully plays the part of ignorance, watching him from directly across the table with her beady little eyes each time he so much as moves. Loathsome bitch. She must have a magical cunt for Viserys to have managed to pump four of those wretched spawn into her.

This is why he is startled when Rhaenyra and Laenor enter with their two boys, followed swiftly by you and that idiot Cole. You have an air of irritation about you, as though you had been interrupted at your leisures when your elder sister had come to collect you for the first proper meal you would see in days.

The sight of Rhaenyra—as lovely a sight as it is—sends a weak thud of hurt through his chest. But it is the sight of you that inspires a far greater reaction.

You are no less striking in the morning light that streams in from the open balcony. Garbed in a short-sleeved gown of powdered blue and wild hair pulled back in a simple braid, the adjustments only serve to emphasise the parts of you that had changed in the ten years since he had last seen you. Half-convinced that his first meeting with you was an inexplicable fever-dream sent by the gods to taunt him, he is once more besieged by the sight of your rose-bloom lips, your bare throat—why the fuck do you not wear jewels to cover up all that exposed flesh, the sight is positively lewd—and charming little tits peaked in maiden's flirtation. The dress does little to hide your endowments from his rapacious gaze, for all its modest bodice and looser fit.

He does his best not to let his turmoil play out on his face as you move further into the room. Laenor drops into the empty seat beside him, narrowing his eyes in a manner that suggests he’s noticed where Daemon’s attention has been focused. The lad’s fair to suspect him—his exploits in the Stepstones hadn’t been limited to warfare, after all.

“Father, Daemon,” Rhaenyra greets, settling herself down next to her husband.

He finds the noted absence of greeting to the Hightower woman wildly entertaining. While it is not lost on her, the Queen has deigned to overlook the arrival of her once-best friend. Instead, she turns to survey her ailing King in an affectation of care. He decides it is only polite to return his eldest niece’s salutation. Rhaenyra smiles in response to his well-wishes, an acknowledgement of his words and nothing more.

"Good morrow, daughter!” Viserys says to his eldest, looking fondly down the table as his grandsons are settled in at their seats. His gaze moves to you. “Ah, child! We haven't seen you in an age!"

He has brightened in excitement at his first glance of you, and you smile sweetly at him as you pass by to press a kiss of greeting to your father's balding head.

"My apologies, Papa," you say to Viserys warmly. “I have been ever so preoccupied with my studies, you see. I did not wish to fall behind.”

“Studies, my girl? I had rather thought you were avoiding Lord Denys again!”

He has to grit his teeth at the mention of that idiot. What in the Seven hells is Viserys thinking, allowing a lackwit like the Rose of Highgarden anywhere near you? To think that he’d be willing to ship you off to so ordinary an existence as the Lady Tyrell. The blood of the Freehold, forced to mingle with farming stock. What dishonour!

At the mention of the lord, your earnest little stare transforms into a myriad of quick-vanishing demonstrations of your distaste for the man. Daemon is savagely glad to see it.

“That, too.” You beam when your father laughs. It is a most pleasing expression on your features, a guise that erases the lingering pensiveness clinging to you like a second skin—one that you should always bear.

Would that he could replace the gloom that reclaims you so soon after.

“Darling.”

Alicent frowns at him from her position at his brother’s side. She appears to have caught him looking, not that he cares overmuch for her judgement. It intrigues him that she appears to be addressing you. He had thought the family quite divided by old and new—and as Aemma’s last living child, that places you firmly in the former category.

She smiles up at you, gesturing you toward her. “Come sit by me.”

Clearly, his assumption is incorrect. You happily proceed around your father to sit in the empty seat beside the Queen, placing you next to the youngest one, Daeron. He can only remember the name due to its similarity to his own. You grin fondly down at the boy, and it is easy to imagine you doing the same one day with his own son. You ruffle his hair when he makes an exclamation of your name, disregarding the snide glances offered to you by the older two. Ah, that is more like it.

“What are you working on currently, sister?” Rhaenyra interrupts his musings from next to Laenor, wordlessly reminding young Lucerys to pause his chatter while eating.

His mouth upturns when he sees you brighten, stopping in the middle of selecting fruits and cheese and pastries to pile on your plate. The shame feels like a distant memory as he watches you, dish aloft in your hand while you enthusiastically turn to engage with your older sister.

“I have been consulting with Ser Lysan on writing a compendium of the Dothraki language,” you say excitedly.

Who the fuck is ‘Ser Lysan’? And what in the Seven hells is she doing learning Dothraki? Daemon’s brow raises sceptically as he mulls over the fact that you—a sweet little untouched princess—appear to have dealings with horse-fucking, barbarous brutes in the East.

“There is some debate as to how we will proceed,” you add, carefully side-eyeing the oldest of the Hightower boys as he snickers at your pronouncement, “as our letters do not correspond correctly with the phonetics of their speech. We will have to either take creative liberties or devise additional symbols to signify these sounds.”

Perhaps he has woefully underestimated you. You seem to possess an intellect that may well be formidable—at least when it comes to your philosophies and languages. A fascinating paradox of a girl, he thinks, to be so clever and unknowing all at once. For all your book learning, there is much about the world you lack understanding of. It is tempting to remedy this in the most depraved manner possible.

Not here. Not now.

“That sounds… interesting.”

Rhaenyra sounds anything but interested. Does anyone take interest in your pursuits? Anyone at all? Looking around the table at the uncertain faces of those you call family, it appears not. No wonder you seem so alone.

“Dothraki, of all the languages to learn?” he asks. “An interesting pursuit for a princess.”

You make direct eye contact with him, arranging your features into a facade of polite courtesy; it is closed off, withdrawn, and you return your plate to its place upon the table.

“I am learning, yes.” You absent-mindedly reach across the little one beside you to remove a silver-handled knife from the second-eldest boy—Aemon, is it not?—and place it out of his reach. It is a good call; he had been poking the surface before him with the tip, gouging small divots into the wood. You disregard his protestations, continuing your line of thought. “I would not claim to be proficient, however. It is a complex language, and I have not studied it for long enough to consider myself fluent.”

“It is a savage language.” The eldest of the Queen’s sons has an expression fixed in what Daemon can only assume is meant to be a look of disdain. As ugly as the boy is, the effect is rather lost on present company. “No wife of mine will occupy herself with such things.”

This one too? Unbelievable. It would make more sense to betroth you to your brother than to the Lord of Highgarden. If only the brother in question wasn’t so… pathetic. Pathetic now—but when he becomes a man, a true peril to any chance she may have at happiness.

He swallows back bile at the thought. However would you survive being bound to a sneering wretch who sought to stifle any joy you might experience, and all for the sake of control? It is too harsh a fate for someone so pure.

You frown softly, shoulders squaring off in your disapproval. “Just because their culture is different, Aegon”—ah, yes! No wonder he was such a disappointment with a name such as the Conqueror’s to try and fail to live up to—“does not mean they are savages.”

His nose flares with the necessity of suppressing his own amusement. Such guilelessness; such gullibility! You really are too sweet.

“They fuck their horses, don’t they?” Aegon asks disparagingly, echoing exactly what he had been thinking only moments prior.

The younger boy titters beside him. You open your mouth to respond, brow wrinkled in affront, when the Queen cuts across you.

“Aegon! That’s enough!” she says sharply, and the boy abruptly withdraws, tucking his head down and quietly resuming his meal with a muttered apology.

As a lull falls across the remaining occupants of the room, all that can be heard is the scraping of utensils over dishware and the hissing remonstrations of the Queen to her eldest, whispered reminders of how princes ought to treat those they are courting. Given that the recipient is three places down from her—and you are, in fact, between them—her words are neither quiet nor tactful. Your head bows, lower lip quivering only once, pretending not to hear as you pick apart the remnants of food on your plate.

“An intellectual, my daughter is.” Viserys breaks the stillness with forced joviality, engaging him in conversation once more.

He had paid little attention to the spat—no doubt avoiding his fatherly responsibilities as he has done since time immemorial, long since used to ignoring the conflict that sparks beneath his very nose. Daemon is simultaneously fond and contemptuous of his brother, the years having done little to change the spinelessness so central to his personality as man and monarch both.

“Always learning something new,” the man says merrily, “always needing books and tutors to satisfy that mind of hers. She would be a maester of the Citadel, methinks, had she been born a man.”

She would be Prince of Dragonstone if she had been born a man, Daemon snorts to himself, and I’d not need be sitting here with the Hightower bitch and her offspring.

“Papa!” A pretty flush reddens your exposed ears and the apples of your cheeks.

He trails the path of the blush as it spreads to your chest, most assuredly travelling down to kiss the shy swell of your breasts under that damned raised neckline. He has never hated an item of clothing quite so much as he does your gown.

“That Ser Lysan Marios of hers,” the King explains. “A man from the Free Cities, do you know? She was ever so delighted when I solicited his services.”

A tutor, then. But what is his place in your life? This is what Daemon wishes to know.

“He is a respectable gentleman,” Rhaenyra says, no doubt having witnessed his perplexity. “Though it’s quite amusing, really; for an old man like him, he is rather adept at making his way about the Keep unnoticed. You’d think someone with such poorly knees would be easier to find.”

He hadn’t truly believed your tutor to harbour untoward feelings for you, but relief suffuses him, nonetheless. An elderly man with weak joints could hardly muster the energy nor stamina to seduce his young charge—especially a burgeoning little nymphet like you, so reserved and restrained, desperate for release from the bonds of propriety. His gut tightens at the image he has conjured.

“We always leave a note, ’Nyra,” you say, your posy-petal lips frowning.

“And by the time I send someone to find you, you have moved off elsewhere.”

You hum an agreement, picking still at the remainder of your meal. Daemon spies the Hightower woman’s pointed glare over you, the quailing of the eldest boy. The lad clears his throat and turns to you.

“Sister. Would”—he pauses to clear his throat again—“would you… care to take a turn around the garden with me? At, er—the hour of the boar?”

How the fuck has he managed to make it worse?

Daemon almost preferred his snobbish spite over this pitiful attempt at flattery. If he’d been uncertain as to the boy’s success at winning you over, he’s not anymore. There’s scarce to be any maiden who would accept such a snivelling offer.

You appear rather baffled. “Oh. I appreciate the offer, Aegon… but I am afraid I have plans then.” A polite smile of contrition curves your lips.

Your brother does not like this. With a barely restrained sneer, he begins to respond. “But—”

“—I am intending to visit Athfiezar,” you cut across, placid as ever. “You are welcome to accompany me there, if you wish?”

The boy blanches. “No!” He says, shaking his head.

You make a soft noise of acknowledgement, allowing your focus to drift to the small one immediately beside you. And, with that, the conversation ceases entirely.

Rhaenyra was right in asserting her inability to pronounce the name of your feral mount. The guttural inflections in your honey-sweet voice speak to something wild and untamed, a spark of the magic that had brought his line to life so long ago.

“Interesting name.” Daemon is unable to help himself. You blink disconcertedly at him as he speaks. It is the second time in as many occurrences that he has seen your countenance alight with startlement at his address. A nervous little morsel, you are. “A Dothraki word, is it?”

He can only assume this. Based on his few dealings with the horde of savages during his time in Essos, the word sounds similar to the harsh utterings of the khalasar.

“Yes,” you say, a pleased look crossing your visage. “It means ‘love’.”

What a name for such a monstrous creature. A little girl christening her first barn cat, all soft skin and sweet smile and doe-eyed delight. You squint at Rhaenyra when she chuckles softly. It seems he isn’t the only one to have such a thought.

You turn back to him. “He does not take well to others, I fear.”

That is an understatement. From all his existing knowledge of the wild leviathan, from his experiences with the beast growing up, from tales he had gleaned from around the capital, from accounts of old acquaintances and the from gossip of his family, your dragon—the fucking Cannibal, and isn’t that a story he’d like to hear—was an utter lunatic, as unhinged and vicious as he always was. Except, it seems, with you.

“A right bastard, too,” Laenor murmurs under his breath, just within Daemon’s earshot. “Do you know how many Keepers we’ve had to replace since that thing came to King’s Landing?”

He can imagine. Dragon, livestock and human alike, the dragon had little care for what it slayed, seemingly fulfilling itself on the blood-and-gore high of butchery. The thought of laying eyes upon such a creature thrills him to the bone.

You levy him with an inquisitive look, head tilted slightly. “Would you like”—you hesitate—“would you like to meet him, Uncle?”

Only a fool could refuse a proposition like that. Not in the least because of the Cannibal—well, so few would ever have the opportunity to come close to the beast and live to tell the tale. Through you, it may well be possible that he would get that chance.

But, moreover, how can he say no to your timid, earnest entreaty, the proverbial hand of offering held out and just waiting for yet another rejection? Hope draws your brows in a pleading arch, lips wet and parted, and it calls to mind the face of a much younger you, far freer in begging for his attention. Who could possibly deny you?

His mouth settles the matter before his mind has decided.

“I’d be glad to,” he says, warmed by the sunny beam that stretches across your face, bringing bright light to your eyes and a merry flush to your skin.

It occurs to him then that he has just invited himself to an entire span of unaccompanied time alone with you. You—the object of his waking reveries, his darkest deliberations, his filthiest wants.

Perhaps this will be what finally drives him mad.

The wheelhouse ride is a revelation—and not quite for the reason he expected.

You are surprisingly easy to converse with; high praise, coming from him. He is not one to enjoy casual discussion, finding most people utterly insipid, especially those of suitable station. Princes and lords and magisters are always far too concerned with crowing of their riches to be of much interest—and the women are hardly worth engaging with unless it is to persuade them to drop their smallclothes and let him bend them over in some abandoned hall.

It might just be his fixation upon you that makes you so fascinating. He cares not for the reason. Instead, he chooses to enjoy the rarity of the moment, listening to you talk about the weather, the food, the changes made to the city since his departure.

“We have been getting an increase in grain from the Reach, I believe, in return for silks and spices from Driftmark,” you say, filling the transport with the dulcet tones of your pretty little voice.

He wonders at how you have come to know this information.

“Papa allows me to be his cupbearer during Small Council sometimes.” Pride overtakes your expression. “I am not present often, but it is nice when he asks.”

It is expected of Rhaenyra as the heir to attend in her youth, but no such presumption falls upon you. How interesting that Viserys has chosen to allow his second daughter to be involved in the running of the Realm, small a part as that may be! Daemon had not thought his brother observant of you in any capacity whatsoever. In this, he’s happy to be wrong.

When you arrive at the Dragonpit, your faithful guard-dog Cole is waiting for you, having ridden ahead to secure the location for his young charge. Daemon rolls his eyes as the knight offers you his arm, assisting you down the steps and to the ground. You gratefully thank the Kingsguard—he has to clench his jaw tightly to resist saying something snide at the look of slavish devotion on the whoreson’s face—and take out leather gloves of deep black, a stark contrast to the blood red of your riding habit. You wear the Targaryen colours exceedingly well.

“Now, Uncle,” you say seriously, turning to him. “I do not usually meet Athfiezar at the Pit, so it is imperative that you do as I say.”

It makes sense that the dragon seeks refuge outside of the Dragonpit. The beast did not seem one to willingly enshrine itself in chains. His brow quirks in entertainment at your command, a war general in the shape of a little girl with a woman’s body, but tips his head regardless.

“Of course.” He has no wish to die for the sake of pride.

The Dragonkeepers have already begun to shift nervously in the open, unprotected space. What follows illuminates him as to why. He is startled when you stop in the middle of putting your gloves on to place your fingers at your mouth and release a loud whistle. The sound echoes toward the cavernous entrance of the building before you and sets off a cacophony of ringing screeches and roars from within. He cringes as the blast of noise assaults his ears and wonders what in the hells you were intending by doing such a thing.

Suddenly, a low rumble resonates through the air. He casts around for the origin of the din, seeing nothing cresting the horizon. Out of nowhere, there is an unearthly shriek. A hulking black shape tumbles from the cover of cloud, rapidly gaining size as it approaches.

The Dragonkeepers bark panicked orders to each other, rushing to clear the space before his little niece. “Inkot selās! Inkot selās!” Move back! Move back!

Daemon wonders through a wave of sheer panic if he ought to follow the Keepers’ example and dive for shelter, dragging you with him. The dragon isn’t showing any signs of slowing down. It is now close enough for him to make out the grim scores of scars marking its head, the eerie verdigris orbs glowing ominously within its immense skull, the sheer musculature forming one of the largest specimens of Old Valyria alive today. The dragon is quite dissimilar to the other Targaryen specimens, he notes, stouter and stockier and yet more serpentine than the winged creatures the Conqueror had brought to Westeros some hundred years before. He wonders if it is true that this one is from a different lineage entirely. He had never gotten close enough to survey it before now.

The great lumbering thing alights upon the dome of the Dragonpit, crawling with surprising agility to the edge of the structure and peering down. It sends a clatter of rubble spilling from the sides of the great dome as it crackles under the weight of it. At the sight of the Keepers huddled behind dragonglass shields, curled to the ground in vain protection of themselves, the Cannibal opens its mouth and screams. It is a haunting, hair-raising resonation that sends chills down his spine and near freezes the blood in his veins.

“Athfiezar!”

His gaze, having been transfixed upon the most terrifying entity he had witnessed in years, shifts to you. You have stepped forward, seemingly without a care, arm outstretched and calling happily up to the reptilian brute. He is about to pull you back toward him when he observes what might be the most deranged, impossible scenario imaginable.

The dragon stops.

It stops.

“Kesīr māzīs, Athfiezar!” you call again, bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet. Come here!

Emitting a deep keening, its eyes split to you, pausing its rampage as it takes in the sight of you below. Daemon huffs an exhilarated laugh as the winged serpent cocks its head, pauses, and then begins scaling its way down the stone formation. It is heedless of the damage it is doing to the establishment as it tears its way through rock like parchment, wiggling down to touch down upon the ground before the mouth of the Pit. The beast is surprisingly light upon its feet for its sheer size, second only to the great she-dragon, Vhagar.

He can only watch on in amazement as you stride forward to meet your mount. The famed Cannibal bends its massive frame down so that you may lay your hand upon its snout and coo something tender and indeterminable from a distance away. The wyrm growls softly, slowly pressing itself against you as you talk. The Dragonkeepers have not yet moved from their protective stances, spaced out around the yard and cowering behind obsidian safeguards.

What the fuck.

And then, you are walking back toward him, an air of contentment unlike any he had witnessed about you emanating from your person and echoed in the radiant joy upon your visage. With your giant beast as a formidable backdrop, you look every inch a Targaryen conqueror. It is a most unexpected evolution in the child that had preferred to entertain herself by reading than by journeying to the Pit to see Syrax or Caraxes. The sight makes him breathless.

You are glorious.

“Kepus,” you say, reaching out to him. He is somewhat amazed to see you are the same person, the same girl with the same charming eyes and delicate features and alluring form, that you have not somehow metamorphosed into a goddess from ancient Valyria. “Would you like to meet him?”

His answer is immediate, wordless. When he grasps onto your hand, he notes that your grip is much firmer, more solid and more real than it had been the week before. You are in your element here, at peace within yourself and with the dragon feared by the entire world. You pull him gently with you towards the creature, unfaltering even in the wake of the chitters and low hisses it emits when it observes a newcomer heading its way.

“He will not hurt you,” you say kindly. “You are with me.”

The affirmation warms him. When you are a small distance away, you release his hand, stepping in front of him to murmur softly to your mount once more.

“Ñuha kepa bisy issa, ñuhus taobus,” you call mellifluously, once more extending your palms to stroke along the dragon’s head. It nudges you lightly, and you laugh in response. “Ziry ōdrikō daor.” This is my uncle, my boy. Do not hurt him.

There is an absurdity in hearing you kindly entreat this monstrosity as though it were a prize hound, born and bred to spend its days on the lap of a noblewoman at high tea. What’s more is that the wyrm appears to enjoy it, nuzzling into your touch like a kitten.

Athfiezar growls in warning as Daemon approaches, soothed only by the quiet humming you are making and the light affirmations of peace you are whispering. Shifting its weight around, it grumbles in irritated obeisance as it allows him near. When he is close enough to hear the beat of its heart, feel the waft of its breath on his skin, smell the typical scent of dragon stink upon the air, he stops and takes in the view.

From this angle, he cannot see the beast’s hind legs, so vast is the length of its anatomy. The dragon’s powerful front legs and sinuous snake-like neck occupies his vision, the head bowed low to the ground in cooperation with its mistress’s will. Its sable scales ripple like onyx in the sun, flashing shades of coal and silver and gold as the light dapples upon their surfaces. The creature is maimed in several places, no doubt from its long history of aggression against its own kind, but the old injuries serve to heighten its aura of petrifaction.

It is a horrifying representative of its kind. It is everything he had ever adored stories about as a child. And it is yours.

“How is this possible?” he breathes, stepping closer to you. You glance back at him, mouth quirking gently at the expression of wonderment on his face.

You lightly entwine your fingers with his. When his eyes snap to yours, you tug him forward easily, placing his hand upon the Cannibal’s snout with your small hand laid on his own. He laughs quietly at the sensation of dragon-scale under his palm, a mixture of bewilderment and disbelief and sheer childish awe colouring his tone. For a man to lay his hand upon the Cannibal and live… It is the stuff of dreams.

“Raqnon jorrāeltas—hegnīr ūī zijot irughin. You stare wistfully at your mount. He needed love—so I gave it to him.

Though it is a relief to hear his ancestral tongue spill from your lips once more, a reminder that the years had not washed away all that is familiar, Daemon wonders if there is more to this unlikely pair than anyone had assumed. Both isolated, both starved for affection, both cleaving to each other for warmth and surety. The notion makes him unhappy.

My poor, lonely little girl… You never need be lonely again now that he had returned.

He looks back up at the beast, Athfiezar the Cannibal, this wretched saviour of desolate maidens and broken dreams. The creature snorts, a puff of smoke jettisoning out of its nostrils in a sneeze. He jumps out of the way, startled. You giggle, laying your head fondly against its snout.

“Kara iksā,” he says. You are magnificent.

You smile as you look up at your dragon, your hand lightly caressing its colossal jaw—but Daemon’s eyes remain firmly affixed on you.

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2d-reality · 5 months

Text

Little Things (The Greedy Secondborn)

characters: Mammon, GN!MC navigation: Lucifer | Mammon | Levi | Satan | Asmo | Beel | Belphie content/warnings: little things you do for the brothers, out of love. fluff. established relationship (implied you are dating all seven brothers equally with the exception of mammon whom i love more) word count: 584 notes: Each brother has their own part, linked above. I am still my own editor and I loathe editing, so please forgive any mistakes!

It’s no secret you baby Mammon. Even, and especially, when his brothers make his life a little more difficult with their sibling antics. It’s certainly lessened with you around, as any off-color comments are immediately met with a harsh glare and sometimes a short word of admonishment.

But even you can only stand so much of his klepto tendencies. He’s good about your most precious things, for the most part. Once, when you were still new to the Devildom, the heirloom necklace you had been unceremoniously transported with went missing. It was the only piece of home you had left, aside from your clothes, and you weren’t proud of the breakdown you’d had when you’d discovered its absence. You were so caught in your grief, and anger at every one of your newly-minted demonic housemates, that you didn’t notice the absence of your guardian for nearly two full days.

It was Asmo who returned your presently most prized possession; you’d been so relieved to have it back that you’d kissed both his cheeks through tears, uncaring of how it had returned to you and unaware of Mammon’s soulful eyes peering from around the doorframe of your bedroom. You had noticed he seemed out of sorts over the coming days, but chalked it up to his avoidant tsundere behavior. If you’d known back then he’d swiped it, in a moment of unawareness, gripped by his sin as he so often was, you might never have forgiven him.

Your relationship had evolved since then, and you wouldn’t dream of being cross with him now, especially if you learned that he’d hunted for your necklace, shook up every fence he had connections to, levied a hefty charge on goldie with the curiosities dealer that ended up with it, and weathered the lecture from Lucifer as a result without a word, all to see it returned to you.

He’d been much more careful with the things you held most dear since then. He’s more observant than anyone would give him credit for, especially regarding you, his shining jewel. But you knew that he was as much a victim to his sin as his brothers, and you had learned to cater to it, even if you didn’t know about his crusade for your necklace.

Lucifer (at least partially at the behest of Diavolo, you presumed) had established an allowance for you. You, ever independent, picked up shifts at the local spots when you could to earn your own money, but you wouldn’t lie, having a little extra to keep up with the elite (which you could forget the brothers were, at times) was nice. It was also nice to have a couple extra grimm to stuff in a pocket, or a drawer, for Mammon to take when his fingers got a little sticky. He ended up spending at least some of it on you, anyways; a popup cafe, a second dessert at lunch, a trinket that reminded him of you. He would vehemently deny being so sentimental, but the twinkle in his eye when you graciously accepted whatever treat he gifted you and returned the favor with a kiss twice as sweet was enough evidence for you.

If he knew you were purposefully leaving it in the same places every week, and never commented on the hit to your budget, he never mentioned it. You never said anything either, happy to make his life as easy as you could. It was no secret, after all, that you baby Mammon.

#obey me #mammon #obey me mammon #obey me mammon x reader #mammon x mc #mammon x reader #om! mammon #mammon fic #fic #obey me x reader

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autisticlancemcclain · 7 months

Text

Keith wakes up with terror turning to ice in his veins and his brother’s name clawing its way out of his throat.

He takes a moment, chest heaving, to orient himself. The details of the dream quickly fade, dark caves and towering footsteps, leaving only an impression of fear and the memory of Shiro, falling, crying out for Keith to save him, and Keith being just too late. He peels the sweat-soaked sheets off himself in disgust, tossing them haphazardly on the ground in front of him. Grunting, he forces himself upright, placing his feet on the cold tile floor of his bedroom to force himself fully awake. Sunlight streams through his window, assaulting his bleary eyes, making him grumble as he walks over to the bathroom to brush his teeth and get ready for the day.

Not unusually, his nightmares have woken him hours before he really needs to be awake. He only has one afternoon class, today, and it's frustrating to have one of his few mornings off spoiled so early. As he spits frothy toothpaste into the sink, he tries to rework the whole situation in his mind. Waking up too early sucks, but with the extra time this morning, he’ll have time to wash his sheets. That’s a net neutral, at least.

It doesn’t take him too long to gather up a load of linens and clothes, tossing them into the machine, sipping a coffee as the old thing chugs on. He hangs them to dry once the cycle is over, tossing some overdue marking into his messenger bag and scarfing down a bagel before hopping onto his bike.

His bicycle, that is. He would never take his precious bike to class. The one and only time he had, it had been vandalised by angry students. Never again.

The ride to the school is uneventful, normal, boring. Even the asshole drivers who refuse to give him space on the road, coming within inches of crushing him, are par for the course. He wonders if he looks particularly dead-eyed, or if that’s just how he feels.

“Hey, Pidge,” he says to his lab assistant, nodding at her as he walks into their lab. She shouldn’t even be his lab assistant, really. She’s more brilliant than he’ll ever be, and it’s insulting that she has to answer to him. But she’s only twenty, and whip smart as she is, their field is ripe with rich old white guys who smile condescendingly at her and call her sweetheart. No one will give her a tenured position. So while not ideal, their situation is the best both of them can come up with: Pidge gets total freedom in his lab, any resource that she wants and he can get his hands on, and he’ll publish any finding she discovers with her name as a second on the paper. That way she’ll be credited with dozens of peer-reviewed papers before she even has her doctorate, and once she’s finally got a lab of her own and every intellectual around the globe is interviewing her, she can tell them all where to stuff it and get all the credit she deserves.

“Bad news, Kogane,” Pidge says, glancing up at him with a furrowed brow.

Keith grimaces. If Pidge is looking up from her computer screen, then he’s fucked.

“Is the building on fire?” he says hopefully. That’s a slightly less miserable conclusion than the one he knows is happening.

She huffs sadly, shaking her head. “Nah, check the douchebag waiting in your office.”

Sighing, Keith does. James Griffin, head of the geography department and the resident jackass who’s been trying to shut Keith down for years.

“Keith!” he cries, grinning at him like they’re friends.

Keith doesn’t even pretend to smile at him, staring at him blankly.

“Good to see you, pal,” James continues, either oblivious or uncaring. “Thought I’d drop by and personally deliver the news. I’m getting a new office!”

The absurdity of the sentence makes Keith blink, looking at James in confusion. “Pardon?”

James ignores him, pulling out a tape measure and holding it against the cabinets and counters, barely even making any real effort to measure anything. Keith finally starts to notice the smugness to his department head’s grin, and something like dread builds in his stomach.

“See, progressive volcanology just isn’t what it used to be. Ten years ago it was breakthrough science, today it’s an ancient relic of the past.” He snaps the tape measure closed, turning back to face Keith. He no longer makes any effort to hide his smirk, placing a falsely pitying hand on Keith’s shoulder. Keith shrugs it off immediately. “They’re shuttin’ ya down, bud. I’m taking the space. I’m sure you myriad of adoring students will be devastated, but budget cuts are budget cuts, and this is a decision the department has to make. For the good of the university, you understand.”

Keith knows that pleading is useless. In all likelihood, this decision was made months ago, and he’s only hearing about it now because it’s been finalised. No way would James be so confident otherwise.

But there’s nothing he can do to stop himself from trying.

“You can’t shut us down,” he pleads, throat unfathomably dry. “We’re – we’re on the verge of a breakthrough, James, I can feel it, shutting us down would be spitting in the face of progress –”

“How many of your sensors are even still active?” James interrupts. “One? Two?”

He sounds so smug that Keith can’t bear it. “Three!”

“Right,” James says, snorting. “Three whole sensors.” He turns away, patting one of the overhanging shelves of the wall, crowded from front to back with dozens and dozens of rock samples slowly collecting dust. “It’s not worth the money it takes to keep them going.”

“You can’t do this,” Keith begs, voice quiet and small. He hates himself for his weakness in front of James, of all people in the world, but his hands shake and his blood rushes in his ears and the only thought running through his mind is save the lab save the lab save the lab. “It’s all I have left. Of him.”

To James’ credit, that gives him pause. He’s an asshole, but he’s not a monster.

“It’s been ten years, man,” he says softly. “The lab isn’t going to bring him back.”

Keith says nothing. He stares at him, eyes hard, hatred and pain alike building up in them and spilling over.

Shiro’s sensors. Shiro’s work. Shiro, all over the lab, in every way, the only pieces Keith has of him that are still going, that are not stagnant, and James is taking them away. Whether or not it’s James’ fault directly is irrelevant – Keith hates him for any role he plays.

“I’m sorry, Keith,” James says, and he almost sounds sincere before disappearing out of the lab and down the hall.

Keith sits down heavily in his – in Shiro’s – rickety old office chair as he goes, elbows on the crowded desk, fingers clenched in his hair. Pidge puts a gentle and awkward hand on his shoulder.

It doesn’t matter.

— — —

His classes pass in a blur. None of his students even pretend to pay attention, but that’s not unusual. He can’t remember the last time someone came into his classroom and gave even one eighth of a shit. Hell, the last person in his class to care might have been Pidge.

By the end of the day, he’s exhausted. He dreads the bike ride home, knowing it will take more energy than he has, but he tries to convince himself that the fresh air might make him feel less like the world is collapsing in on itself.

He fails.

By the time he stumbles through the door, late afternoon light spilling over his messy coffee table, he feels like a used battery from 1996. He slides the scattered change he’d found on the road today into one of his near-filled collection bottles and collapses on the couch, face-first, groaning as loud as he can into a scratchy pillow. He blindly flails one arm around until it hits the beeping answering machine, letting it play its onslaught of messages, preparing to delete whatever spam calls have made it through while he was gone.

“Keith, hey. It’s Adam. Just calling to remind you that today’s the day! We just left, we’ll be there around quarter to six? Hopefully. See you soon.”

With a gasp, Keith yanks himself upright with so much force he nearly throws himself off the couch.

Adam.

Adam!

The next message plays automatically. “Hey, got your answering machine again. Getting a little worried. We’re halfway there, and we can’t wait to see you. Right, kiddo?”

A much younger voice mutters something unintelligible, but the tone makes their enthusiasm – or lack thereof – abundantly clear.

Keith sweeps a bunch of junk off his coffee table, frantically searching for his calendar. He finds it under a stack of half-finished books, praying to himself that what he’s hearing is wrong somehow, and today is not the day he thinks it is.

In bold red ben, in the tiny square of the 28th of June, is his niece’s name written in capital letters and underlined no less than five times.

“Hana,” he breathes, and looks in horror at his watch just as the answering machine beeps and plays the newest message.

“Alright, well, we’re ten minutes away, so I hope everything’s okay. Please be ready.”

“Fuck!” Keith shouts, jumping up off the couch and catapulting into action. He can’t believe he forgot! It’s so easy for all the days to blur together, for dates to lose meaning, when everything is so mundane. He’s been thinking that Hana’s visit is ‘months away’ for half a year now, completely forgetting that time is, in fact, linear.

Adam is going to kill him. And worst of all, he is going to be justified.

He starts scooping random shit off end tables and random surfaces, sticking it wherever there’s space. Adam is a neat freak, always has been, and if he looks through that front door and sees the mess he is about to leave his only daughter in for ten whole days he is going to take it out on Keith’s hide. Keith shoves a random stack of cereal bowls into a drawer, stuffs a cabinet full of old newspapers, kicks a pile of discarded sweaters into a corner and throws a blanket over them. His answering machine beeps again, and he whips his head to his clock, watching in horror as the big hand ticks to the 9 – it’s five forty-five on the dot.

“Hope you’re home, Keith, because we’re pulling up to your place.”

A silver car slows to a stop across the street.

“Fuck!”

Keith increases his half-assed cleaning tenfold. He dumps every dish he sees into the sink, hacks up a lung from trying to blow away the accumulated dust, glances in the fridge to see what expired food he needs to toss. Is Adam going to search through his fridge? Probably not.

But there’s a chance.

He sees his brother-in-law approach the front door as he’s holding a stack of greasy car parts and freezes, slowly backing away as the man turns and makes a face at the car. Keith hears the doorbell ring but ignores it, figuring he has about three more rings to panic-clean before Adam gets fed up and picks the lock. He rushes to his bedroom, grabbing the truly gigantic quilt Pidge’s brother had made him, and throws it over his couch, coffee table, and armchair in a half-assed attempt to make the room look less like Keith has not cleaned in several weeks.

It does not work.

The doorbell rings for a third time, followed by rapid knocking.

“Keith? You home?”

Keith takes a deep breath, forcing a smile on his face.

Fine. This is going to be fine.

“Hey, Adam!” he greets, opening the door. Adam glances behind him, taking in the mess, so Keith quickly closes the door as much as he can without squishing himself.

Unfortunately, Adam has always been quick. He raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “You forgot, didn’t you.”

“Forget?” Keith laughs nervously. “Of course I didn’t – I didn’t forget! Been looking forward to this for weeks, counting down the days, just been prepping like you would not believe –”

Adam takes off his glasses, cleaning them slowly while making direct eye contact.

Keith sighs.

“Yeah, I forgot.”

“Come on, Keith,” Adam sighs, sliding his glasses back up his nose. “We planned this months ago. Ten days. That’s all I ask. She’s your niece.”

“Just because I forgot doesn’t mean I wasn’t looking forward to it!” Keith says defensively. “I haven’t seen her since she was what, nine?”

“Seven,” Adam corrects flatly.

Keith winces. “Right. Seven.” He follows his brother-in-law to his car, forcing himself not to drag his feet. He is excited. He is. He loves his niece, and besides, it’s only ten days. What can happen in ten days?

“Hana,” Adam says, knocking on the roof of the car. “Say hi to your uncle.”

“Hi to your uncle,” deadpans a young girl, pulling her beanie further down over her eyes and sinking into her seat. Adam sighs, heading to the trunk to dig out some bags, and Keith has to bite his cheek to keep from laughing. He probably shouldn’t laugh when teenagers are being little shits, but that was kind of funny.

“Hey, kid,” Keith says, in the same semi-awkward tone he used to talk to Pidge in until she started decking him every time he did. He inclines his head at the device in her hands. “Whatcha got there? One of those ePod thingies?”

The look she gives him is so dry and judgemental that Keith almost feels the need to both apologise and pull out a fiver to pay for the stupidity of his sentence, which is honestly an insanely powerful look for a thirteen year old to pull off.

Only Adam’s kid, honestly.

“It’s a PSP,” she says, like that’s the most obvious thing in the world and Keith is a dunce for not knowing. “And ePods aren’t a thing. The word you’re looking for is iPod.”

Lordie, this is going to be a tough ten days. Keith should have researched how to make teenagers like him.

Well. Maybe not. That would probably get him on a list somewhere.

“It’s good to see you, Hana,” Keith says, switching gears. He smiles slightly, and it's genuine, because he really is glad to see her. “You wanna head inside? Door’s open, I’ll meet you in a few.”

“Come see me first, baby,” Adam calls.

Hana huffs and walks over to see her dad. He hands her a duffel bag, which she shrugs over her shoulder, and then cups her face tightly, leaning down to kiss her head.

“Ten days, okay?” he murmurs. “Then I’ll meet you in the Ottawa airport.” He squeezes her in a hug, which she returns, if slightly reluctantly. “This move will be good for us.”

“Right,” Hana says, so bitter that Keith actually physically winces. “I am so pumped to leave behind everything I’ve ever known and go live in a new country. Thank you so much for doing this for me.”

Without so much as a backwards glance at her father, she pulls away and stomps inside to Keith’s place.

“Yikes,” Keith says, grimacing at his brother-in-law. Adam isn’t looking at him, gaze following his daughter with an expression Keith can only describe as pained. He doesn’t say anything for several moments, just staring at the house, eyes far-away and deeply sad. Keith’s chest starts to ache, right under his sternum, because he gets that look, too.

“I don’t know what to do,” Adam says softly. “I’m just — I’m just trying to do the right thing for her.” And it’s been months since they’ve talked anything but surface level pleasantries but they will always be the same, Keith thinks, and he reaches over and squeezes Adam’s hand because he will always be family. Adam squeezes back, smiling tightly.

“I’ll take care of her,” Keith promises. He swallows against the sandpaper roughness of his throat and tries to stand up straight, to make up for his crumpled shirt and messy hair. The attemlt makes Adam roll his eyes, which makes Keith grin. Adam can never stay mad at him for long.

“I know you will, brat.” He cups Keith’s cheeks identically to the way he did Hana’s, tipping over to kiss his forehead. Keith’s eyes close and his hands come up to grab Adam’s wrists. “I trust you. I just wish you would take better care of yourself.”

He pulls away and Keith lets him go, watching the easy way in which he composes himself, clearing his throat and straightening his jacket and pushing up his jacket, putting himself back together in front of Keith’s eyes. The process has fascinated him since he was little; the way Adam can always pull himself back to full height.

“Besides,” he adds, pulling his car keys out of his pocket and heading for the passenger side. “You have my daughter to look after, now. If she comes home to me in ten days complaining about doing the dishes because Uncle Keith just eats pasta out of the pot, I will fly back here just to smack you.”

Keith snorts. “Noted. Drive safe, Adam.”

He waves as he shuts the door and starts the car. Keith watches him go, then turns back towards his house, peering through the door, looking for a glimpse of the kid. He doesn’t see her, but he can hear the muted sounds of a video game from outside.

“I have no fucking clue what I’m doing,” he mutters to himself, and walks inside.

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imagine-darksiders · 1 year

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Here's a request, how would Strife and Samael react to accidentally seeing s/o naked for the first time? Like they are getting ready to bathe or something and thought they were alone. They didn't know anyone would be there, and when Strife/Sam do see them, s/o is oblivious. Like they realize very quickly "aw shit, s/o is cute...", Inner monologue stuff about s/o and their new feelings. I have a thing for pining. Real romance fluff with a suggestive hint. Nothing happens, this doesn't have to be nsfw if you don't want it to be. I just want your take on their reactions cause I think they would both range very differently. I chose those two cause they are my favorite. If you don't wanna do this one, that's ok too. I just really like your writing and how you interpret things. Thank you again.

Samael:

It's a common assumption among those who don't know him personally, that the Demon Prince, Samael, is a debauched and lascivious snake who would only relish in the chance to catch a human unawares.

It's a common assumption. But so often common is confused with correct.

He's a prince. Be that of Hell or Heaven or any realm in-between, he knows how to behave like a gentleman when needs be.

To his own surprise, he's found himself falling more and more into that courtly conduct ever since he managed to get his claws on the Horsemen's little human, swiped by his own claws right from underneath their noses.

'Nothing personal,' he'd told you while you thrashed and beat at the vast, scaly fingers wrapped around your torso, 'This is all tactics, you understand.'

With the Horsemen focusing all of their efforts into tracking you down – they've yet to work out that he's behind your disappearance – Samael is free to move his players across an unguarded chess board. A classic – if risky – slight of hand.

Oh, he imagines they'll try to kill him once they discover you hidden here in his fortress at Shadow's Edge, but that's hardly of any concern to a Prince of Hell. If he thought the Horsemen were a genuine threat, he wouldn't have provoked them by taking their precious, little human.

They won't be able to deny, when they eventually find you, that he's been nothing if not a most gracious host. You aren't a political enemy, after all, you're an innocent bystander in his game of cat and mouse.

He's placed you in one of the Eastern towers - under guard and lock and key, of course – where every amenity has been made available to you. A spacious chamber, adorned by a luxurious bed with silken, ruby-red sheets. An adjacent nook that boasts a king-sized bathing pool for you to maintain your hygiene....

If anything, you're less of a prisoner, and more of an unusual guest, though such 'special treatment' has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that your affinity for story-telling far surpasses the talents of his own subjects.

All you have to do is recite Earthen fairy-tales to him, plots of films you can still remember, stories from the books you used to read at school, and every single one of them is eagerly eaten up by the demon Prince, specifically those that have happier endings.

Those very stories are the reason Samael finds himself striding down the corridor to your chambers now, with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, the impressive claws at the end of each of his toes clicking sharply against a black-stone floor.

Last night, you'd half-finished a tale of a caterpillar with an absolutely voracious appetite, but you'd fallen asleep just before the most crucial climax. He'd half a mind to shake you conscious again and demand you tell him how the gluttonous little insect earns his downfall through hubris and greed, but in the end, he permitted you your scant few hours of fitful sleep.

Perhaps the ending you have in store will have been worth the wait...

The phantom guards posted outside your room snap to attention as he passes them by, though their master doesn't spare either of them so much as a fleeting glance, stepping leisurely up to the tattered, scarlet curtain that separates your chambers from the corridor outside.

And that's when he hears it - a sound so seldom heard in Hell, it actually startles the Prince into slowing his gait as his scowl comes undone, softening the deep-set creases carved between his brows.

He pauses at the curtain and twists an ear towards the noise...

... Music?

Slowly, he eases his crooked knuckles beneath the curtain and lifts it aside, hesitating for another moment to discern that his ears really aren't deceiving him. That's music he's hearing. More specifically, it's singing.

You are singing.

He's spoken with you enough times by now to recognise your voice in spite of the melodious notes of a song that drift into his ears from somewhere beyond the bed chamber.

But then, he supposes he shouldn't be surprised. Of all the denizens residing in his fortress, who among them is the most likely to burst into song other than the human?

Eyes of liquid fire scan the room and find it devoid of his prisoner, until they land upon the arched entrance that leads into the adjacent bathing quarters.

He recalls how you'd been stunned almost speechless the first time he showed you the enormous pool cut out of an obsidian floor.

He'd taken the liberty to drain it of lava before filling it up again with clean, un-poisoned water – a rare commodity in Hell, given the rate of its evaporation.

“Why?” you'd asked, squinting up at him dubiously.

Samael's face had remained perfectly set like the stone underfoot as he hummed his reply, “I assumed humans preferred to bathe in water. Not molten lava.”

That wasn't what you'd meant, and he knew it, but you'd been sensible enough not to look a gift demon in the mouth, as it were.

Lifting his nose to take a whiff of the air, Samael pads like a graceful predator across the chamber, following the sound of your voice.

Until the day comes when he no longer sits on the throne, he'll staunchly deny that his footsteps fall just a little more softly against the stone in his endeavour to remain unnoticed by the room's occupant.

Deftly, he manoeuvres around a scattering of garments that have been strewn haphazardly about the chamber, quirking one solid, scaly brow at them as he passes. 'Odd,' is all he muses.

Under normal circumstances, you're never seen without your flimsy attire.

Finding his curiosity piqued, Samael ducks his crooked horns and steals into the dark doorway, casting an eye languidly across the baths, only to freeze in his tracks, his whole body going utterly still from the horns on his head to the tip of his long, sweeping tail.

As if the singing weren't enough of a shock, you suddenly come dancing into view, swinging your hips to and fro like a pendulum. You're facing away from the doorway, thank the Void, but that's hardly what the demon Prince is focused on.

Standing there on the first step of the bath, bobbing your hips to the tune of your own song, he sees you.

All of you.

There isn't a shred of clothing present to preserve your modesty, no undergarments, nor a single strip of cloth, not a thread to your name.

Samael's silvery pupils dilate, expanding out of slits until they sit soft and round in his yellow eyes.

Rather perplexingly, he doesn't wheel himself backwards out of the entryway as soon as he registers your state of undress, though he chalks this up to being struck with simple, scientific curiosity at having stumbled upon a human in their most natural state.

Why, any second now, he's sure he'll feel that familiar wave of disgust surge up like bile and turn his stomach, because what is the human body if not a small, featureless sack of squelching meat?

Any second now...

Surely...?

Despite the weak-willed voice in the back of his head trying to convince him to turn away, the demon's eyes remain firmly adhered to you, and his ears twitch and flick towards the sound of your voice, anxious to catch every note you sing.

What is the human body...?

It's very.... gentle, he observes through a sudden haze that knocks him ever so slightly off-kilter.

A golden stare roll up the length of your legs, tracing the path of your spine and lingering on the back of your fragile neck.

There isn't a single, sharp edge to your body. No jagged horns or spines jutting through your skin, no tough and unforgiving scales to protect you from the elements, no natural weapons in the form of fangs or claws.

A body like yours was never intended to cause hurt.

What a flawed design.

What a brave design.

Before he can keep it at bay, a memory of Lilith pushes to the forefront of his mind – of her cruel lips that twist into a smirk and her hateful glares that try to poison his heart as she lays underneath him on their shared bed, claws like knives cutting into his scaly forearms to draw as much pain from him as she can, all in the name of 'making love.'

But what if....?

As the demon Prince gazes down at you, transfixed, the image of your naked body slips seamlessly in to replace Lilith's in his mind's eye. Her feral snarl gives way to something kinder, something sweeter, welcoming.

And suddenly, there you are, spread out in his Queen's place on the red, silken sheets, surrounded by the treasures he's draped you in during a wild and scandalous courtship. For the first time in his life, he doesn't want to ravage the body under his, though maybe he'd remind you that he could, if you'd only ask him to.

No. Perhaps, instead, you'll prop yourself up against the mountain of pillows he'd given you to nest in, and you'll cradle his head in your lap, your clawless fingers stroking gently up and down the space between his impressive horns as you tell him stories well into the night, listening to the crackle of the wall sconces together.

'Is that what it must be like?' he wonders, 'to take a lover who has no interest in power or status?' That must be what the stories mean, when they talk of love for love's sake.

Ah... But that kind of love has no place in Hell. The selfless kind. Altruistic. Here, one either loves to gain power, respect, and to rise through the social ranks, or one simply doesn't love at all.

In all the years he's sat on the throne of Hell, never once did he think he'd find himself so captivated by the sight of a human with no clothes on.

The leathery membrane folded between his wings starts to creak as they gradually spread open, driven by an ancient and well-buried instinct to appear bigger, stronger, more suitable than any other demon in the fortress...

He doesn't even notice that his tail has begun to sweep silently from side to side in perfect tandem with the swing of your hips.

Regardless of his imposing presence lurking just behind you in the doorway, you still don't seem to have noticed that you have an audience, and you likely would have gone on with your oblivious dance had the demon Prince not sabotaged himself moments later.

He never meant to do it. He's certainly never been caught doing it before, not even when he was trying to court an impassive Lilith.

Somewhere deep inside his almighty chest, the demon's muscles begin to quiver, pulsing together as they work to push a strange sound up through his throat - something between a contented hum and an unmistakable, mortifying purr.

You notice the sound before he does, but his reactions are sharper than your own.

Your song trails into uncertain silence, there's a whoosh of air and an enormous shadow flits backwards through the doorway just as you turn around to investigate, curling your arms around yourself in anticipation of finding a peeping-tom.

… The entrance is empty.

The Phantom guards scramble to attention when their master suddenly comes storming out of your chambers, his tail lashing like a whip and his mighty chest heaving in and out as if he's trying to stoke a fire in his lungs.

Gleaming fangs crush themselves together as he thunders aimlessly down the corridor, his only concern in distancing himself from the room of his prisoner.

What was that?

What the Hell was that!?

Of all the ridiculous, humiliating, puerile things for a Prince to do.

A purr...

A purr!

At his age! And one directed at a human no less.

He's Samael! Accuser, Seducer. Prince of Demons and Lord of Darkness. He's well above the feeble allure of the flesh.

... But it wasn't just your flesh that tempted him, was it?

Samael's lips curl to bare his teeth as he viciously swipes the thought away with another lash of his tail.

It doesn't matter, he tells himself resolutely. You hadn't seen him, nobody witnessed the event, you'll carry on none-the-wiser while he strikes the whole mishap from his memory.

The Horsemen will come and take you away, as he intended.

Yes... Just as he intended.

EDIT: Holy shift I just realised I got so caught up in Samael's story, I never wrote Strife's!!!!!!! I'm so sorry!!!!

#darksiders #darksiders 2 #darksiders 3 #samael #samael x reader #demon x reader #pining #big bad dreams of gentle love

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jingsyuans · 8 months

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Sub/bottom Jing Yuan but like he wants to be spoiled and ruined because ffs he has to be responsible for so much stuff and act calm and collected 😤

He deserves to not have to think, it's your job to do that however you deem necessary. It could be fucking him yourself or strapping him to a very advanced sex machine that just rails him how he needs it after you've tied him up 😤😤😤 doesn't matter, he deserves to get fucked senseless and his back blown out for all the hard work he does without fail even if he does procrastinate a little bit, he's a good boy and you need to spoil him rotten because he's earned this!

Listen I am frothing at the idea of Jing Yuan mentally counting down the days until he gets absolutely wrecked by you as a reward for his hard work, listen if he could have it his way he'd get ruined by you every single day and night but noooooo he has be the general for Loufu and make sure things stay safe and sound.

He can't exactly do that if he's fucked senseless and lowkey in his sub/bottoming headspace smh smh he hates it and occasionally he acts like such a brat about the situation that you have to punish him by pushing back the date of when he can just let lose and not be anything more than your good boy (he gets so weepy and pouty when it happens but he'll acknowledge that he did break major rules that both of you agreed to before this started, just cuddle and baby him and he'll be able to hold out those extra days/weeks), listen you want everything to be safe sane and consensual bdsm practices.

Jing Yuan cannot wait to retire so he can get ruined by his darling spouse more often in smaller time frames.

Listen you guys have a bdsm dungeon in your place (you treat like a vacation home since you two are married now but in your youth hed sneak over to be ravaged hehe) the place is so secure and gets updated with every major tech security update Loufu gets its hands on, he couldn't exactly have it in the shared house you two have because of well Yanqing accidentally finding it.

Jing Yuan loves discovering you've added something new to the collection of toys and whatnot you've amassed over the years.

Though his most favorite thing is a simple red leather collar with a name tag and a very intimate but inconspicuous pet name engraved on the metal, he's especially giddy when you have him wear it under his general attire. Always seems to get more work done when you have him wear it.

Sorry I was possessed by the horny smh I gotta calm down

Good good good!!! Good food!!

I love your detail about him counting the days -- i can definitely see that happening. It lacks romance having to schedule your times together so much that you even have to schedule intimacy as well, but ah, it only happens during critical periods, not all the time. But you do in fact schedule those intimacy periods specifically for the reason that it helps clear Jing Yuan's head and he actually does a much better job at work afterwards. JY texting you casually like you're a whore what time you're going to be servicing him in the future.... you ask him if that's his intention the first few times, feeling a little surprised, and he just looks at you. "You're not going to say no, are you?" An eyebrow raised. "If that's what you really want... I suppose I can pay you." (He doesn't really mean this, says these sorts of things for your reaction and then laughs so sweetly, cooing at you that he wouldn't ever treat you that way.... (he does))

I also love the idea of pushing the date back as either a precaution because you don't think it's appropriate timing or as a punishment. If he's not the one pushing back the date, he acts scandalized, as if you ripped something precious from him (your cock). Definitely tries to sweet talk his way into convincing you otherwise. But if you really don't want to... you're absolutely right. He'd pout. A lot. A ploy at first to get you to fold for him and then it becomes genuine when you do not give in. But you coax him so sweetly with other pleasures- a nice hot bath, massage his back a little bit, hold him in bed... this is relaxing too. Not the same, but still good. JY is just a little spoiled, that's all.

(And since he's spoiled and always gets his way, he probably goes to sleep with you warming his cock. You have to give him SOMETHING... he was looking forward to today, you know? It's not the same, but at least let him ravage you a little bit instead. He won't take no for an answer.)

#jing yuan smut #jing yuan #jing yuan x reader #honeyed gifts #hsr #Honkai star rail #hsr x reader #hsr jing yuan #jing yuan reader insert #smut

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chaoticm0therfvcker · 12 days

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Beach Day (ElderLily modern au)

Elder Faerie and White Lily are on their first date since they tied the knot and got married to each other, and it’s your classic day at the beach! Sadly, Elder Faerie isn’t as excited for this as he’s acting, for he has a secret he’s kind of ashamed of

Tags: transmasc elder faerie, body dysmorphia, elder faerie has top surgery scars, a shitload of fluff and cuteness

“I can’t wait to show you the beach! It’s so beautiful.” White Lily excitedly told Elder Faerie.

As a kid, Coconut Beach was one of her favorite places to visit, next to Dragon Hill. It was this beautiful beach, with the softest sand, the clearest water, the cleanest coast, and so, so many different sea shells and little fish, and even some bits of coral from a coral reef near the coastline. That beach, as well as the national park, sparked her love for travel, and as soon as she was old enough to be on her own, she traveled the world, discovering new cultures and figuring out who she truly was.

It’s how she met Elder Faerie, it’s how she fell into that coma, it’s how she discovered all the fear and grief and darkness that plagued the world and sparked yet another passion, one for peace and love and justice and prosperity. But above all else, it’s how she realized just how precious her friends and her lover truly are, and how despite her now fragile form, she must care for them in any and every way possible. Crazy how the butterfly effect works, huh?

That beach changed her life, and now, that beach was going to be hers and Elder Faeries first date since they married and moved in together.

“And I can’t wait to see it, my love.” Elder Faerie replied, glancing at his wife and smiling softly.

Admittedly, Elder Faerie was happy to be going to this beach. He had seen just how happy Lily was to be taking him to this place, and the way her eyes lit up while describing this place to him, and after seeing all the horrible things she had been through recently, he knew he had to do whatever possible in order to preserve that innocent joy. Even if that meant facing a fear that had been looming over his head for years now.

See, Elder Faerie is a transgender Man. He was born a girl, with his cutesie innocence and his love for both cute girl stuff like fashion and makeup along with boyish stuff like video games and fantasy weapons. However, when he hit puberty, he realized something was off about his identity, about the way his soul felt broken when he developed curves and breasts, and his suspicions were confirmed when he discovered the gender spectrum in health class; he realized that he was in fact, a man. Sure, he still liked the classic “girly stuff” like cute dresses and his long, luxurious hair that reached down to his waist, but didn’t mean that he was truly a man.

He was a man stuck in a girls body, and now with a new body build and a bunch of crazy hormones, he was aware of how trapped he was, and he hated it.

Of course, White Lily knew all of this, and it almost made her love him even more. The way he braved such a difficult time, how he discovered such an amazing thing about himself, and how he was willing to share such a personal detail with her made her heart flutter with admiration and love.

However, because of his gender identity, Elder Faerie had gotten top surgery when he was in his early twenties, and while White Lily was fully aware of this too, she had never seen the scars left behind by his procedure.

Despite how wonderful he felt no longer having breasts, he hated those damned scars. It felt like some sort of burden, a dark secret that was harder to own up to than even realizing that he was trans. It made him feel incomplete, disgusting, fake. He had tried overcoming his fear by coming up with some stupid scar story like trying to dry a kitchen knife off with his shirt, but nothing realistic enough came to mind.

He wanted so desperately to believe that White Lily would accept him no matter what kind of scars were on his body, but nothing could calm his fear.

“…sunscreen, umbrella, drinks…” White Lily was mumbling to herself. She then turned to Elder Faerie, who had a wide-eyed blank expression on his face as he tightly clutched the steering wheel. “Are you okay, honey?”

Elder Faerie snapped out of his daze and glanced at White Lily with a confused expression on his face. “Huh? Oh, of course, I’m just thinking of all the wonderful things that might be at this magical beach you love so much. I packed my bathing suit, right?”

“You’re wearing it, silly. Don’t you remember putting on your swim trunks before we left?” White Lily giggled, “Are you… sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” Elder Faerie reassured her, “just tired I guess.”

Just then, they pulled into the beach’s parking lot, and after finding a place to park, they got out and unloaded their stuff. Walking onto the soft sand on the beach, the couple found a spot, laid out their towel, and got to enjoying the beach. They shared snacks and drinks, made cute little sandcastles, and talked about life together.

Then, White Lily wanted to get in the water.

“I’m going to get changed into my bathing suit,” she said, pointing her thumb at the nearby bathroom, “why don’t you take your shirt off so we can go swimming? The water is really nice.”

Elder Faerie nodded. “Go ahead, I’ll be here waiting for you.”

Once she had walked off, Elder Faerie sat down on the towel and wrapped his arms around his knees, burying his head in the space between his knees and his chest. He just felt so… ashamed. He was ashamed of his body, of the scars on his chest, of his fear, of his cowardice, hell, he was ashamed of his shame! Most of all, he was ashamed of his lack of trust in his own wife. He knew White Lily loved him for who he was, and that she would be perfectly fine with the remnants of his top surgery. However, something deep within him was withholding his ability to show her the truth. Would she really be fine with it? Even if she was, how would she react to the way he kept this from her. There were just too many variables to trust that it would go well.

“Fae…?”

Elder Faerie’s head shot up at the sound at his nickname, and he saw White Lily standing before him, looking concerned. “Fae, what’s wrong? You’ve seemed off all day.”

“I’m okay, I promise.” Elder Faerie replied, shaking his head.

“Honey…” White Lily sat in front of Elder Faerie, “I can tell that something’s wrong. I know you want to support me and share my passions and stuff, but I don’t want you do feel like I forced you to come here.”

“No, it’s not that, I wanted to come here! I just-“ his breath hitched, and he could feel the sting of tears in the corners of his eyes, “I just-”

Before he could say anything more, White Lily leaned forward and pulled him into a hug, squeezing him tightly and nuzzling her nose into the crook of his neck. “It’s okay, Fae. You don’t have to worry about anything, i promise. I won’t force you to tell me what’s wrong, but I can’t help you if you don’t communicate with me. Just tell me what you need from me and I’ll do whatever I can to make you feel better.”

Though hesitant at first, Elder Faerie returned the hug, relaxing into White Lily’s grasp. “There’s… something that I need to show you.”

Elder Faerie stood up and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging it off of his shoulders. There was his bare chest, featuring his top surgery scars.

White Lily stood as well and gazed at the scars, gently reaching out and grazing them with her fingertips. “This is what you wanted to show me?”

“As you know before we met, I got top surgery.” Elder Faerie explained. “The doctors removed the breast tissue, and I didn’t have boobs anymore, and it felt amazing. But these scars, they made me feel ugly and unwanted. I know I could’ve easily trusted you to see them, but I couldn’t bring myself to show you.”

Once he had finished, White Lily immediately pulled him into a loving kiss. “You are not ugly, you are the most beautiful person in the universe, and you have been the most amazing boyfriend ever. Even before we confessed our love for each other, even when I was in that coma, you were the most incredible man that I could have ever encountered in my entire life, and a few scars aren’t going to change my view of you.”

“I’ve just felt so ashamed of them,” Elder Faerie admitted, “I was ashamed of my scars, and ashamed of my own inability to tell you. I mean, I’m supposed to be the brave one in this relationship! I’m supposed to support you, protect you, keep you safe and loved! And I’ve survived so much, and yet I’m afraid of showing you a few little scars.”

“It’s okay to be scared, my love.” Lily replied, “it’s okay to be vulnerable, and you don’t need to protect me. And how I see it, these scars tell a story. One of pain and fear and confusion and doubt, but also one of hope and love and triumph. They tell a story of a challenge you were able to overcome and the way it changed you for the better.”

Elder Faerie looked at his girlfriend lovingly, feeling himself start to tear up again. “I love you so much…”

“I love you more~” White Lily replied in a cheerful, sing-song tone of voice, “now c’mon, once you touch the water you’re going to love it.”

White Lily grabbed her lovers hand and started to pull him towards the water. Elder Faerie happily followed, quickening his pace so that he could walk next to her. Once they reached the water, White Lily dipped her toes in, Elder Faerie following suit. Then White Lily playfully kicked water at him.

“Hey!” Elder Faerie said through giggles. Putting his hands up defensively, he kicked water at White Lily as well, earning a giggle and a similar response from White Lily. Soon, the tension between them had melted away, and it was as if their sad yet intimate moment had never happened. The two were playing like kids, giggling and splashing each other, swimming out into the deeper parts of the water, and even exploring the nearby coral reef, White Lily of course having to wave hello to all the cute little fish that swam past them.

Soon, hours had passed by, and by the time they had dried themselves off and loaded their stuff back into the car, the sun was setting behind them.

“Today was amazing,” Elder Faerie gushed, “you were right, that beach is amazing.”

“I told you, that beach changed my life,” White Lily agreed, “I know it’s just sand and water, but that beach is the reason I decided to explore the world, and we both know what would’ve happened if I had never traveled.”

Elder Faerie chuckled lightly. “Well, you did travel, and we met, and we fell in love, and now we’re married, so it doesn’t matter.” He hesitated for a moment, then added “Maybe we should go there more often. Maybe even invite my little brother and his son when they visit.”

White Lily smiled softly and rested her head on her husband’s shoulder.

“That would be amazing…”

Taglist: @janayuga @katsunemillennium @trustymikh @c00kietin @tartelongan @cedric-my-beloved

#cookie run kingdom #cookie run #crk #crk modern au #white lily cookie #elder faerie cookie #elderlily #transmasc elder faerie #cookie run fanfic

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michellemisfit · 5 months

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Shameless Fandom Questionnaire

Thanks for the tag my love @darlingian 💚

What’s a fic you’ve read more than once?

What haven’t I read more than once? I have 350+ open tabs and yet, here I am, re-reading @loftec’s None The Wiser. AGAIN. Because it makes me happy, and what is fandom about, if not making you happy? Other things that make me happy: Two of Your Earth Minutes by @the-rat-wins, The Menagerie & Twenty Strangers & On Top by @crossmydna, Cooperative Gameplay & Like Real People Do by Gray, An Exception to the Rule by @gallawitchxx, Weaver of Fate by Ravenheart, Life or Something by @palepinkgoat, The Garden Song duology by @gardenerian, Ristretto by @howlinchickhowl, let the bodies do the talking by @captainjowl, basically anything that @sam-loves-seb has ever written!!! Also anything by @crestfallercanyon who has been completely blowing me away. And like, a million more!!!

I also still merrily re-read stuff from the Merlin fandom and the Shadowhunters fandom, so if that’s of interest to you, hit me up and I will link you to several excessively long rec lists on the @f-f-podcast website, complete with accompanying podcasts!

All I’m saying is: RE-READING IS LOVE!!!

(Also I formatted this on my phone so hopes and prayers that all of these links are correct!!)

What’s a gifset you always have to reblog?

‘Kiss me and I’ll cut your fucking tongue out’ into Club Kiss. It is genuinely one of the cleverest things I’ve ever seen!!

What’s a headcanon you can’t stop thinking about?

Mickey going along to Ian’s therapy session, on Ian’s request, and eventually deciding that he’s going to give this therapy thing a go himself.

What’s a fanart you love looking at?

I am utterly in love with @deedala’s style and Smokey Mickey and Gardening Joy always make me smile. I also absolutely adore @gallawitchxx’s style and wish I could be that bold and succinct in my own art.

What’s an idea you’d love to create if you had the time/inspiration?

I’ve been thinking about Ian & Mickey shot gunning for like… a year now 🤦

What’s something you’ve discovered since entering this fandom? A new trope you love? A different analysis of the show? Something else?

Currently discussing every episode of Shameless over on @f-f-podcast so basically discovering new things every week! Check it out if podcasts are your jam <3

What’s an underrated trope or concept you’d like to see more of?

There can never be too many coffee shop AUs, right? Not an underrated trope, but surprisingly underrepresented in this fandom 😭

What’s your favourite season?

Autumn! haha

Honestly, I’ll tell you when we’re done with South Side Rules, as we’re rating every episode, but we’re also rating each season overall so… watch this space in 2025!

What’s a plot hole you wish had been answered or resolved?

Urgh. Don’t. Yikes… Yevgeny. Mandy. Fiona. Everyone else on Shameless who disappeared and then was never spoken of again. Like… what the heck? You don’t need to get the actors back. Just get the other characters to mention them, so I don’t feel like the writers forgot they existed! Also don’t give me Dichen Lichman and then just take her away!!! 😭

What scene or moment do you feel isn’t discussed enough?

Every time Mickey has to say the end of his sentence directly into Ian’s mouth because Ian can’t wait the extra 3 seconds to let him finish, he needs his lips on that boy’s mouth NOW! They’re so precious and horny and I love that for them!

What line/dialogue/description from something else do you feel describes Ian and Mickey’s relationship?

90% of Richard Siken’s poems

What do you think is next for Ian and Mickey post-finale?

They’ll be deliriously happy forever and ever and nothing bad is ever going to happen to them. It’s terribly simple. The good guys are always stalwart and true, the bad guys are easily distinguished by their pointy horns or black hats, and we always defeat them and save the day.

#tag game #shameless questionnaire #fandom #fanfic #shameless fic rec #shameless fox #gallavich #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #shameless #tag you’re it

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pttucker · 4 months

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Among all those comments, a particular one caught her attention. – Dear author-nim. It was a great read. May I ask about your release schedule? Such an unparalleled naivete that made him use his real name as the username. Han Sooyoung stared at that name for a long, long time. She looked closer, and discovered another comment attached to it. – Are you… going to release another chapter tomorrow? She repeatedly clenched and unfurled her fists many times. Sweat was soaking her small hands. Is it really okay for me to write this? Even then, isn't it fine this way? Han Sooyoung hesitated for a long time, before typing her reply. While thinking about a certain someone, still alive beyond this screen. While thinking about a certain boy who'd breathe, eat, shout some nonsense about 'I'm Yoo Joonghyuk', and do whatever it takes to endure his own apocalypse. And so, the story of a regressor that reached 3149 chapters started in this manner. – Yes. A new chapter will be published tomorrow.

I WAS RIGHT!!!!!!!!

Well, I was right after I spent like half the novel convinced the author was actually Dokja. At least I wasn't alone in thinking that, considering Sooyoung thought so too. 😂

Though I do love that it's not at all how I thought it was. I figured she was the author and just forgot because she lost half her memories to her avatar and just assumed that Dokja wrote it because that was the most logical option that her Predictive Plagiarism could come up with.

Was not expecting all this wibbly wobbly, timey wimey stuff, though I guess I should have by the time I reached the end of the novel and all sorts of things in the beginning were being affected by the ending. Time travel. Dimension travel. Just full of paradoxes.

I loooooove though that the novel is "trash" because she has to speed write it as fast as possible based on vague memories while using Predictive Plagiarism (...plagiarizing herself...) because she only has a limited time with her own body and also because she needs to keep Dokja engaged, needs to pump out chapters as fast as humanly possible to give him his reason to live until the next day.

And I love that the reason it only has one view is because she doesn't bother to read it, not even to typo check. She already knows it has a reader. A paradox it may be, I love that the novel truly was written for Dokja and not just after the first hundred or so chapters when all the other readers fell off. Nope, it was written for him and him alone from the very beginning. Sooyoung already knows that she doesn't have to make it good, she just has to make it, and that in turn will save him, even if it dooms millions of others.

Oh man, Sooyoung seeing him in the hospital after he tried to jump out of a window and wondering where the heck tls123 is, why haven't they started posting yet, they need to hurry up and save this unbelievably precious idiot. 😭💖

Sooyoung of all people having to wrestle with the knowledge that if she saves one person, she will kill billions (perhaps trillions) of other people across multiple worldlines.

Well, actually, perhaps it's fitting that it is Sooyoung of all people because I don't know how many others in Dokja's party who would doom this entire universe of parallel worlds to save a single person, even if that single person is Dokja himself.

Like, it parallels pretty well with what's going on with Sooyoung's other half...she's the weird one in the group who wants to go save the Dokja they left on the train while even Dokja's incarnation is worried that they're going to cause a lot of harm in the process and open up another worldline of tragedy, which they all know Dokja would not want.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that Han Sooyoung is perhaps one of the few people selfish enough to save Kim Dokja at the cost of the entire universe and it's so interesting to think back on the fact that she literally tried to get Joonghyuk to kill him way back in the earliest chapters and now she's using Joonghyuk to save him.

(Oh man...when Joonghyuk finds out who his creator is...)

#granted it's almost difficult to think of hsy as yjh's creator because of all the weird circular time travel stuff #like...yjh lived as a real person because dokja read about him...dokja read about him because hsy wrote it...#hsy wrote it based on things dokja told her and things the living breathing yjh said and did or MIGHT have based on his real personality #...the personality that she gave him...which dokja read and brought to life...which made hsy write it later...around and around we go #like she's his creator but also it's almost like yjh created himself along with the help of dokja???#lol orv you hurt my brain sometimes but I love you #(also hankim shippers rise up! get you a woman who will destroy the universe for you!)#orv spoilers #orv epilogue spoilers #orv #orv novel chapter 532 #omniscient reader's viewpoint #orv liveblog #hsy #kdj

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ichijager13 · 1 year

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A part of you and I

established relationship, aged-up characters, married couple, pregnancy announcement, fluffy stuff.

A/N: This is just me having a baby fever and a massive crush on Eren Jäger.

You have been restless since you came from your appointment with your doctor. You glanced at your watch for the umptieth time this evening. you spent the afternoon making and decorating the celebration cake. You have already set the table and got dressed. Eren, your husband should be home any minute now. For some reason you were nervous. You have already discussed the matter with him and you both agreed you are ready for having kids. But talking and actually discovering you are pregnant were two different things. Pregnant, you love the sound of the word. You love the feeling and the thought of having a soul growing inside of you. a part of you and of the man you love. You have asked your doctor, who happens to be Mikasa your husband’s best friend and colleague not to tell him anything. You wanted to surprise him, hence the cake and the dress you wore.

You were checking your watch once again when you heard the door crack open, the sound of the keys being tossed, your dog jumping happily and playing with his master, and the usual “Honey, I’m home”.

“Good evening, dear”. You greeted helping him shrug off his coat. “How was your day?”

“Good evening my love, I had an excellent day”. he pressed his lips to yours. “You look wonderful, and you smell so nice”. He whispered in your ear making your face brighten. He left a couple of wet kisses on your neck before pulling back. “Are we celebrating something?” He inquired holding you in his arms. Smiling sheepishly, you nodded before peppering his lips and cheeks with kisses. “Care to explain?” without a word you guided him to the kitchen.

Still smiling you served two slices of cake with a cup of coffee for him and tea for you before taking place at the table next to him.

“I have wonderful news”. Your heart was pounding against your ribcage and your blood was rushing through your veins. You baited your lower lip. “In a few months, another member will join our family. I’ve seen Mikasa today and she confirmed it”. you took his hand in yours. “We will become parents, Eren”. His eyes grew wider and a slow smile crept up his lips. You have always believed that he looks splendid when smiling. “Do you wanna see it?” he bobbed his head vigorously. You handed him the ultrasound.

You stood behind him with your arms wrapped around his shoulders. You breathed in the comforting scent of his citrus cologne and aftershave. He slowly caressed the images. It felt surreal to him, you have been trying for four months now. Knowing that he will soon become a father, that you are carrying the product of your love, his baby, left him speechless. He wanted to say something, to tell you how happy he feels. He wanted to communicate his joy, to describe it but failed to find the proper words to verbalize it.

“I can’t believe it”. his voice was barely audible. “Finally”. When he finally tore his eyes from the ultrasound and looked up at you, you felt your heart speeding and butterflies gushing in your stomach. His eyes were shining. With trembling hands, he reached for your face. “Thank you, my love”. he breathed before his lips met yours for a sweet kiss. “This is the most precious thing you can offer me”. he spoke voice filled with emotions; he pulled you onto his lap before kissing you again. This time the kiss was longer and more passionate. “You can’t imagine how happy I am, how long I have been waiting for this moment”. He pressed his forehead against yours. You can feel him smiling against your lips and this made you feel overwhelmed. “I’m going to be a father, the father of your child”. You nodded. “I love you”.

“I love you too”. You replied before exchanging other kisses. You remained like this for a while kissing and hugging each other.

“Who else knows?” he asked both hands cupping your rosy cheeks.

“Only Mikasa”. You caressed his jawline still smiling. “I wanted you to be the first one. I’ll call my parents and yours tomorrow”. You buried your face in the crook of his neck. His warmth and strong arms around you always make you feel safe. One of his hands caressed your hair softly as he continued to whisper sweet nothings in your ear and nibble your lobe and neck. “Let me preheat your coffee, you have been out the whole day in this cold”. You plant another kiss on his lips before you pull away.

“The cake is delicious”. He commented taking another bite. “Future papa, future mama”. He read what you wrote with chocolate. “The most beautiful and sweet mama”. He caressed your face when you refilled his cup of coffee.

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8thplacewolfos · 11 months

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Caregiver Albert Wesker Headcanons!

There is a distinct lack of caregiver Wesker content in the Resident Evil Agere tag and I wanna change that. This man would be a great caregiver! So let's show him some love! These can be interpreted as partner caregiver or platonic caregiver. I personally imagine Wesker being more of a parent-type caregiver, so that’s what I describe him as.

Reader (you) is referred to with neutral pronouns. This is for purely non-sexual, sfw age regression. DNI if you sexualize age regression.

Content warning: food, brief mention of discipline, lil sad when mentioning Wesker’s background

How Wesker finds out about agere

Albert notices you've been acting... childish. Some of the lunches you packed yourself for work have caught his eye; the little bags of fruit snacks, milk boxes, and Goldfish are far from your usual sophisticated grown-up food. You’ve been watching all of these colorful cartoons that are all so foreign to him.

He’d be lying if he said it didn’t make him feel warm. It brings him much needed peace to see you curled up in all your blankets, with the lights of the TV dancing over your face. But he needs to get to the bottom of… whatever it is you’re doing. It makes him feel feelings, and he just has to know what it is.

Albert is a man of science; the minute he discovers a concept that's new to him, he does a whole deep-dive on it. These behaviors are out of the norm for you, so of course he starts doing some research. He scrolls through forums, psychology articles, all sorts of things, until he ultimately comes to the conclusion that… you must be an age regressor!

So he prepares all sorts of articles on age regression and caregiving, eagerly awaiting your return home so that he can talk to you about it. He hates to admit it, but he’s really hoping you’ll allow him to take care of you when you’re small! You’re so very precious to him after all, and he loves to provide for his favorite people.

Once you get home, he sits down and enthusiastically explains what he thinks you’re doing. He’s also heard that regressors like to have caregivers, whether it be a sibling or a parent, or even a babysitter, to engage with while regressed, and that he’d be more than happy to be that for you.

You two talk it out, establish boundaries, and eventually, it’s decided that Albert can be your Papa when you’re small! He’s over the moon excited, and you are too!

Caregiving style

Despite his grumpy exterior, Albie is actually sugar sweet! But only to his little one, of course. Only you get to see him at his nicest.

He loves to spoil you with all sorts of presents. Gift giving is one of his love languages! So sometimes he’ll bring home new stuffies and toys for you to play with, just because he was feeling generous.

Albie thinks manners are important. He’ll get his precious angel anything they want as long as they say “please” and “thank you”!

He’s not a very strict Papa, but he’s not afraid to put you in a time-out for bratty behavior, if he deems it necessary. But it never is; he’ll just break out his stern voice and that’s as far as he has to go.

Weskie gets along with any age range, but he has a bit of a preference for younger kiddos, ‘cause he thinks they’re easier to keep an eye on. Little does he know, if a kiddo wants to get up to mischief, they will, no matter their age >:3 !

As far as nicknames go, his go-to is Papa, but he will use whatever his little one is comfortable with. He’ll even let you call him Albie (or even Weskie! He may not act like it, but he thinks that one’s super cute!)

I think he prefers more “classical” nicknames for his little one. Things like: angel, dearest, little one, prince/princess/princex, ray of sunshine, and who could forget dearheart!

He likes to make little schedules and activities for you to do during the day. It also helps him keep himself organized. He’s got the morning routine, breakfast time, lunchtime, nap time, and bedtime, with breaks for fun stuffs in between.

Secretly though, nap time is for him- he gets sleepy during the day, he needs a break! And what could be a better break than cuddling with his little one for a cat nap!

Wesker glances down at his watch. It reads exactly 15:00; nap time for his little one! Just in time, too, they’d been yawning and rubbing their eyes for a bit now. “Angel,” he calls, tilting his head down to see his precious one nuzzled into his chest. His mouth quirks into a soft smile. “I think it’s time for a rest, don’t you? Come lay down with Papa for a little while.” The kiddo doesn't stir, so he arranges them in his arms so that he can carry them to their room on his hip.

Oh, and he gives the bestest cuddles. He’s super clingy; he just loves having his baby in his arms, them murmuring all content and sleepy into his chest while he plays with their hair. He tries not to fall asleep, but… you know how that goes. He just can’t resist!

Caregiving just makes him feel safe and needed. It warms his heart to have you trust him so much, to be so vulnerable around him.

It's a big secret, but Albie will sometimes let you try on his sunglasses!

Albert watches his little one reach their hands up toward his face, not quite high enough to make contact, but enough. They squeeze their hands and whine quietly, looking up at him with those big puppy eyes. "What is it, sweet one? Use your words, please, or Papa won't know how to help." This time, they tap his sunglasses. He chuckles, a smile blooming upon his face. "Oh, would you like to borrow my glasses, dear? How cute. But first, what's the magic word?" The little one asks for Wesker's glasses politely. "Very good! You have such good manners, my little angel." He grants their wish, gracefully removing his sunglasses and placing them on his kiddo's face. He laughs with delight, for the first time in a long while, relishing how happy his little one looks now that they've got their Papa's glasses.

Favorite activities

Albie likes to listen to and watch you play pretend. He never really got the chance to do that when he was a kid. He'd look on at you and your toys with a wistful smile, but he'd be overwhelmingly happy for you. If he's not busy, he'll join your game!

Turning from his desk, Wesker lowers his sunglasses, sparing a look at his little one as they sit on the floor surrounded by stuffies. It's been a while, perhaps a break from his work couldn't hurt. He stands from his chair, approaching his baby and their toys. He picks up a stuffed animal and sits next to them, cross-legged. "What are you up to, my little angel? Having fun with your friends? Would you like to tell Papa about the little world you've made?"

Weskie also likes to cuddle and watch movies with you. He hasn't seen many kids movies, so while you may be watching your favorite movie for the hundredth time, Wesker is watching it for the first. He'll ask you questions about it too!

If you like to play video games, Wesker will happily sit with you while you play, helping you figure out puzzles and praising you when you beat bosses. If you like games like Animal Crossing, he'll even offer up some advice on decorations!

If you're a science kiddo, and even if you're not, he'll find all sorts of fun little "experiments" for you to do. And he's happy to explain the science behind why they work, too! He's a great teacher!

But his most favorite activity is reading you stories. He reads a lot of grown-up books, and he's happy to read you those, too, if you can handle them. But if not? He'll of course read you more traditional kid's books. He has such a nice, soothing voice, you could listen to him talk for hours!

That's all I got for now! I may or may not follow this up with a part two, but I am most definitely going to start work on a petre version! Thank you to @woofkie for the inspo and the help along the way! It is much appreciated, and I hope you like ^ - ^ !

And thank you for reading!

#resident evil agere #fandom agere #sfw caregiver #cg!albert wesker #age regression #caregiver headcanons #horror agere

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blueberrybladelemonade · 3 months

Text

Colors of Familiarity

Summary: You're waiting for your boyfriend. Unfortunately some loser takes it upon themselves to flirt with you in the meantime.

Contains: Being UNfashionbly late, Bad pickup lines, Repeated use of cosmetics.

Another Pepperman x Reader fic

Inspired by my friend @pervertedindividual and this silly doodle :3

You eyes drift lazily down to your watch. Where the hell is he? A frown tugs at your lips. It had been far passed when Pepperman had told you to meet him here. This was unlike him. You scan your surroundings once more, hoping to spot a flash of red anywhere. Phil was always on time.

As twenty minutes turned to thirty you pull out your phone. The name "Precious Pepper" flashes across the screen as you attempt to call. Worry invades your thoughts as you hear the voicemail play. Was he ok?

Footsteps started out faint but grew louder as someone approached nearby. If he doesn't get here in the next ten- Your thoughts were interrupted by a cough. As you glance to the side you realize a person is standing beside you. You quirk an eyebrow as his gaze remains locked onto you.

"Can I help you?" You ask, unable to keep the irritation from your voice, the person was much closer than you'd have liked.

His expression brightened as he take another step closer to be right next to you. "Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again"?

"Go ahead. I need to practice hitting a moving target." You deadpan taking a small sidestep away. As they drew nearer again you cast a small sideways glare. "I have a boyfriend".

You feel your body get warmer as anger begins to course through your veins.

"Can I buy you a drink?" He asks, undeterred. For a briefly moment you daydream about having karate skills and ripping this loser's lungs out as that smug expression remains plastered onto their stupid face.

In response roll your eyes. You desperately wishing to be somewhere, anywhere, else right now. "I'd rather just have the money". Pulling out your phone you busy yourself with typing a message to Pepperman, hoping this loser would get bored and leave.

Deep breaths. Phil told you to meet him here forty three minutes ago. He's still not here. You feel your eye twitch as the person continued trying to get your attention. That's it. You're going to do it.

"Are you an orphanage? Because I want to give-" the stranger lets out a scream as a red blur intercepts you both. With glee you watch as he careens through the air straight into the bushes.

"Oh thank god!" You sigh in exasperation. "I was about to knock his ass out"!

"Apologies my Y/N" Pepperman raises a hand to caress your cheek with his thumb. He cups your face gently, but firmly, looking you in the eyes. "I'm here now. It's alright".

"Why were you so late?" You whine.

"Something kept me." His face fell "I hadn't planned to be so late. I do understand if you do not wish to go on our planned date".

"Of course I want to." You take his hand in yours, placing a kiss to the back of his hand. After that, you watched his face light right back up.

"Now then? Shall we go"?

You nod enthusiastically, weaving his hand with yours as you skip across the sidewalk. "So where ARE we going"? Typically your dates consisted of going to museums, cafes, or creating art projects together.

"You'll see my dear. I have sonething new in mind. But first-" you let out a surprised yelp as your feet no longer touched the ground. In a fluid motion Pepperman scooped you up, carrying you in his arms.

"You are amazing, and I love that I get to be with you." He whispers, kissing the top of your head. Pepperman's eyes widened as your forehead now had a bright red splotch.

"What?" You tilt your head up at him curiously.

"N-nothing." He stammered, moving his arms down and -in turn- pulling you just a tiny bit further from his face. You shoot Pepperman a dubious squint. He chuckled nervously. "Aha...the weather is excellent for being outdoors today, don't you think"?

Please don't stare. Oh goodness does Y/N see it? I thought I had covered it quite well.

You hum happily in his arms, making Pepperman blink and look down at you. "It sure is! Are we going to be outside today"?

He holds you a little tighter and chuckles lightly. "Perhaps so my dear. But I'll give you a single hint to where we are going." He carefully leant forward and whispered into your ear. He returned your grin as your eyes widened and smiled brightly up at him. You let out a small whoop, not caring that a few people looked in your direction. Today was going to be great.

* * * * *

Earlier that day

"No no no! You can still see it"! Pepperman groans, hurriedly grabbing another face towel and wiping the makeup off. How many times had he done this now? Five? He lost track as his heart was thudding in panic as his eyes darted to the clock from the mirror.

He was late. UNfashionbly so. Pepperman dried his face before carelessly tossing the fabric to the side.

It was a race to get ready and Pepperman was losing. Assorted red hues speckled the counter top as rushed strokes met his skin. Eyes constantly were meeting the clock throughout as he applied and blended the colors. Was this color too dark? This one was too light and you can still see those dogged blemishes

Why did he have to get a nasty bout of pepper acne the day of your date?

From the other room his phone was ringing loudly. Drat. That must be Y/N. He looked down at his hands which were smudged with shades of red. Guilt etched into his face, if he answered then there would be an even bigger mess to clean.

Hold on my dear Y/N, I'm on my way. Momentarily.

At last Pepperman was ready. He may be thirty minutes late but every spot was successfully covered. Hurriedly he shoved a few items into his bag and quickly made his way out the door, hoping you wouldn't be too upset.

#pizza tower #pizza tower x reader #pizza tower fanfic #pepperman x reader #phil pepperman #🫐bladezfics

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fractualized · 2 months

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Hey

Don't really consume original batman comics, can't have acess to this things but I started to read and watch batjokes stuff. I'll say that I consume from the dark and reflecting to the wholesome peak, and one of that keeps heartwarming me is Telltale batjokes. Love how John can go from scary smiling creature to a precious sweetheart. Also like to see different versions of Joker interactions with the batfam in the various fancomics and fanfics. What makes think how I don't see many fics about John Doe with the batfam. Of course I see that is because the Telltale universe doesn't have the Bruce's kids, what is really sad because I think that "collision" could give us some truly great things.

What scenarios do you think it could be treated on these stories that you haven't saw being made yet?

Also, I saw once a post a person made talking how they'd like about John exploring more his sexuality. Like, that would focus more in the John's experiences out of Arkham BEFORE meeting Bruce again. Trying new clothes, talking with new people, discovering makeup (that I think he wouldn't get acess in Arkham). Do you have any thoughts about that too?

Recently I watched some videos that talk about John's possible disorders. How looks like he keeps switching from 'John' to 'Joker' and how he was way more "Joker" in Arkham, maybe having a kind of personality disorder. Sure, must be in that way because they wanted a different John from the one that we have in season one, but we can dream about this a little bit, can we?

That was long. Sorry for the errors, english it's not my language. Like your fics btw. The more I read some things, more I like the whole fan creation stuff and understand better too.

Thank you for the message, and for enjoying my fic! No worries about the length. I'll take your questions one by one:

John Doe and the Batfam

I think one of the reasons not a lot of people (including me) have incorporated the batfam into Telltale fic is that a big selling point for writing it is that the Telltale-verse is its own thing. There's much, much less history to complicate matters if you want to write a canon-compliant story, which includes there being no children to distract Bruce from his relationship with John, which a lot of fic focuses on. The batjokes is certainly what I enjoy! I don't have anything against the batfam (and I'm actually trying to read a little more about at least some of them), but since that interest has never been super high, my fic ideas never went in that direction.

If I do think about bringing in batfam, well, I get a little stuck.

While John is a lighter flavor of Joker, he's still a Joker, and Joker is not a parental person. In the comics he has had some interesting nonviolent interactions with kids, indulging or even protecting them, but that's not the same as being responsible for them. And one of the stronger Joker characteristics John has is his obsession with Bruce and wanting his attention. I don't think John would go all "Death of the Family" on a kid brought into the manor, but he would be wildly jealous. Like, my first plot bunny is John getting a visit from Bruce, who tells him about witnessing this tragic accident at the circus that left a poor child acrobat orphaned, and wanting to help him. Then over more visits, we get a story of little Dick Grayson insisting on investigating his parents murder, so intently that he becomes Bruce's vigilante partner. And John, who's been gnawing on his jealousy over Bruce spending all this time with some kid, loses his shit that an 8-year-old is a better vigilante than he ever was. Just spiraling about how Bruce is forgetting about him. He breaks out, insisting he can help, but just gets thrown back in again. A tragedy!

Okay, let's try one with John out of Arkham, and let's go non-chronological this time and say Bruce meets Jason Todd first. Jason's trying to steal the batmobile's tires, of course, but he's also a witness to a murder or something, so Bruce brings him home. This time John directly witnesses Bruce bonding with a troubled kid, and the jealousy is worse because John recognizes all the ways Bruce calms him down. John and Jason don't get along at all because John is constantly trying to get Bruce to shuttle this kid off to a nice foster home, but similar to the scenario above, Jason's moxy earns him a Robin spot. Then a twist! Jason has leaned into Bruce's mentoring because he wants to find his mother, who he's sure is alive! And John is like, well dang, I'll help you find her if it gets you out of my house. And in some eerie parallels to Jason's comic death, they end up overseas and find Sheila Haywood, who it turns out is defrauding the aid organization she works for. On being discovered, the men she's working with attack Jason, and John has this terrible opportunity to take his jealousy past the brink and let whatever happens to Jason happen-- but he doesn't. He saves Jason instead, not just because he knows Bruce would be wrecked but because he sees parts of himself reflected in Jason. There, that's sort of nicer! I still don't think John would be parental after that, but it would be nicer??

John's Self-Exploration

See, the thing with John having new experiences after getting out of Arkham is that they have to be limited, because that's key to what happens with his character in the game. He's really struggling with finding who he is, because he keeps trying to emulate other people rather than figure out what he personally wants to do with this life. (Which would be understandable even if he was the average person. It's easier to model yourself after somebody else than to put yourself out there again and again to figure out what works for you.) Before Bruce reappears, John is focused on being who he thinks Harley wants him to be and having a place with the gang. It ties into his hatred for Riddler, who just outright disdained of him instead of simply tolerating him like, say, Freeze.

He still naturally does some exploration, of course. He has to dress himself outside of Arkham, and he's a talkative guy so he managed to find, uh, acquaintances outside of the Pact at the Stacked Deck. It probably would have helped him a lot if he'd done more of that, but as much as he seems to act independently in the game, all too often it's in service of impressing Harley or then Bruce. If I were to write about John's exploration, it would probably be about restraint. He would be full of curiosity about the ways other people express themselves, and he'd stifle it because he's not sure if that's what Harley would want. Makeup would be a big curiosity for sure, but I can see John not indulging either because he doesn't see a lot of other guys wear it or because he asked Harley if he could try her kit and she decided to psych him out about it because she could.

Is it too drastic to say that a John who had even trepidatious confidence for self-exploration might have found more balance and avoided his fate in the game? Maybe, but I have to wonder.

John In Arkham Versus Outside Arkham

Personally I tread lightly when it comes to assigning specific disorders to John. It's one thing if someone recognizes their own diagnosis in him and uses that to inform a fic. When it comes to the writing in the game, as far as I can tell, it was just working off characteristics common to the Joker: impulsive, manipulative, self-important, and infatuated with violence, with a poor sense of boundaries and an inappropriate sense of humor. Those traits may be consistent with certain disorders, but there aren't that many fic scenarios where I would feel the need to specify what applies to John, and in those cases I would be extremely careful. When it comes to pure speculation? I'm just not qualified. Heck, I have a fic where I gave John a heart diagnosis and I'm still hoping I wasn't super off-base.

As for the shift from "Joker" to "John," I ascribe to the fish-out-of-water explanation (which, yeah, papers over how Telltale simply needed to change his character for the story). John learned a more aggressive way to navigate life when he was incarcerated in a corrupt asylum, and when the rules he lived by there did not apply outside of it, he had to re-map. Not only did he have to learn different ways to behave, but he had to do it while feeling more off-kilter than usual, exposed and vulnerable. Make a mistake when living in Arkham, you just get put in a deeper hole in Arkham. Make a mistake outside of Arkham, you lose all your newfound freedom and get thrown back behind bars. I don't see a "switch" in John, just him reverting to more aggressive behavior at times, especially when he's under stress.

Well, I hope my thoughts were… interesting? I feel like I pushed back on most of your starting points and that's probably annoying. Sorry!

#ask #telltale batman #john doe #batjokes #anonymous #my jibber-jabber

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