#chess pawn works too.

[existencebringsonlypain]

alright, so if we do end up fighting Kris in the last chapter of Deltarune, we will most certainly win. For we are the player, and we have the power of saving and loading. Debatably, Kris has this too, but either way the end result is the same- This will be a fight of iteration and endurance.

I hypothesize that this fight will have two (or three, depending on how you look at it) endings: You persist, or you relent. Persistence would likely look like a LOT of grinding, figuring out which actions in what order will allow you to "win" and take control back over Kris. And relenting, or perhaps convincing them to relent, would look like A: fleeing or mercy, or B: the same thing as persistence, but choosing to pursue mercy. The third option would be death, and subsequently giving up.

Now, we must remember that Deltarune is a 2018 video game developed by American indie developer Toby Fox. Deltarune oriciy came from Toby's fever dream portraying the ending of a video game. So there's every chance that rather than having the option to either fight to achieve mercy or simply give up and die, you can only die. That IS the only way to free the game from the player. Any other way, and you'd still be in control.

This option also would align with Toby's "there is only one ending"- The ending is persistence, and taking over Kris again. The other "endings" are just death.

This alone makes me inclined to believe that that's exactly how it's gonna go. The only thing that makes me doubt this is how Deltarune is a commercial venture, and that's a pretty unsatisfying "ending". But I could absolutely see Toby doing it anyway.

For we are the player. And if we fight for it, we WILL win. But winning means making Kris suffer, and the only way to avoid that is to no longer fight.

#this also works with chess theory #if we go down the line to Pawn #which is likely to affect Kris a lot‚ since they are. also a pawn #then that could get them the willpower to resist our command for long enough to initiate a battle (presumably with the others on their side) #i initially wasnt too on board with chess theory since i really do think in the last chapter‚ we will fight kris #and kris IS a pawn‚ so you'd have to have two chapters with the same piece to end with pawn #the alternate way for this to work is you fight them in chapter 6‚ you can reach a compromise‚ #and then you all team up to fight‚ like‚ Gaster. or Toby. the real masterminds of this game- the creators #but that's REEEEALLY meta and while I don't doubt Toby would DO it #i don't think that's something he would have dreamed up in 2013 #especially with all the context #so. not too on board with that #QUICK GUYS INVEST IN THIS POST BEFORE IT TURNS OUT THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENS #OR THE OPPOSITE OF WHAT HAPPENS #nutdealer posting #deltarune #utdr #deltarune theory #deltarune analysis #sort of #theory #theorycrafting #that's just an inference #A GAME INFERENCE #or i suppose it IS a theory #this is what the recent matpat deltarune theory would be if he had the BALLS to go further with it #i mean. he does agree that we'll fight kris at the end. so #i dont remember much of the video‚ most of it was simply proving kris was sentient independent of us. which like. yea. we know #so i guess #that's just a theory

[feydfuckernation]

medieval chess au….? that sounds so cool

so originally i wanted to do some kind of historical au for chess set during the medieval era, but the more i looked into it the more i realized that trying to do something like that in a real world context while still keeping the same real world political context (apolitical chess is just not as interesting to me tbh) just wasn't going to work, so instead i decided to do what george r.r. martin did when he was writing game of thrones and use real world history (game of thrones was largely inspired by the war of the roses) and real world politics within the context of a fantasy setting, so the main conflict is still east vs west, but it's the eastern kingdoms vs the western kingdoms.

freddie is ser fredrick, the gilded lion, born and raised in the golden city (the main seat of power among the western kingdoms similar to king's landing, located by the sea) to become king, beloved by most while also being regarded as a petulant child that (seemingly) hasn't had to deal with any real hardship, and then across the emerald sea are the eastern kingdoms, a colder, harsher climate compared to the western kingdoms, which is where prince anatoly, the black prince (or the white wolf, depending on who you talk to), lives with his wife, svetlana, and his advisor, aleksander molokov, who himself was born in the small settlement of alexandrovitch, located just outside the black gates, which separates the northernmost mountain range and the freefolk lands from the rest of the southern kingdoms. florence, meanwhile, is ser florence, a former advisor and freddie's royal mistress whose family comes from the eastern kingdoms but grew up in the golden city before deciding she was fed up with her life and ran away to become a knight instead, and then other plot details that include things like anatoly abdicating the throne because he never wanted the responsibility of ruling a kingdom and leaving his wife to take over the responsibility instead as the czarina and her doing so knowing that there are people who depended on them for leadership and guidance (and honestly probably being better at it than he was), molokov secretly plotting to take over the throne for himself (having already earned himself the nickname of the wolf whisperer), freddie regularly competing in the tournaments held in the golden city and being a very capable warrior in his own right (he's big on jousting).

#typing this with a fucked up hand because i got way too excited thinking abt never play to win a pawn aka game of chess #so far most characters and locations have a corresponding game of thrones equivalent that served as its inspiration #like how molokov is basically petyr baelish #or how florence leaves to become a knight like brienne of tarth does #the eastern kingdoms are very much patterned after winterfell and the wall in addition to its real world equivalent of russia #as well as other slavic countries #while the western kingdoms are patterned after king's landing and the vale and highgarden #as well as mountains and forests and some of the deserts found here in the states #i still don't have Everything but i also just haven't worked on this in Awhile #but it's definitely one of my favourite aus i've ever worked on tbh #answered #nickclose #chess the musical #never play to win a pawn tag #the tirolean spa (my brain) once again has the chess boys in it #i also have a drawing of knight!anatoly somewhere if i can find it 👀

[casualhedonists]

✩ it don’t need your loving, it just needs attention ✩ (chapter three)

pairing: Coriolanus Snow x reader

chapter: 3/? (MASTERLIST)

warnings: NSFW (18+), snow being snow, themes of sex work (not the reader), cuckolding, eventual smut, fake relationship, unprotected sex, themes of voyeurism & mild exhibitionism, murder mention (but no actual murder) (not yet at least?), MAJOR manipulation/gross power dynamics + generally darkish themes, power play, oral sex, thigh riding, degradation, dirty talk, eventual piv, i’m new to full on smut bear with me here (and pls tell me if i forgot anything!)

i do not give permission for my work to be reposted/translated anywhere, under any circumstances.

taglist: if you’d like to be tagged, leave a comment on the masterlist post and i’ll add you! 💌

a/n: thank you for your patience and condolences / kind messages over the past week i’ve been awol. i’m very happy to be back. very long, filthy and much awaited chapter ahead, so strap in and hope you enjoy the ride.

in the words of miss zegler herself: oh we are so back.

You weren’t sure how long he stared at you, smiling with a fire in his eyes that rivalled yours until it was eclipsed. A third and final time, you found yourself speechless, dumbstruck, and one final time, much like the others, you took a few shaky steps backwards, before turning and fleeing.

He knew. He’d known this whole time. How long had he been planning this? Exactly how much of this had been an act, with Snow puppeteering you as you slowly lost your mind?

You almost felt pity for the girl, because she was played just like you were. She was a mere pawn in his game of chess, where he’d toyed with you until you were backed into a corner, unable to make a move.

Well, not this time. Now you knew what he was playing, you were ready to up your game. This wouldn’t be another stalemate; you wanted to win, and you had a few ideas of where to start.

You were already up and dressed when you heard a knock at your door the next morning.

Dreading the worst – despite the fact that Snow had never actually been in your room before, but the rules had changed now and you weren’t sure quite how much – you paused for a second to prepare yourself, praying that he wouldn’t be there, ready to put a stop to your plans before they’d even started.

You fell lucky. It was one of Snow’s footmen, George.

“Good morning, ma’am. I, um.” He swallowed, not meeting your eye. “I have a message from Master Snow. He’d like for you to meet him for breakfast in a half hour, if you will. He says you have something… quite important to discuss.”

Typical Snow. Never liked to get his hands dirty. Too proud to knock at your door himself.

You considered.

“George, could you please tell Coriolanus that if I’ve already eaten, and that I’ll come to him when I see fit. If he isn’t satisfied,” you added, for his sake, as you knew Snow wasn’t above killing the messenger, “Say I have an urgent matter to tend to, and I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

You grew a lump in your throat from your refusal, fearing the consequences. But you’d set your plan into motion now and there was no going back. Once George had been sent on his way, you snuck down the stairs on the far end of the building and slipped out the door through the servants’ quarters, where you knew Snow wouldn’t see you leave. The one upside to the last few weeks was that you’d learned how to sneak around the manor unnoticed. You were certain there were at least three hallways he’d had never even set foot in.

You had Lucille call Henry – Snow’s driver – in advance so you could leave right away.

“Where are we going, ma’am?” He glanced at you over his shoulder as you slid into the black town car.

“Head into the city. I’ll explain on the way.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Henry took some convincing – and some light bribing – to finally cave and tell you what and where this gentleman’s club was. Of course, it was a risk, a roll of the dice to go there without concrete proof, but you knew Snow. You knew his little neuroses and hang-ups, and he was paranoid; in all senses, it would seem, except when it came to you. If he’d been frequenting this club for some time – some years, according to Henry – and trusted their discretion, then you highly doubted he’d play Russian roulette and pick somewhere else.

You were dropped off outside, and sent Henry to the tailor to pick up some of Snow’s things; an excuse for the outing, but a part of your plan too. He was hesitant to leave you alone in such a place, but you insisted you knew exactly how to handle yourself, and so he gave in.

You’d deliberately dressed down for what you were about to do, worn your old coat and let your hair down with a hood pulled over it. It being daytime, the place was closed for business, but you knocked on the front door expectantly.

You waited. Went over the plan, and knocked again.

This time, the door opened and a burly man now stood between you and the inside of the brothel. Your curiosity made peek over his shoulder before he cleared his throat.

“Can I help you, miss?”

“Yes. My name is Margaret, sir, I’m a maid at the, uh,” You dropped your voice to a low whisper, “Snow household. I have a message for the owner of this establishment, from my master. Is he here?”

The man cleared his throat and glanced around the nearly empty street, then beckoned you in quickly.

“Anything for Mr Snow, miss. Right this way.”

There was your proof.

The empty club was a classy one, you had to give Snow that. The bar caught your eye, silver panels lining the wall behind it in an otherwise jet-black glossy room, with dark red couches and shiny tables, booths, single chairs, a stage with shiny metal poles, and a few cordoned-off alcoves.

You took it all in, certain you’d be able to appreciate the aesthetics of it more if it wasn’t for the seething rage inside you. You were stopped at a closed door near the back, and the burly man knocked.

“Yeah.” Came a voice from inside.

“All yours. He’ll take care of you.” Your guide stepped away. You pushed at the door.

A dark-haired man sat facing a desk, poring over paperwork. He didn’t look up.

“If you’re here for a job, sweetie, it’s Tuesday after 11.”

This incensed you.

“I’m not here for work. This is official business. I was told you take care of… special clients.”

He spun around, frowning.

“I’m listening.”

“I have a message from President Snow. He has a series of requests to be carried out with no delay.”

“Ah, yes. Mr Snow. I see. And you are to him?” He prompted.

“Just a maid from the household. He sent me as a messenger.”

“Excellent. Well in that case, of course, miss. How can I be of service?”

You took a breath, hoping desperately that he didn’t see right through you.

“Firstly, the shoes your girl wore.”

“What would he like with them?” He asked.

“He’d like to keep them. He’s willing to pay, and he’s not up for a price negotiation. This should cover them.” You slipped a bill across the table, and he nodded. You learned long ago that money causes loose lips, and this man was no exception.

“Of course,” he obliged, “They’re in the lockers through that door there. I’ll bring them to you. We ordered them in specially for Veronica, he made a point for her to wear them on the first floor. Usually our girls get instructions to sneak through clients’ houses quietly, but we handle every request as thoroughly as possible.” He chuckled.

That fucker. He really had planned it all out to get in your head.

“Was there anything else I can do for you, miss?”

You swallowed thickly.

Here goes.  

“Yes, actually. As of today, he’ll no longer be needing your services, or her services. He’d like to terminate your contract, and he doesn’t wish to see her again. Ever.”

The owner blinked. His mouth moved, as if he was about to say something, but then it closed again.

“But, um,” he stammered, “It’s only been three weeks. Veronica is our best girl, and he’s her top client. She carried out his orders to the absolute best of her ability, I can assure you. Are you sure those were his words?”

You sighed.

“She’s getting off lucky with a dismissal. Take it as a warning, sir. President Snow doesn’t show mercy to thieves. If she shows her face again, I can guarantee you, he’ll have her head.”

His face turned plum-red with horror.

“She was… stealing?”

In a way, yes.

“She was caught by a maid last night.” You nodded, and the owner swallowed thickly.

“I – I understand, Miss. I am terribly sorry for this. I apologise that our services weren’t up to your master’s expectations, truly. Please, if there’s anything I can do- and I can assure you, I’ll be having some very stern words-”

You cut him off.

“There is one more thing, as a matter of fact."

"Anything." He pleaded.

"You can send word that… Veronica, is it? She’ll be paying him a visit this evening. But you are not, under any circumstances, to send her. Am I understood?”

He furrowed his brows, puzzled. But you stared back challengingly and held your ground.

A small, sheepish smile formed on his face.

“Much obliged. I can assure you your requests will be carried out with the utmost discretion.”

“Thank you.”

He brought you the heels in a shiny box, and you turned and left.

Henry was waiting outside, and you slid back into the car.

“Get what you needed, ma’am?”

“I certainly did.”

The drive home was your chance to pick up lunch, finetune your plan, and go through the suits you’d had Henry pick up from the tailor.

They looked impeccable – crisp and creaseless, the white shirts brighter than the stars, and the maroon red jackets and waistcoats deeper than blood itself. It was one of these jackets that you chose to take upstairs with you, leaving the rest to be taken up to Snow’s room later, hoping the missing item would go unnoticed.

You retraced your way up the winding stairs of the manor. Luckily, Lucille had informed you Snow had left not long after you that morning, and was expected to be gone until evening. Nonetheless, your paranoia made you glance left, right and left again before every turn. Finally, after an exhaustingly long morning, you were back in the safety of your own room.

But the work was far from finished. You ate quickly, then began getting ready for your discussion with Snow. He hadn’t sent for you again; he was too proud. You took pride in knowing he’d be positively seething at your turning him down that morning. You kept going, showering, teasing your hair, adding a little more makeup than usual – not excessive, but enough to make a difference – then finally wandered the room as you picked your wardrobe for later.

You lay out the heels – which were a little big on you, but would serve their purpose – as well as the jacket you’d stolen, taking the time to run your fingers over the smooth maroon velvet you’d felt only briefly before, when brushing against Snow at public events. You then dug through your underwear drawer, debating between a red lingerie set and a white. You picked the latter; the tones of red would blend in with the jacket and white made more of a statement.

Innocence. If only.

You checked the time. Three hours or so until Coriolanus would be expecting Veronica. You hoped that he would be back by then, and more so, that your performance with the brothel owner had been enough to hold him to his promise of sending word. But if you’d learnt anything from Snow, it was that fear commanded respect, and better yet, obedience. So your doubts were few and far between.

In all honesty, that’s what had drawn you to Snow in the first place. It wasn’t about money; your family had money, more than they knew what to do with. It was the power, the fear. Even the richest man in the world would crumble to the ground with a gun to his head. Power trumps wealth every time, and the enigmatic, newly elected President was by far the most powerful man in Panem.

It was its own kind of thrill, pursuing a man like that. The temptation to get him wrapped around your fingers, ravenous, hungry for power, hungry for him. It all blurred together at this point, the man was like a magnet. You wondered if this thirst for more, always more, was an affliction the two of you shared. Or perhaps, an affliction you’d developed a taste for because of him. And the longer you spent at his side, the louder it began to beat in your chest like a second heart. You wanted to consume it, and let it consume you.

It thrummed in your chest now, adrenaline coursing in your veins. You fidgeted as you waited for the hours to pass, your craving growing with each second. You flicked through a few books; you drafted a letter to your mother. Each tick of the clock bringing you closer to finally taking the one thing you’d wanted since the day you met Coriolanus Snow. It was almost time for your big move.

✩✩✩✩

As enough darkness crept into your room and you stood to light some candles, you heard soft footsteps pass your door.

For a change, you recognised them as Snow’s, even and deliberate. He was home. With half an hour to spare until he’d be expecting his whore.

You jumped at the opportunity to change. Slowly and carefully, you slipped out of your clothes and into the underwear set, until you were clad in crisp white lace, with a matching garter belt as a finishing touch. You slid on Snow’s jacket – which smelled like him, of his cologne – the usual fitted shape it would give Snow now hanging loose and slack around your body, falling to the tops of your thighs. You did up the first button, tracing the neckline that plunged down your chest, leaving very little to the imagination. You slipped into the heels, checked the time, and after scanning yourself over in the mirror, made for the door.

The few worries you had about being seen by the staff were short-lived; the hallway lights were dim as you wobbled in the heels, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. You weren’t sure if Snow had fallen for your plan, but what mattered was that as you turned the corner, there were lights shining from under his bedroom door. He was in there, waiting. By now, it was odd seeing it closed. You tried your best to emulate the sound of the footsteps you’d drilled into your brain, the clicks giving you a sense of power knowing Snow – apprehensive or not – would be in for at least one surprise.

Click. Click. Click.

You considered pausing before barging in, but you didn’t. When you reached the end of the hallway, seconds away from your fate, you reached out a hand, pushed Snow’s door open, and walked right inside.

Snow was there; of course he was. Facing his dresser and away from you, he didn’t flinch at the sound of your arrival. You closed the door behind you, and took a step towards him. Stared at his back, scanning his black dress pants and the white shirt he’d rolled up to his elbows, cufflinks on the table, blonde curls a little unruly as he smoothly poured himself a drink.

This, right here, was where the solid part of your plan ended. It was caution to the wind from here on out, and you could practically taste it, high off the adrenaline; off his presence. And he hadn’t even looked at you yet.

This was the moment of truth.

“Well,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. “Look who finally figured it out.”

“Not who you were expecting?”

“She’d never reschedule.” he said simply, turning on his heels, eyes glinting at you. “Figured you were up to something. Drink?”

“Think I’ll pass.”

He approached you, eyes scanning your body, deliberately clad in the skimpiest underwear you owned. You figured this was as good a time as any to unbutton the jacket and let it fall open. It brushed your sides, and you watched him lower his glance, hungrily taking you in for what could quite possibly be the very first time. He wet his lips, took another sip.

There it is.

There was that power you craved, that look that you’d been aching to see in his eyes while he stared at you, and although it was fucked up, you let the pride fill your head with confidence, and stepped forward.

“Now, just where did you get that?” A slight narrowing of his eyes gave him away. At least something you’d done had made an impression.

“Borrowed it. In case I get cold.” You smiled.

“Cute. Didn’t your daddy ever tell you not to take things that aren’t yours?”

“Oh, I take whatever I want, Snow.”

You raised your head in defiance. Proud of your voice for not faltering once.

“Clearly. Nice shoes. Borrow those, too?”

“Why, do they look familiar?” you quipped.

“I think we both know the answer to that, doll. Now why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

You sighed, feigning exasperation. A chill crept up your legs but you barely noticed.

“You wanted to talk to me, Coriolanus. Talk.”

“Is that really what you came here for, sweetheart? Dressed like that?” He put his drink down on the dresser, not once looking away from you.

“If this is what it takes to get your attention, Snow, then yes.”

You took another step closer, and the jacket fell further to your sides, more skin slipping out from underneath for him to feast his eyes on.

“I think you know plenty about trying to get my attention. I watched you struggle for weeks.”

“Didn’t think you cared.” You muttered.

He laughed, low, more like a scoff.

“What, your childish attempts at seduction? They were pitiful at best. I’d expect that kind of behaviour from a common whore, not a lady of your standing.”

“Thought you liked whores.” You retorted.

“They’re no fun to live with. And there you were, proving my point.”

Your eyes narrowed, and when you spoke, it was through gritted teeth.

“So what, you had to go and fuck one to prove a point? Mature.”

“Mature?” he glowered, then before you could think, he stormed towards you, grabbing both of your wrists with a hard squeeze. You gasped.

“Mature like you, with your short skirts and your fuck-me eyes, sucking your fingers off at the breakfast table?”

You squirmed. Tried to jolt yourself away but it was no use.

“I didn’t think you-”

“Oh, I noticed.” He said, moving in to corner you, grip tightening until he was walking you backwards across the room as he spoke, never once taking his eyes off you. “And it’s a real shame this couldn’t have been easier for us both, but you just had to start it. So I watched your pathetic little displays, day after day, knowing if you’d behaved better, I would’ve given you exactly what you wanted.”

You fought not to trip over yourself until your legs bumped against the ottoman at the foot of his bed and you caught your breath. His eyes bored into yours and you blinked helplessly. His grip loosened on your wrists. You tried to speak, but your mouth had gone dry.

“If you’d been good,” he continued, voice lowering, “you wouldn’t have played around like that. Good girls don’t whore themselves out to respectable men.”

Your eyes narrowed in defiance as you felt heat start to brew in your stomach.

“Respectable?” You spat, and his grip tightened again, bringing one hand up to trace your jaw, almost pitifully.

“See what I mean? You dig yourself deeper at every turn. Good girls ask nicely, and say please. It didn’t take me long to figure out you had issues with authority. It could’ve been so easy for you, sweetheart. You had plenty of chances. You could’ve asked me very nicely to fuck you, but instead you behaved like a desperate slut for weeks on end. Eventually, I knew there was only one way to shut you up.”

Your ears started to ring and you fought harder to gain composure. He’d never talked to you like this before. And now, all this, all at once, it was almost too much. Goosebumps had long covered your arms and legs, despite the heat inside you burning you up. You were vaguely aware of heat pooling uncomfortably between your legs.

Your breathing was heavy as you stared into him, his hand gripping your chin, and you couldn’t hide it if you tried. He finally backed away, letting you peel yourself from the ottoman. His hungry eyes scanned over you, suit jacket now crumpled at the wrists. You swallowed as you tried to pull yourself together.

“You knew I was watching you. The whole time. Every time. It was… for me.”

He watched you knowingly, raised his eyebrows a little. His lips grew into that smirk, that fucking smirk you knew all too well.

“We were playing the same game, sweetheart. I was just… Better.”

“A little excessive, don’t you think?” Your voice faltered and you cursed how breathy it sounded.

“Oh, on the contrary. It was very entertaining to see you struggle, but I could’ve gone further.” He mused. “I even considered fucking her on your bed.”

Shit.

A thought popped into your head, and a strange smile made its way to your face.

“Aren’t you going to ask me where I got these?” You asked, glancing down.

He frowned for a second; good. You’d thrown him off guard. But he caught up fast.

“The heels? You know, I had her walk right past your door in those so you’d follow her and see just what you were missing?”

If you weren’t so wired with adrenaline, you were pretty sure you’d be tearing up with how desperate you felt. But his words channelled it all into pure anger.

“Fuck you.” You seethed, and he smiled.

“We'll get to that. But go on, I’ll bite. What did you do to her?”

“Let’s just say she deserved much worse than what she got. Maybe you should’ve fucked her on my bed. Would’ve given me a reason to choke the life out of her.”

“You think I’d care?”

“Course not. Knowing you, it’d probably get you off.”

“Which brings us right back to now.” He stared at you, challenging. You laughed again.

“Is this you talking? You’re not very good at it.”

“No, this is me giving you a second chance. The way I see it, you made your move, I made mine. Now, if you’re a good girl, and ask me very nicely to fuck you until that pretty little head of yours gets filled with nothing but empty space, I might consider putting an end to this and giving you what you want. Maybe.” If you thought you’d survive smacking that smug look off his face, you would.

“You want me to ask nicely, Coriolanus?” You closed the gap between the two of you and glanced up at him through your lashes. He looked back at you, and no chill in the world could cool you down from the fire in his eyes.

He stepped away, paced towards the desk chair – the one he’d watched you from last night – then dragged it across the floor, spun it around, and took a seat. Once again, last night felt worlds away now. A lifetime sat between that moment and this one as he made himself comfortable, unbuttoned his collar. As if the room was now a stage, and he was the sole spectator.

“Go on. I’m waiting.”

Cocky bastard.

Another airy laugh escaped you. But you’d be lying if you said he wasn’t exactly where you wanted him. So you played into it.

“You want me to beg you? Say pretty please?” Your voice softened as you slowly stepped towards him, holding his gaze. A passing thought reminded you of your childhood, asking your mother what you’d feel when you first truly fell for someone.

Fireworks. Thousands of them, crackling, hissing, charging the air between the two of you into something heavy. Thick clouds of smoke you could almost taste as you stared into darkened eyes. You paused in front of him, fingers playing with the hem of his suit jacket that brushed against your thighs. Caught your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Take it off.” He ordered.

“Gladly.”

You slipped the jacket off your shoulders, and it fell smoothly into a pile on the floor. You kicked off the heels next, landing haphazardly to the side with a thump. His eyes never leaving you, consuming you.

“Like what you see, Snow?”

He took you in, long and hungry and shameless. Like you were simply there for his entertainment, nothing else. You wondered where along the line he’d lost all his inhibitions, at what moment in his very young life he’d decided to simply stop caring. It should scare you, but it just made you burn warmer. Maybe your wires were a little crossed, too, because it didn’t make you feel cheap.

It made you feel powerful.

You knew you looked good, too; you’d made sure of it. But he was looking at you like you were carved out of solid gold. He didn’t answer, because he didn’t need to.

“Think I like you better when you’re not acting like a dumb slut.”

You hummed, determined and unphased, moving in closer until your legs touched his knees. His words shouldn’t turn you on - nor should not knowing exactly how much he meant them – but they did.

“You like me better when I’m begging, then?” You placed your legs either side of his, straddling him, but still standing, and took his hands in yours. You ran one of them across your lips, brazenly taking a digit in your mouth, releasing it with a wet pop, then dropping your head down.

“You want me to be straightforward, Snow? Tell you exactly what I want?” you breathed, your foreheads almost touching, looking down at him from a thrilling vantage point, your hair falling either side of his face. “To beg you to rip this off me?” You guided his hands to your hips, letting them slide over the lacy fabric. “You want me to beg you to kiss every inch of skin you see and make it yours? Beg you to fuck me until I can’t think, and forget my own name?”

You ran his hands down the sides of your legs, then, inch by inch, letting him take a good long look on the way, you finally lowered yourself onto his lap. Your blown-out eyes met again, at the same level this time. You shifted your hips once, feigning getting comfortable, and hid a smile as he let out a strained sound.

You were close enough to feel his breath against yours, fast but steady, controlled. You moved closer, your head dipping cautiously under his chin to kiss his neck. He smelt clean, like fresh laundry and his cologne, and his skin tasted like salt as your tongue traced a line across it. It felt like power, having him like this. Slowly starting to grind your hips as your mouth pressed against his pulse, every shaky breath you elicited from him awakening something new in you.

“Say it, Snow.” You murmured, breath catching. “Tell me you want me to beg you, and be good for you.” Another trail of messy kisses across his jaw, and you finally heard it, ragged and coarse, words shooting through you like knives softened by the heat of his breath on your hair.

“Be a good girl, and fucking beg me.”

You hummed with satisfaction. Moved your lips to his ear, hand cupping the back of his neck, and leaned in close.

“If you wanted me to be good,” you whispered, “then you’ve picked the wrong girl.”

You felt it, his whole body tensing beneath you. But you had it now, the upper hand, and you weren’t giving it away. Your other hand came up to close over his mouth with a warning shake of the head, and you gripped the back of his neck harder with the first. Craned it backwards so he could look at you, a different kind of fire in his eyes. A fire that could burn you far worse than any other. You leaned your weight into him until you were flush, skin pressing into fabric. Tightening your legs around his so he couldn’t kick out. You felt dangerous. You felt alive.

When you spoke, your voice was a vial of vitriol.

“You thought I’d just give into you? Three weeks of torture and you call it even? No fucking way, Snow. You wanted to play? Let’s play.”

You were closer to him now than you’d ever been before, infinitely closer than when you’d held hands in front of an audience, or danced in the middle of a ballroom, or when he’d draw you in for a lingering kiss at the head of a busy table.

You were closer still because of the common denominator: you were alone, your bodies pressed together, soft and firm colliding. And your stomach ached with want, but your rage burned brighter.

When you were sure he wouldn’t move, you readjusted your position on his lap so you were sat on one thigh, your right knee pressed firmly against the chair between his legs. Slowly, you dragged your hips against it, firm muscle between your legs, shameless as you stared him down.

“I’d like to modify the terms of our agreement, as of tonight. Starting with this: I’ve made sure your little whore won’t come running back here. If I so much as hear a whisper of a rumor that you’re fucking someone else, I’m leaving. Don’t think I don’t know how to disappear. I can, and I will.”

He scowled at you, and you’d never felt power like the rush you got from seeing your hand clamped over his mouth. His own hands, now easily able to overpower you and push yours away, instead sat at your hips, digging in so hard you knew there’d be bruises for weeks. As you moved, he started to follow suit, rocking your hips on his thigh faster.

He’s allowing this.

The realisation made you pull your hand from his mouth, and yet he didn’t speak. There was a tightness in his jaw, locked down so hard it must’ve hurt as he watched you move, helped you move. It sent a shock through your core, and you ground down harder.

Who’s on top now?

This was getting to your head.

“President Snow,” you mocked. “What a title. Thinks he can take whatever’s in his sight. Thinks he has the right. Did you think I’d come crawling back to you?” Your voice lowered.

“Did you think I’d get on my knees, like she did?” You glanced down, running your now-free hand over the front of his pants, gentle at first, then pressing in firm, and he hissed.

“Did you really think, after all your little shows, that I’d just submit? Not a chance.” You spat, and his breath turned a little shaky as your hand slid up, then down.

As it evened out, and he reached for composure again, he pulled a countermove. Got in close, with words so sharp, they nearly cut through you.

“Which one was your favorite?”

You pulled your hand away. Your hold on the back of his neck tightened, and in turn, so did his grip on your hips, pulling you down harder as you got closer, panties bunching up as you became desperate.

You shook your head.

“Don’t.”

He smirked.

“I gave you plenty to go off. Tell me, was it when I sat right here while she rode me? Or when I was fucking her mouth and calling your name?”

He pulled your hips in rougher, and you gasped, barely able to think. You were sure if he kept this up, your thighs would chafe. You just couldn’t find it in you to care.

“No, I don’t think so.” He hummed. “I know which one it was. It was the second time, wasn’t it? When I was making her cum all over my tongue, wondering what you tasted like.”

You couldn’t help it – a moan slipped out of your lips. He kept up the pace, rolling your hips faster, flexing his thigh as you started losing your bearings. He laughed at the state of you.

“I knew that one would get to you. Tell me something, princess, how many times did you touch yourself after that night wishing it was me? Or did you lose count?”

You gritted your teeth, fighting the spinning room.

“Cocky much?”

He let out a breathy laugh again, as if he was losing himself as much as you were. Pulling you in harder in response.

“Look at you,” he mused, “riding my thigh like the needy slut you are. Bet you’re close, too, and I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“Fuck.” you panted. “Stop fucking talking, oh my god.”

“You sure about that, sweetheart? You know I can feel how wet it’s making you, right?”

Your head dropped down and you whined. Sure enough, you’d soaked through your panties and dripped an embarrassing wet patch on his dress pants. You cursed under your breath as you slowed down.

“Beg me.” He ordered.

“No.” You gasped as he pulled you back again, faster, hips bucking as your legs started to shake around his.

“Beg me,” he repeated, "or I’ll stop.”

“Fuck, no, don’t fucking stop, I can’t-”

It was so much friction it hurt, but you kept chasing it.

“Yes, you can. You want to cum? Ask nicely, sweetheart. Just ask me.”

The seam of your panties got wetter as you moved, just enough to let the pain melt into pleasure instead as it caught on your clit, and you started to ride out your high. You were right at the edge, he was keeping you there, hair stuck to your face in a hot sweat as you writhed on his lap. So fucking close.

“Fine, shit. Please. Please help me cum, oh my god. Right there, please. Fuck.”

And maybe you were more like him than you thought, because you weren’t ashamed. You rode his thigh like you’d ride him, unabashedly, while he watched you starting to fall apart. He moved faster, pulled your hips hard in as if you were riding him, as if he could feel it, breath running ragged, desperate. It only brought you closer knowing this would be sending him over the edge, holding you so near and yet so awfully far away. The look in his eyes screaming danger, and you let it swallow you whole, squeezing his shoulders like you were scared you’d float away.

"That's it. Knew you'd sound incredible, asking me all pretty like that."

His lips met your neck, teeth grazing your skin and that’s what did it, your legs squeezing his as you shook through your orgasm, crying out, falling to pieces, hearing going fuzzy. The words good girl echoing through your head so distantly, you couldn’t tell if he’d really said them or not.

You sighed, glazed eyes rolling open, coming back to yourself. Your right hand was pressed against his chest, fingers curled into the creased fabric of his shirt. As you looked closer, you noticed it had opened wider, and he was missing a button. Had you done that?

When your eyes finally met Snow’s, you couldn’t look away from them. Beautiful and blue, like an ocean frozen over, staring into yours like you were all he’d ever wanted. You could get high off this feeling, live off it.

“Get on the bed.” He breathed. “Right fucking now.”

But too much of any feeling isn’t good for you.

“No.”

He glowered, face flushing even further, and as he leaned in to make another demand, you quickly stood, trying your hardest not to let your wobbling legs give you away.

“You should understand, Snow. We’re doing things my way now. And I’m going to be doing them as I please, when I please.”

You picked his jacket up from the floor, and slipped back into it, the soft fabric cooling down your burning skin.

“You think you’re funny, sweetheart? Nobody likes a fucking tease.”

You chuckled, doing up a button and brushing your hair out of your face, damp with sweat. You walked to the dresser and took a swig from Snow’s half-empty glass, then turned. He sat there, and it took everything in you not to smirk at the mess you’d made of him. You handed him the glass when you were done drinking and turned away. You felt him stand, but you didn’t acknowledge it, still fiddling with your hair, smoothing it out.

“You said it yourself, Snow. I’m no common whore. If you want me to beg you to fuck me, you’re gonna have to work for it.” You turned, pulling him in for a chaste kiss. His face was unreadable.

“But be a doll, leave your door unlocked.” You added, stepping back. “You never know when I might change my mind.”

“You’re not going to leave. You wouldn’t dare.” He seethed, the rage in his voice only propelling you on.

“Wouldn’t I?” You smiled, giving him a once over. Dropped your eyes down pointedly, first at the ruined leg you’d ridden, then at the uncomfortable-looking tent in his pants. You met his eye again and bit your lip, really laying it on thick. “Good luck with that, sweetheart. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

He huffed, incredulous, disbelief painted across his face as you made for the door, swinging it open. You glanced over your shoulder.

“Buckle up, Snow. I’m just getting started.”

You missed the way his shocked face turned almost admiring as he watched you leave, walking barefoot down the hallway, leaving the door wide open.

Checkmate.

a/n: hope it was worth the wait 😌

taglist: @superchatnoir07 @itsrainingreid @nycweb-slinger @lookclosernow @etfrin @resibunn @serving-targaryen-realness @harmfulb1tch @demonsnangels @superb-icarus @julesandro @gracieroxzy @slyhersophia @shadowsepiphany @ben-has-arrived @unclecrunkle @zerotwo-sciencequeen @itsleniiilosers @thesiriusmap @ooooglymoooogly @darkqweenn @going-through-shit @loverw1tch @stinkii-boii @tqmqkii @not-avery @natsgf @sleepysongbirdsings @hopebaker @darknight3904 @pemberlystateofmind @bxtchopolis @real-lana-del-rey @24kmar @louweasleymalfoy @m1ndbrand @coconut-dreamz @cosmicgyral @urfavevirgoo @mk15x @theamuz @ashy-kit @violante777 @snowlandstop @badbleep88 (more tags in the comments!)

#coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x you #coriolanus snow smut #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x you #snow x reader #snow x you #tom blyth #tbosas #the hunger games #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #attention

[cheriiyaya]

From the start

Featuring: Dazai, Chuuya, Fyodor, and Kunikida

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧How do they realize they're in love...?

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧Contents: fem!Reader, LIL BIT OF ANGST (not too much tho), first time writing for kuni !!

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧A/N: Finally understand how gradients work !!

Dazai Osamu

Dazai doesn't do love-or rather he doesn't do long-term relationships. He only ever has had flings, one night stands where he's in someone's sheets at moonrise and out before dawn. But that doesn't mean dazai doesn't want it-

The human connection that love brings, a sense of belonging that dazai has craved. The ability the feel as if he was apart of humanity, rather watching from the sidelines.

But at the same time, he fears such an intimate connection with another. They would be able to see pass the careless facade he puts up, they'll see every dark and twisted crack of his being. They'll know when his stupid jokes are a diversion, they'll know the truth behind his eyes.

But you were always there, and dazai couldn't shake the emotions you brought. He'd find you no matter where you were, as if a string pulled taunt guided you to find the other in a sea of souls. He's never felt this way, why does he long to be near you when his hear sinks and races with an unknown emotion guiding it?

So when dazai realized he was in love with you, it was because he felt like he belonged. and it scared him. He avoided you, but how could one avoid their home for too long without yearning for it?

He belonged in your heart, in your arms. Dazai belonged in your shared home. He could rest in your arms, free from the fears of knowing what laid behind his well-put facade because he allows you too see past it, and strangely enough-

he doesn't mind.

Nakahara Chuuya

You were annoying as hell.

That's what chuuya always thought when it came to you- you annoy him and for no good reason.

How could you not? You cause his throat to go dry and his heart to seize up, you drown out every thought of his when you as so much as speak or smile at him. When you playfully poke him it sends a chill through his body and all chuuya can do it grit his teeth and look away.

How could he not hate you?

that's a lie. Chuuya knows he doesn't hate you, it's so obvious yet he can't seem to see what's right in front of him. but it's better to lie.

But you bring such a rush of emotions to him, and chuuya first thought it was fear. he thought he was scared of you at first, but he realized that it wasn't fear, It was love.

he didn't want to admit it, but when chuuya realized he loved you, it was because he realized how human you make him feel. weight of his title as the strongest ability user, or mafia executive or the vessel of arahabaki-

in your eyes, in your tender touch it didn't exist; he was just chuuya

Fyodor Dostoevsky

Fyodor let you near him at first because you were naught but a pawn. A chess piece that he could manipulate and sacrifice if needed, you held no sentiment in his mind-much less his heart.

But as the months of knowing you went on, Fyodor developed an interest to you, whether he liked it or not. Instead of giving you positions on missions where there was a possibility you could die, he gave you roles that were more in the back, more safe. Fyodor wanted to know why he was so enraptured with you, and what a fool he was for doing so.

His interest in you came to a point where he'd actively seek you out outside of missions. walking beside you as an equal and talking about regular things (which he strangely didn't mind), discussing books or topics that interested the both of you, and fyodor could feel the way the oxygen in his lungs was pulled tight as his name rolled off your tongue like it was the sweetest dessert you've tasted.

When he realized he loved you, it was because he wanted you to be by his side. You weren't a nameless pawn, you saw fyodor for himself and he had become enraptured by you.

You were the one who he'd fall to his knees to every night in worship, and there in the solitude of night with you his prayers were heard more than in any church.

Kunikida Doppo

Kunikida is a man of schedule, of timely organization and a man like him has no tolerance for disturbances in his well thought out schedule- and life. Besides, he already knows when he'll find the one, and he knows when he'll slide a ring on her finger and promise his life to her in well thought out vows. Kunikida has already planned it out, he'll be ready.

But you came in and ruined everything.

Your constant nagging always frustrated him to no end, the way you were so unpredictable-

Kunikida went home everyday wanting to tear out his hair and with butterflies fluttering around in his ribs.

It didn't take long for his unsufferable brown-hair partner to catch up with the feelings kunikida didn't even know he had. The brunette would always point you out, giggling "don 'cha think she looks pretty today, kunikida-kun?" only for a hand to slap down on his pale skin, but dazai wouldn't miss the way his cheeks adorned a pink hue and how kunikida's eyes would linger a little too long on you.

This continued, along with you and Kunikida becoming closer. he no longer wished to tear out his hair, the butterflies who's delicate wings tickled his ribcage grew in number and he stopped growing irritated at lost time and messed up schedules if it meant spending more time with you.

That's when he figured it out. When he not only dug time in his busy schedule just for you, but when he no longer felt a swell of annoyance flood through him when you interrupted his schedule.

He didn't get frustrated with you anymore, and he didn't see you inserting yourself into situations as ruining his timeliness; rather you fitted perfectly into it.

©Cheriiyaya 2024

#☾⋆⁺₊⋆ 𝕽𝖊𝖉'𝖘 𝕽𝖚𝖒𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖘 ⋆⁺₊⋆☾ #bungou stray dogs #bsd #bsd x reader #dazai x reader #osamu dazai x you #osamu dazai x reader #chuuya x reader #chuuya nakahara x reader #chuuya x you #fyodor x reader #fyodor dostoevsky x reader #fyodor x you #kunikida x reader #kunikida x you #bsd dazai osamu #bsd chuuya #bsd fyodor #bsd kunikida

[bettymylove]

hello! I really love your work and I was thinking if you could write a one-shot of theo inspired by the song " Open Arms by SZA ". but somehow make it a good ending? idk 😓 ( like a slow burn or something ) reader had to let theo go but theo is kind of begging..? for reader to stay in his life and so on! idk if I explained it good enough but you can search up the song and take a look at the lyrics, you'll see what topic I'm going for!

thank you if your write this! you're an amazingg writer ‼️

never leaving

pairing: theo nott x reader

content: your insecurities push you to break your friendship with Theo, only to realize you were wrong all along.

a/n: hope this matches your expectations, I'm sorry if it didn't<33 (also I feel like I'm apologizing in every a/n)

You could say that Theo took you in, he was the only person in your life that ever made you feel too comfortable. When you were on the train, he had befriended you and he never let his friendship falter.

Theo was everything, he was all you could ever need and it scared you how much you were dependent on him. You had never needed anyone, always doing everything by yourself but you could see that changing.

Friends weren't a usual sight in your life and Theo had changed that, but you still had your doubts and maybe that's why you had decided to tell him.

You always had a lingering feeling, that he was taking pity on you because who would willingly spend so much time with you, call themselves your best friend, he had no reason to do it.

You spotted Theo in the hallway along with Mattheo and Enzo. The former two were smoking, and Theo's eyes met yours, and he immediately threw down his cigarette, crushing it using the sole of his shoe.

His eyes stayed on you while yours diverted here and there, ashamed to even meet his gaze. You wanted to be with him, but he was ruining his life for you, he was way too enamored and you wanted to help him.

You reached the group and scrunched your nose at the nicotine smell, Theo noticed this and dragged you away. Why does he have to be sweet and make this harder? you thought.

"Theo, I-" You questioned yourself, he was the only person who knew you but it would be too selfish to make him stay, so you continued, "I don't think we should be friends anymore"

Maybe friends wasn't the right word to describe you two, you weren't dating but he never dated anyone else and it's not like you could. You always hoped it was because he harbored some feelings for you but that had been a foolish fantasy.

"Y/n, I'm sorry sweetheart, I won't ever smoke again, I mean this was the first time in weeks, I really am trying" what? he thought this was about him smoking?

"No, Theo it's not about that." you simply stated trying to make him understand about you suddenly pulling away. He stared at you, his mouth opening and closing as if he wanted to say something but really could find the words.

"You can't do this, you cannot wake up on a random day and decide to remove me from your life as if I'm a pawn in your chess board" he was almost yelling, Theo had never yelled at you nor had he ever gotten angry at you, it was always you being mad and him picking up on it.

You remembered a scenario from second year and how different times had gotten now, you had changed and him not so much but you guess it was for his better.

"Where's y/n?" The twelve year old Theodore Nott asked his friend and said friend just shrugged in response before saying, "She hasn't been talking to anyone."

You're mad, he knew you were you always shut everyone out when you were, falling silent and Theo knew just how to better your mood and so he headed in your direction.

Your flashback stopped when you saw a tear fall from his eyes, you had never seen Theo cry either, only once and that too not intentionally. He was showing every emotion of his and you stood there unable to think, mumbling a sorry before leaving him stranded in that hallway.

Theo was shocked, hurt, angry and was feeling all these emotions at once. He had known you for six years and you had left him in six minutes. He loved you and you couldn't see it.

He knocked on your door for the fifteenth time, and you finally opened it. Your eyes were red and puffed up, you were crying.

"Why are you doing this?" He asked in a small voice unlike the one he used in the hallway, he was scared to lose you.

"You don't need to take anymore pity on me, Theo, go live your life" you said with a sniffle in the end and your statement had only made him more confused.

Pity? he had never taken pity on you, and it hurt himself that you believed that nonsense. "You can't replace me y/n, I'm forever, no matter what."

You so wanted to believe him, you so wanted to be in his arms right now, you so wanted him to stop as he was doing right now but you just couldn't.

"I'm sorry Theo, but I have to" Those were last words to him before you shut the door and Theo couldn't sleep that night.

It had been 2 months, 18 days of you ignoring him and he thought he might go mad, you were driving him crazy, you not being there was so much worse than he had anticipated.

It was late in the night when he spotted you leaning against a railing, breathing hard, and when he got a bit closer he noticed you were crying.

He went to stand beside you, you flinched but then sort of relaxed when you noticed who it was. You laid your head in your hands and started crying even harder and without missing a beat or saying something spiteful, Theo took you in his arms.

It was much later that you realized that you could not live without him, he was your Theo. Your tears wet his shirt but he didn't seem to mind, he never seemed to mind.

"You won't leave again, would you?" He asked as if he knew you were coming back and he was right. "You could try, but this time I won't let you."

You smiled at him, god he was the only person in the world who would never make you feel bad about what you did, and you realise it was only your insecurities holding you back from him.

He kissed your forehead lovingly and hugged you even tighter, "I love you" he whispered, half hoping you didn't hear him, but you did.

#harry potter #slytherin #draco malfoy #theo nott #enzo berkshire #theo nott fic #theo nott x reader #theo nott x y/n #theo nott x you #theodore nott #theo nott imagine #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott fic #theodore nott imagine #theodore nott scenarios #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott x you #theo nott one shot

[llamagoddessofficial]

I have a question related to the prison au. Sorry if this has been asked before but what if Mc didn’t com in as a nurse but rather a therapist. Like the jail’s first therapist and it was all mc’s idea because Mc thinks that if the prisoners have more of am emotional outlet they won’t be as aggressive to one another and will become better people/monsters after they get out. And Mc wants to make a difference for them because Mc knows that their jail life isn’t the best. Mc can tell sans is trying to manipulate them, and isn’t affected much by reds attempts to charm her as much, and Mc can see threw skill’s scary and can understand him more and teaches him how to communicate how he is feeling better.

Oooooo...

Sans: Unlike pretty much all her other counterparts, this Mc is onto Sans' shit from the very start. Originally assigned to him as a mere formality, she immediately clocks that this motherfucker is much scarier than anyone has noticed before. His 'therapy sessions' are more like mental chess matches between two very perceptive people. Her aim is to genuinely try to treat him, genuinely try to get to the bottom of why he's turned into this terrifying mastermind, and perhaps even help him; there's not much else she can do. No one will believe her. Sans knows that, too.

Sans loves it. At last- someone who really, actually understands him, and the monster (not Monster) he's become. Not someone from his past lingering endlessly on who he used to be, not another pawn buying his 'harmless' persona. He loves having someone who is finally, finally in on his game. He was already fascinated with her from the start, this just makes it so much more intense- he loves being able to drop the mask. He loves the challenge of having to find ways to manipulate that are outside of his usual routes. He loves her, she's all he lives for.

She wants to help him? Cute. He'll show her what the world is really like. Then they can be puppetmasters together.

Red: She's assigned to Red to 'help' with his constant violent outbursts, after he gets in a particularly brutal fight and has to choose between attending therapy or lengthening his sentence. He's not the first violent offender she's dealt with, and he's definitely not the first flirtatious patient... but he's definitely the first that seems so utterly determined to charm her. She's firm on not breaching her ethics and she won't allow herself to do anything more than just get along well with him.

Mc actually makes a big impact on his mental health. The instinct to open up to her is a hard one to ignore, given his affection for her and their great rapport, and Red just likes her more and more with every issue she helps him work through. He doesn't like that she absolutely refuses to be with him, and he sees it as more of a challenge than anything.

When he gets out, he'll make sure she knows he's still very interested in some private sessions...

Skull: Giving Skull a therapist kinda feels like putting a band-aid on a completely severed torso. But it was a legal requirement. He cycles through therapists who either immediately refuse to treat him, or get a few days in and THEN refuse to treat him. Mc is just another in a long line of therapists that the prison expects to see rolling in.

... Except... he's so good for her. He tries to talk, he's calm and never bites, he's highly engaged with the tasks she gets him to do with her, he quickly notices that the better he does the more they make her spend time with him. The less violent he is, the more she talks to him in that lovely soft voice. Anything for more of her voice.

... Issues arise when Mc starts to understand that Skull has developed feelings for her. Deep feelings. He's always trying to kiss, nuzzle or hold her- it feels unethical to keep treating him. But it's also a well established fact that her presence in his life has probably saved several lives. If she tried to tell the prison that she didn't want to treat Skull anymore, she'd probably get a response along the lines of "we don't care, just keep him from eating anyone's hands".

She's not really got much of a choice.

#llamagines #prison au #prison therapist au #red: hey baby. i'm real stressed at the moment. you look stressed too. #mc: I don't like where this is going #red: how about we go somewhere private... and come up with a mutual treatment plan....? #mc: Ahah wow that's crazy. Anyway- about your deep-seated fear of commitment?

[kiame-sama]

More of druid Tav with Yan companions+ Raphael

Warnings; gender neutral Tav/reader, druid Tav/reader, yandere, yandere behavior, yandere relationship, possessive behavior, obsessive behavior, injury, threat to life/limb, yandere companions, spoilers for act 1 companions, slight spoilers for a bit of the act 2 side quests,

~~~~~~~~

"This deal is with your vampire spawn friend, not you. I don't want you getting involved in this matter."

"I am the unofficial leader of this group and I refuse to let a cambion tell me I can't protect my companions."

~~~~

Raphael frowned deeply as he thought back on the light spat he had with the defacto leader of the illithid anomaly group. He had plans for the druid far beyond the defeat of the Absolute and their cultists. One could even say that he had formed an attachment to them far beyond what he should when it comes to the pawns of his game. To think, the powerful cambion- master of the chess board of life- has formed an affection for one of the pawns on his side of the board. Or perhaps, it would be better to assign them to the king piece. If his precious druid falls, so too does all of Baldur's Gate and the rest of the Sword Coast. He cannot afford to be put in check, least of all check-mate.

The Orthon he had set the group after had already appeared in his House of Hope as agreed upon. Now, he stood waiting for the group to return to their camp to hold up his end of the bargain.

He expected them to return quickly and they did exactly that, what he didn't expect was the group to return in a frazzled and rushed state. None of the odd group even glanced in Raphael's direction as the Githyanki and the Tiefling grabbed several bedrolls, laying them out on top of the other. The rest of the group was not far behind as they hurried into the camp, the human waving forward the rest with a frantic gesture.

"Come on, Astarion, hurry!"

"I'm fucking hurrying, Wyll! You try running with your arms full like this!"

The spat between the two made Raphael raise a brow, wondering just what all of the fuss was about. It wasn't until the vampire spawn lay what was in his arms on the bedrolls that Raphael even realized the weight of the situation. Laying limply with blood-marred skin was the beloved druid, clearly having suffered some kind of serious wound. Raphael knew the tell-tale jagged edges of the open injury on their soft body, one that could only be caused by an Orthon.

The half-elf cleric and the burly elf druid kneeled on either side of their unconscious leader, trying to use their various magics to staunch the blood flow. None of what they did seemed to be working and Raphael knew he would have to act or risk losing his precious druid permanently to the cruel hands of death. He was quick to shove the half-elf aside so he could access his favorite mortal and try to prevent the rapidly approaching end.

"Hey," Shadowheart snapped at the demon, "what the hells are you doing!?"

Raphael didn't even give a response to the upset woman, setting to reversing the damage done by his soon to be reformed minion. He had half a mind to just flay the minion that dare put such a wound on his precious druid, but he also knew others may take it as a sign of weakness. All he could do for the time being was try to help his little druid survive what- to most- is a mortal wound. Luckily for sweet (y/n) they had a powerful cambion lord on their side who could actually heal an Orthon caused wound.

For most, a direct attack from an Orthon causes death. Usually only a powerful cambion could reverse such a wound, lucky for them that Raphael was certainly a powerful cambion.

Where the healing efforts of the cleric and other druid had done little for the large wound, Raphael's touch managed to close the injury within moments. It had certainly been something that would have killed his favorite misadventurer and they had near infernal luck to survive up until reaching Raphael at their camp. Their sallow skin made his chest tighten as he searched for any sign of true recovery before he noticed their deep breaths, relaxing almost instantly.

"How did this happen?"

Raphael spoke in an even tone, but the hard edge to his words was not lost on those present. He wanted an answer and he expected nothing but the truth from them.

"It's our fault, really."

Gale spoke up, his tone bitter with resentment towards himself and the other companions responsible for allowing such an injury to befall the beloved druid. Where they had not inflicted such a wound, they were still the ones their leader was injured protecting. They all felt there was blame to share as they had not heeded the wise words of their leader and their leader paid the price for it.

"(Y/n) instructed us to not group up on the edge of the platform, but... we did anyway. That Orthon intended to shove us all off to the floor below and kill us, but (Y/n) blocked the attack with their own body, using themselves to absorb the attack."

Raphael felt a spark of annoyance flash in his mind, but decided to let it go in favor of focusing on his darling druid. They were slowly waking from their brief brush with death and seemed rather disoriented with the world around them. Their slowly trailing eyes fixed first on Raphael, a dazed and kind smile pulling at their lips as they reached out to him. He didn't pull away but watched in slight confusion as they rest their hand on his cheek.

"Raphael... thought angels were supposed to greet me when I died?"

Raphael couldn't stop the affectionate chuckle that escaped his lips, laying his hand over the druid's.

"Well, angels don't tend to save or greet the living."

"Save..? The Orthon magic... I figured it would take a devil to heal devil magic."

"If you figured as much, why didn't you call for me?"

"I doubt you would have shown."

The smallest wince from Raphael drew the attention of the onlookers, it only now dawning on them that Raphael may feel attached to (y/n) too. Some were in furious disbelief at the simple idea of this cambion bastard going after their dear leader. Some were impressed that their leader had ensnared the heart of a cambion. Even the cambion didn't want to believe how much he had begun to adore the druid that entranced all others to trust and adore them.

"For you, my favorite misadventurer, I will always show. Rest now, your body has healed but your mind will be fighting the Orthon influence for a days time. I will do what I can to ease your rest."

He was quick to wave a hand over the druid's head, quickly sending them into sleep before they could reply to his confession. Now he had to face their loyal pack and get them to concede to allowing the devil a fair chance at winning the druid's heart.

#kiame-sama #yandere #x reader #yandere x reader #reader insert #tw yandere #yandere bg3 #bg3 yandere #bg3 yandere companions #yandere raphael

[wileys-russo]

literally ANYTHING with Alessia and Leah x reader pleaseee. Maybe that they are in an argument over something stupid and trying to use reader to make the other jealous?

chess pawn II a.russo & l.williamson

"baby love where are you?" you heard keys jingle and soft footsteps thump upstairs as you sung out you were in the office, spinning around in your chair just in time for the blonde to bound into the room with an excited smile in your direction.

"hi baby!" you stood up to greet her as the taller girl pressed her lips sweetly to yours and you ran your hands through her slightly damp hair.

"where's leah?" you asked glancing over her shoulder looking for your other girlfriend as alessia huffed. "i'm fine, training was good, thank you for asking." the blonde pouted as you playfully rolled her eyes and pecked her lips a few more times in apology.

"but she drove herself and i beat her back here." alessia smiled victoriously, tightening her hold on you as you tried to step away. "hey i missed you." the striker frowned, holding you captive in her arms as you squeezed at her hips.

"i missed you too lessi." you smiled, watching her melt at the nickname as you heard more footsteps make their way upstairs. "hello gorgeous." leah grinned, practically shouldering alessia out of the way as she grabbed at you, pulling your body into hers and connecting your lips.

"leah!" alessia scowled, crossing her arms over her chest at the interruption. "mm?" leah smiled innocently, resting her chin on your shoulder and smacking at your bum to rile her other girlfriend up, which worked as alessia's scowl deepend.

"okay. why are you two doing this again?" you pushed leah away and took a large step back, raising an eyebrow at them accusingly, recognizing their competitive tendencies arising. "doing what love?" leah asked with a charming smile which did nothing to fool you.

"you know what. what happened at training then?" you sighed, sitting atop your desk and waiting patiently for one of them to answer. "nothing, i just beat leah a few times in some drills and she wasn't a very good loser." alessia shrugged with a smirk at the other blonde beside her.

"she scored a few times and alessia's an insufferable winner." leah deadpanned as you cocked an eyebrow at the two of them. "well i'm not being put in the middle of this again. so sort it out!" you ordered sternly, memories of the last time they were in this sort of mood still fresh.

"we're both adults, we're fine." alessia quipped as leah nodded in agreement as you rolled your eyes, jumping down from your desk. "dinner will be ready in ten, can one of you grab plates and set the table please?" you made the mistake of asking as the blondes exchanged a look, taking a brief pause before they both sprinted out of the room, arguing over who could do it faster or better as they thundered downstairs.

this was going to be a long night.

~

"oh my god you wash, you dry. i'm going for a shower!" you snapped, fed up at their insistent competitive bickering which had somehow only worsened over dinner, throwing a tea towel at leah and a pair of gloves at alessia.

"i am showering alone!" you cut them both off before they could even ask, storming out of the room and rolling your eyes as you once again heard them start with one another as you made your way upstairs.

you felt your irritation with the two women wash away as the scalding hot water doused down your skin, taking your time before stepping out and drying yourself, slipping on one of leahs old jerseys and wiping the condensation away from the mirror so you could do your skin care.

"you done being moody then?" lips pressed to your neck as blonde hair tickled your nose and strong hands gripped at your hips. "depends. you done being annoying?" you asked back, hint of a smile ghosting at your lips as leah rolled her eyes, grabbing your chin and moving your head to the side so she could kiss you properly.

"leah i'm trying to moisturize!" you laughed, pushing your body back into hers trying to shove her off. "and i'm trying to kiss my fit girlfriend, you mind?" leah pulled a face, effortlessly lifting you up onto the bathroom counter as she stood between your legs and reconnected your lips.

"you're so needy." you mumbled into her mouth with a smile, feeling her pinch your thigh for the comment. "where's less?" you breathed out as her attention switched back to your neck, eyes fluttering close as she sucked lightly on your earlobe.

"downstairs picking a movie, so we have...fifteen minutes?"

"wrong, she's right here." leah pulled her head away and shot a dirty look at the younger girl who was leant against the doorway to the bathroom with her arms folded over her chest.

"hi beautiful." she grinned toward you and wasted no time shoving leah out of the way, replacing her standing between your legs and pulling you into a kiss, effectively knocking the breath out of you as her hands squeezed your sides and her tongue slipped into your mouth.

"less! share." leah now tugged alessia away by the back of her hoodie, hands grabbing at your collar and sloppily kissing you, biting down on your bottom lip and sucking it into her mouth as you felt your hips buck instinctively.

"that's how you kiss a woman less." leah pulled away to smirk at the other blonde who shot her a filthy glare and tried to push her away to grab at you.

"nope! not doing this. i warned you both." you felt your head start to spin and placed a hand on either one of their chests, stopping them from advancing any closer.

"work it out or neither of you are getting another kiss until you do, unless you kiss each other." you warned seriously, sliding off the counter and grabbing your phone, sauntering out of the bathroom as they followed you like lost puppies.

"baby why have you got her jersey on!" alessia huffed with a pout only making you roll your eyes. "because its the first one i grabbed out of the drawer, and i wore yours at the game yesterday anyway!" you answered, not missing leah poke her tongue out toward her other girlfriend.

"act your age leah." you shot her a warning look, pulling her jersey off and replacing it with an oversized shirt which belonged to you, neutral territory, ignoring her protests as you did.

"don't bother coming downstairs till you work this out and kiss and make up, happy chatting!" you shot them a sarcastic smile, sauntering out of the bedroom and pulling the door closed behind you.

you'd settled in on the lounge deciding to watch the night agent while your girlfriends fixed their issues, and around a half hour later they finally emerged downstairs hand in hand.

"we worked it out." leah announced proudly, kissing alessia's hand who nodded wordlessly and you couldn't help but shake your head at the dark red hickey which was fast forming on the younger girls neck.

"tea?" leah offered, both you and alessia nodding as she pecked your lips and disappeared into the kitchen, alessia's taller form collapsing on top of you. "hi lessi." you chuckled, the blonde burying her face in your neck making you laugh as she mumbled a hello back into the skin.

"nice hickey baby." you teasingly poked at the mark on her neck, the blonde hissing slightly as it was still tender and grabbing your hand, pinning it by your head.

"thanks. want a matching one?" alessia grinned, not even giving you a chance to respond before her teeth sunk into your pulse point, sucking harshly causing you to inhale sharply and push your head back into the cushion it rested on.

both so caught up in one another you failed to notice the eldest of the three of you re-enter the room, placing your teas down on the coffee table and looking down at the pair of you with a smile, shaking her head.

"can't leave you two unsupervised for even a minute."

#woso #woso x reader #woso fanfics #alessia russo #alessia russo x reader #leah williamson x reader #leah williamson #woso blurbs #engwnt #woso imagine

[suiana]

So need dad and house husband know each other? Does that mean yandere nerd father potential 👀

NO WAY ANON TGATS AN AMAZUNG IDEA and yes, nerd's father and househusband know each other

✎ yandere! government official headcanons . . .

✎ warnings . . .

― obsessiveness, possessiveness, baby trapping, dilf etc.

(afab! reader x male yandere! oc)

✎ yandere! government official who was your high school sweetheart. how could you not fall for him? charming, tall, handsome, smart... he was the whole package! he was perfect. everyone wanted him, even you. and unfortunately, he wanted you too. you caught his eye and you had to pay the price.

✎ yandere! government official who made you feel like you were living the highschool dream. going on romantic dates, cheering for him during his competitions...you really did live the dream life. until your boyfriend messed up.

✎ yandere! government official who accidentally let slip to you about what his future career would be. what? how could he do such a thing?! no way, you had to leave-

✎ yandere! government official who wouldn't let you leave. no, you couldn't leave. YOU WON'T LEAVE. you took his heart and you had to pay the consequences. besides, if you left he would have to kill you for you knew too much. we dont want you dead now do we?

✎ yandere! government official who reveals his obsessive and possessive nature after you found out about his future career. no...it's not that he revealed it, it's that you finally noticed it. you opened your eyes and realised that he wasn't as perfect as you thought he was.

✎ yandere! government official who manipulates everyone close to you as if they were just mere pawns on a chess board. of course everything was fine in your relationship with him! why would anything be wrong?

✎ yandere! government official who graduates with you by his side. his lovely sweetheart...his everything...you'll stay with him, won't you? you don't have a choice, you WILL stay.

✎ yandere! government official who marries you the second he finishes university. honestly, he wanted to marry you right after the two of you graduated high school but his father advised him not to. he was actually really depressed for a period of time because of that haha!

✎ yandere! government official who brings up starting a family. you'll agree, won't you? after all, he needs a successor and he'd rather it be genetically his and yours. and yes, this is yet another way to keep you with him.

✎ yandere! government official who's extra soft and sweet when you're pregnant. it's honestly scary how this...this monster can change personalities so easily.

✎ yandere! government official who laughs at your attempt to teach your child to not turn out like him. oh darling, he should've told you that being insane runs in the family! did you know that his mother also tried to stop him from turning out like his father? look what happened! it really is a vicious cycle that can't be stopped, huh?

✎ yandere! government official who installs cameras all over your mansion, hires the best of guards and always has someone watching you when he's at work. don't try anything funny sweetheart, you wouldn't want to get punished now would you?

✎ yandere! government official who always treats you just like he did in the honeymoon stages of your relationship, just with more insanity, possessiveness and obsession now that you're married to him.

✎ yandere! government official who feels content with his life. his beautiful sweetheart, a cute little child who will succeed him, and obedient house staff. what more could he ask for? oh he can't wait to see the darling his son will bring home!

✎ "sweetheart, I'm home~"

#tw yandere #yandere #yandere x reader #male yandere #male yandere x reader #yandere blog #yandere hcs #yandere headcanons #yandere government official #yandere government official headcanons #yandere government official x reader

[onyxonline]

Ranks in the Prototype's Cult

Since I have some people that are curious about the inner workings of the cult, I shall deliver

To begin with. The Cult (and the Space Riders, but this ain't about them right now) function with a chess-like mentality, only moving when the opponent makes a move, retaliating when attacked, etc etc.

There is also an Hierarchy in the cult, allow me to explain

The King= The Prototype, the most important piece of the chess board, it symbolizes leadership, protection and power, all of which The Prototype represents. However, just like the piece in real life, it usually remains stationary, sending the others to do his biddings (as much as he wants to get involved, there's a reason he has those cables on the back of his neck)

The Queen= Seraphim, the piece represents versatility, as the chess piece is known for being quite a powerful tool against the other side, being able to use most of the other pieces' moves. The reason why they fit this powerful piece is because, unlike their Lord, they are capable of moving freely and wreak havoc under their God's name.

The Rooks= right below The Queen are the guards, they stay on the same planet The Prototype remains. They are strong and can literally tank many of the Space Riders' attack, capable of withstanding celestials as well. Fighting them will be difficult (then again, why would you go to The Prototype's planet? the smoke levels there are way too high, even the current version of the space riders' mask cannot filter it all out).

The Knights= These are the strategic masterminds behind The Prototype Cult's invasion. They are also the ones mostly sent to attack Space Riders directly as they are trained in plenty of different forms of combat, as well as creating high tech weapons.

The Bishops/Priests= The most well-known position, bishops represent religion and spirituality. And in this case, the bishops spread the word of The Lord, as well as are responsible of cultivating the Red Flowers that can be used to process the Red Smoke. They usually have powers as well. Bishops are incredibly charismatic, being able to lure people to join willingly...or unwillingly.

The Pawns= Sacrifice, frontline defense, these is what the bottom of the hierarchy are to The Prototype's perspective. These are the people that have been indoctrinated to his wonderful religion... They listen to The Bishops willingly and will fight Space Riders with no hesitation.

And there you have it! The Prototype cult's hierarchy system! hope this helps you guys with your cult ocs, if you have any questions comment below and i'll do my best to answer!

#Space Riders AU

[houseofhyde]

ii. a game of westerosi chess.

pairing. daemon targaryen x fem!reader

synopsis. the six chess pieces in the king’s game and how your uncle calls checkmate. read the first part here !

warnings. niece!reader, targcest, possessiveness, themes of sexual/romantic ownership, alicent slander (im sorry, i love her, but this is daemon’s pov and we all know that man wakes up every morning and makes the conscious decision to be a hater), daemon being a filthy pervert (affectionate), smut ( masturbation, breeding kink, voyeurism, dacriphilia, virgin kink- if that's even a thing-, implied bi!daemon )

word count. 11.3k

taglist. @nyctophilic0vitnir​

hyde’s input. yes, i could have just made them get married after the events in part one. no, that wouldn’t be as fun as watching daemon suffer. i went and fucked myself over a little though because i never realised how much i’d struggle to write from his point of view without the fear of making him too out of character or his behaviour feel, idk, fake? empty? idk what the right word is but yeah. i caught the flu and have had sick-brain the whole time while writing this so who knows if the writing is even comprehensible lmao :)

disclaimer: i’ve never played chess (i'm too dumb for that) so pretend any incorrect comparisons are simply because there’s different rules for chess in westeros <3

when daemon targaryen was five years old, no more than a mischievous little babe who haunted the halls of the red keep, there was no one greater in his eyes than his older brother.

his older brother who bonded with the largest dragon; who snuck wine into his cup when the adults were occupied with their political indiscretions; who stood up for him even in times where he was the culprit. 

his older brother who had the longest winning streak in the whole of the red keep when it came to chess.

from maesters to the king, and ladies in waiting down to his own mother, there was not a single person within the castle who could face viserys targaryen in the game of strategic moves and walk away undefeated.

it was an understood fact: viserys targaryen was a master at chess.

one day, after catching his younger brother, moon-eyed and fresh-faced from wondering the dragonpit in search of a dragon to claim, and now spying upon his winnings against a pretty maiden, viserys had called the boy over. with daemon captivated by the sight of the chess board, the older of the two felt the cogs in his brain turning, an idea spawning.

you see, when one becomes the best at something, there is no more challenge. no fun to be found when you’re no longer sat at the edge of your seat wondering if this person will finally be the one to best you. and, so, viserys thought if no one else was good enough to beat him, he’d need to create a worthy opponent.

enter onto the scene, daemon targaryen.

with him being but a child still, viserys began his teaching with what captivated the little boy most: the figures which sat atop the checkered board.

“this, brother, is the pawn. it’s the least worthy piece, but do not let that fool you into thinking it is weak, for anyone may wield power if they work hard enough. a pawn may become a queen, just as a fool may become a lord.”

the rogue prince, now a man of three and thirty, awakes with one thing on his mind: his niece.

he’s always been a restless sleeper, not even in dreams would he escape the havoc of his own head and the inner-workings of it. and, though he’d scarcely recall the images his sleeping mind would conjure, the evidence comes in the state he’d find himself in: sprawled diagonally across the bed, the pillows which had once provided rest for his head now scattered along the floor and the bedsheets- which scratched uncomfortably on his skin, a slick of sweat oozing from his pores and leaving him looking glazed, like a freshly cooked hog at a feast- now a wrinkled tangle around his waist, trapping his legs in the cotton confines.

he spies the familiar lick of sunlight casting through the closed curtains, affirming that dawn has indeed passed and a new day is upon him.

running a hand over his face, a disgruntled sound escapes him, sluggishly moving himself to sit up right, that familiar yet new ache in his back flaring up and begging for release in the form of stretching limbs and extended muscles. age has begun to sneak up on him, grabbing him in it’s clutches and reminding the egotistical man that he is just that: a man, not a god, much to his own displeasure.

the hand departs from his face only to pause midair. a smell, heady and musk infused, reaches his nostrils. it’s dirty and grimey in every way yet enticing him to seek it out again, to sniff out wherever the odour is coming from and bury himself in it till he suffocates.

tentatively, he retraces his movements till his fingers dance over his face once again and realisation kicks him like the hoof of a horse, hard and with a lingering pounding.

only, the pounding comes from his crotch rather than his skull.

the smell is you, in all your dribbling, soaking, honeysuckle glory, stained on his skin like the slaves of volantis are stained with ink.

another inhale floods his senses with the memories from last night, replaying the feel of your bodies pressed together in dance, and your hand squeezing his almost painfully tight as he leads the way to your chambers, and the eager spreading of your legs as he at last satisfies his hunger for you- a hunger which had started sometime after you’d first began to present the figure of a woman, all supple breasts and pouting lips and silhouettes made of dresses that hid from view the naughty parts of you your uncle’s cock ached to see.

the voice in his head, which more often than not drives him to behave erratically, this time is but a whisper, a seduction of craving and curiosity that has him slipping his hand further down, brushing over the fine line of his lips and awaiting entrance as he parts his mouth open, brushing his stained digits over his tongue.

a jolt of heat burns down his spine while the sweet tang of your taste invades his senses. like biting through a lemon, the taste should repel him in every way, flood his soul with shame and leave him disgusted in himself.

instead, he licks his tongue in a silent plea for more.

the thought of never bathing again crosses daemon’s mind, unwilling to wash away the evidence of the peak he’d driven you to with nothing but his fingers. gods help the world when he finally gets his cock in you, for he’s likely to become a deranged, dirty shell of a man too busy getting fill after fill of your pulsing cunny to ever plunder himself into the oil-infused waters of a bath.

you’d be so sweet for him, a little harlet for him to mold and bend and break into every which-way he desires you. and it’s that thought, plus the taste of your dried essence, which has the rogue prince’s cock stirring beneath the tangled sheets.

desire awakens much like a dragon would: slowly and, then, all at once, eyes wide, chest huffing and puffing, and body arising from the ground.

the prince kicks the tangled sheets off, no thought given to whatever corner in the chambers he tosses them towards, eyes and hand and mind too focused on the once flacid organ between his leg growing more solid and red in the tip as the moments pass.

“fuck...” he means to only think it, yet speaks it aloud into the solace of the room as the warmth of his hand makes itself familiar with his cock.

he gives himself a tug, dry hand meeting the movement with resistance yet the layer of skin which conceals his soon-to-be seed soaked slit retracts enough to allow the blushing head of his cock to poke through. while he’d typically prefer to wet it with a whore’s cunt, or slicken it with whatever mindless ointment he could find laying around, daemon finds himself gathering his own saliva and spitting a fat drop of it into the palm of his hand.

the glide of his digits over the organ becomes easier, allowing him to work himself into full-blown hardness, cock taking over the use of his brain and sending him into a state of restless lust, demanding to be fed and satiated with the emptying of his stones, preferably into the warm, pulsating, tight cunt of his little dove.

while the prince does debate his ability to throw on a robe- or, even, roam the halls in his nude glory- and seek out your likely sleeping form, to watch as you startle awake with the breaking of your maidenhead and cry out for your uncle to fill you with his spend till you’re swelling with his bastard, he decides he prefers the thought of making you wait a little longer, see how much he can test the limits of your impatient desires.

after all, a maiden always feels best when her cunt’s as soaked as her crying eyes and her mouth’s spewing plead after plead, begging for his cock.

while one hand works over himself, the other sneaks it’s way back into his mouth, lust bursting into bright colours as he licks over the taste of you, soaking it into his bloodstream and making you part of his genetics- just as he is part of yours.

daemon allows his eyes to slip shut, sinking into sweet fantasies and mental pictures of bouncing tits and blood stained sheets, only to reopen them within an instant at the sound of his chamber door slamming against the solid wall.

“oh my!” a young girl dressed in rags turns her back on him as quickly as she notices his naked form, as if allowing him to compose himself and make himself presentable. “i’m so sorry, my prince! i would have knocked but he said i should simply let myself in!”

daemon makes no attempt to find cover.

“do whatever it is you need to do.” he speaks with a tone far too relaxed for a man who’s still got a grip on his cock. if anything, the raggedness in his breaths comes from his frustrations of losing the flavour of you on his tongue. “don’t stop on my account.”

she hesitates upon facing him again, eyes clearly wandering off from her own commands and glancing down at his exposed crotch more times than he imagines she’s comfortable with. from the look of her, she’s young in age- likely only recently blossomed into a woman- and, at the thought of his being the first cock she’s ever seen, he feels himself grow closer to his peak, a sick and twisted satisfaction buzzing through his veins at the possibility of giving the sweet girl her first sense of visual arousal.

when the shock passes, yet still lingers in her features like a harsh cough irritates the throat, she makes her way fully into the room. in her arms, a tray with a mass of food, enough to feed a lord and his men for several nights. without a word, she lays the assortment out on the large table within his chambers, hands shaking under her own nerves.

meanwhile, daemon slows the flick of his own wrist, teasing his cock with the impending satisfaction. a smile, too faint to be seen yet present enough that he feels the slight stretch of his lips, births itself as he considers who this offering of a feast may be from.

“what’s this about, girl?” he throws the question out into the air, clear amusement in his tone.

“the king, my prince.” just as he expected. “he’s ordered this be sent to you.”

and so it begins, he thinks.

his brother is buttering him up, showing a sign of good-will to have daemon in his good graces when he orders the rogue prince betroths himself to the king’s pretty daughter, her supposed virtue now a pile of crumbled ruins in the eyes of the court. as if he needs convincing to take such a sweet young thing to wife, the perfect little bird made of blonde hair, valyrian blood, sugar-coated cum and the sweetest song of whimpers and pleas.

“then make sure you let my brother know how eager i am to receive his feast.” he can feel himself reaching the edge of his peak, tethering off the edge and seconds away from painting his hand white with wasted seed.

perhaps the serving girl will lick it clean for him.

“of course, my prince.” once finished with the arranging of the feast, the maiden straightens out some wrinkles in her skirt- though it does nothing to clean up her looks- and begins to make her way back toward the entry to his chambers. “the king will be surprised to see you so agreeable, though it will help soothe his unease, my lord.”

“his... unease?” daemon’s movements stop, the air runs dry and the girl visibly stiffens, hand curling around the door handle and clenching it as if it is the only thing giving her support.

clearly, she’s said something she shouldn’t have.

“i must go, my lord.”

“unease over what, girl?”

“you... you don’t know, do you?” she’s beginning to irritate him, speaking in riddles and shaking like a leaf in the winds of winter.

“answer me clearly or i’ll have your tongue.” the girl can not see the way he moves off the bed, nor the way he spies his eyes towards his trusted sword propped against a wall, but she certainly hears the loud thud of his feet meeting the floor, feels the darker shift of energy in the room as the rogue prince makes a threatening advance towards her.

“ser gerold royce, my prince...” he’s near certain she lets out a pathetic whimper, like a wounded doe. “he’s proclaimed himself as lord of runestone.”

the world comes to a stand still as her words flood over him.

while the prince is frozen in his spot, face an empty canvas devoid of emotion, the young girl makes a swift exit, wise enough to not wish to stick around long enough to bare witness to the hot-headed prince’s reaction. the slamming of the door on her way out seems to startle him back into motion, naked limbs striding across the room and grabbing at the door. he twists the handle and gives a harsh tug, strong enough to have the wood smash as it collides against the wall.

the door does not open.

he attempts again, and again, and again, and is met with the same resistance each time. only then does it dawn on him- the feast, the unease- this was never about his brother keeping him in his good graces.

this was about the king keeping him locked away in his chambers.

“next, you’ve got your knight. while still not a very point-worthy piece, this holds power in the way it moves, jumping over pawns like a real knight slices through his enemies with the point of his sword.”

four days pass by slowly within the confines of his chambers.

at first, he rages. pacing the floor till the plush carpeting runs thin, hacking away at hand-crafted furniture his ancestors had sat upon and broken fast at, mouth dropped open in a bellow of impassioned words of all the things he plans to do once he gets his hands on his older brother, most of which start and end with his grip on the king’s neck.

then, he tries rest.

it’s a hopeless attempt, though, as the thoughts are running far too rampant for him to ignore the fact he’s confined within his room, not a clue of what his brother has done in regards to runestone’s rebellion. then come the thoughts of you, his little dove, likely hurt, and confused, and needing your dear uncle’s guidance on how to continue onward, how to outsmart the wretched ladies within your father’s court, how to ensure you do not wind up married off to some boring oaf of a lord, with not a drop of valyrian blood in his veins.

after sleep evades him, and rage consumes him once more, he switches to pleasuring himself, hand squeezed tight around his cock and working over the sex organ till he’s completely spent, his sack drained and nothing but pathetic droplets of seed painting his skin by the eight, ninth, tenth peak he drives himself too, fuelling the fire of his lust with past rendevouz- the pentoshi whore he’d fucked in front of her own husband, the nights he’d spent in the streets of silk in rooms where cups and cunts were shared amongst the crowd, the young knight who’d sought him out after a tourney and cried out as daemon stretched the tight pink hole of his arse- and with future desires- the slapping of his stones against your pearl as he takes you from behind, your pretty eyes struggling back tears the first time he fucks his cock into your silky wet hole, the sick, and nasty, and down-right degenerate want to bend you over the small council table and shoot his seed into your womb for all those wrinkled cunts to bare witness to.

ultimately, it’s the memory of how you taste that sends him spiralling for a tenth time.

the rogue prince is a sexual deviant, that was the very first whisper that had flooded the keep about him. and oh how he’s worn it with pride over the years, a twisted joy found in watching their outrage each time he speaks of crass and acts on sin.

even so, there is only so much he can take until he reaches his limit. and, thus, with his cock feeling like it may fall off if he does not give it some recovery time, the prince returns to raging.

that is how the king finds him, sword in hand and the expensive fabrics that once made up the curtains leading onto a balcony now nothing but tattered rags on the floor.

“i must say, daemon, this takes me back.” viserys’ tone carries amusement, which licks at daemon’s ire and coaxes it back to life, hand gripping the hilt of his sword as the prince reminds himself- despite how infuriating the king may be- that he cares deeply for his older brother. “me entering your chambers and finding you amidst a temper tantrum.”

the prince is quick on his feet, turning on his ankle till he finds himself gazing upon the face of his brother. he’s dressed in his finest robes, a mixture of reds and blacks, yet daemon does not miss the green jewel on one of his fingers. the crown upon viserys’ head reflects the sun, shining offensively in the prince’s face as if to more harshly remind him of the inheritance he’ll never claim, the throne he’ll never sit.

“what is the meaning of this?” daemon bellows and instinctively raises dark sister, the tip of the blade pointed directly at his brother.

the sound of kingsguards drawing their own weapons floods the room yet the raise of viserys’ hand halts them all in their defence, calling his brother’s bluff.

“i had some business to attend to.” the king speaks so casually, as though he’s discussing the recent weather or what he’d eaten for his supper the evening before.

“so you imprison me in my chambers as if i am some ill-behaved child!” daemon means to question him yet his words come out as more of a statement, an acceptance of the matter at hand.

“yes, well, what kind of idiot would i be to let my brother wander free in my castle while i’m grasping at straws to prevent a war?” the room grows more tense with every exchanged word between the two brothers, a feat which doesn’t go unnoticed by the guards who stand by the king nor the maidens who had rushed in after the reopening of daemon’s chambers, scrambling around to tidy the place up. “a war which you started in the first place.”

it irks something in daemon, the way viserys remains level headed whilst he’s pacing the room, and gripping his sword, and releasing his frustrations in bursts of loud voices and disgruntled grunts. condescending in every way, it sends daemon into a headspace where he’s no longer a man-grown and, instead, a tear-stained child being reprimanded by his king and grandsire.

he liked to torture young daemon who, despite his best efforts, was always prone to outbursts of emotion- outbursts the old man liked to meet with calmed expressions and tired words of disappointment, dismissing his grandson to bed.

it seems to be a commonality shared among kings, antagonising daemon.

“a war i started?!” and yet he falls for the trap every time, meeting viserys’ passive with his aggressive, striding those few steps closer till he’s a hair away from touching the king with his blade. still, his brother holds off his guards. “and how do you suppose i done such a thing while being imprisoned!?”

“cool it with the theatrics, brother,” viserys punctuates his exhaustion with an eye roll and gives a single nod of his head, giving the kingsguards the go-ahead to swarm around daemon.

a pair of them, both young in their knighthood and matching in face, grab at the rogue prince’s arms and hold him in a stand-still while another guard plucks the weapon from his hand. daemon shoves against their hold and is met with more resistance.

dark sister is passed among the guards, each hand that touches it being added to a tally of people on daemon’s list of men to disembowel. finally, viserys holds the weapon, examining it like it is the very first time he’s seen it.

“daemon, it brings me no joy to do this,” the king starts up again, eyes meeting the glaring amethysts of his brother. “but with the tensions arising and war creeping over the horizon, i can not afford to risk anything going amiss.”

“get to the point, brother. you’re speaking in rhyme as if you were some bard.”

“very well. from now until i decide you are not a threat to this kingdom, your confinement will be stretched from your chambers to the red keep. you are to carry no weapon and you will step no foot out of this castle.”

“you’re a fool if you think i’ll agree to this.”

“it is an order from your king!” viserys lets the mask slip, intentionally or not, and his irritation shines through like the stars paint themself across the dark sky. “and if that’s not enough to keep you in line, you will also be monitored at all hours of the day, every move you make within these walls will be shadowed by that of a knight of my choosing.”

daemon targaryen considers murdering his brother.

“and i see no man more fit for the job than ser criston cole.”

for the first time in his life, daemon targaryen may just go through with it.

“the bishop may be similar to the knight in it’s point count, yet it moves differently. while a knight can not move three times in the same direction, a bishop must stay within the colour it started in. think of a bishop like a maester: chained to an oath it can never break”

he’d rather be forced to endure a lifetime of self-flagellation than another moment of this conversation.

“it is in your best interest, your grace, to cut this state of anarchy out from it’s roots before any other houses chose to follow in the footsteps of runestone.” the new hand of the king is certainly an improvement from the hightower cunt, daemon can’t deny it. yet a part of him feels the knife of betrayal twist deeper into his back upon realising his brother had not only ignored his own warnings of the green lord till rhaenyra brought them up too, but he’d once again given the role to a random lord in his court rather than his own brother. “we have cause to believe that the dandarrions may be next to follow, given the less than kind words your daughter had for them during her tour for a marriage.”

“then there is the matter with the lannisters and, of course, the never ending tensions with the dornish folk. they’re more weary than ever, since someone,” maester mellos has never been a subtle man, despite all his supposed wits and knowledge, and so it flies over no one’s head when he takes a glance at the rogue prince and his standing guard, the insufferable man who’s made himself daemon’s shadow. “went to war with the triarchy.”

“my apologies for riding you all of that tyrant crabfeeder!” daemon speaks for the first time since he’d been forced to sit at the small council. “i’ll be sure to stand by and allow the next one to rip you all to pieces.”

daemon drowns out the rest of the meeting, uninterested in hearing his brother grovel at ways to keep his subjects at bay, as though they are the ones that rule over him.

gifts of gold for the dandarrion, a knighting for the lannisters’ youngest lords, peace-offerings in the forms of poetic words, and sweetened fruits, and lavish silks for the dornish. each gift more empty than the last.

it’s the mention of your name that brings him back into the room.

“were she here, we could have used her as a bargaining plea for one of these stronger houses,” ser lyman beesbury is the one who speaks and, with each word, the rest of the councilmen grow wider in the eyes and stiffer in their seats.

daemon explains their otherwise odd reactions away with them simply feeling uncomfortable discussing you in his presence, everything changed and nothing the same since sometime between the night he had you pressed against your door and his confinement within the keep.

upon release back into the castle, he’d searched for you first of all, paying no mind to criston cole as the knight struggled to keep up with his rushed footfall, mind too focused on the renewed anger he wished to placate with his cock in your mouth and the further destruction of your purity, all in the name of spiting your father.

when he’d reached your chambers, however, he’d found nothing but a mess of emptied trunks and an unkept bed.

“the princess is not here.” ser criston had spoken between gasps of air, chest heaving beneath the unnecessary layers of chainmail and armor his position forces him to wear.

daemon had demanded an answer for your whereabouts, only to quickly realise the knight was none-the-wiser. it was the new hand, ultimately, that clued him in, over sips of wine and looks of caution from other council-men amid a private feast.

“driftmark, prince daemon.” he’d dabbed at the corners of his mouth with poise and composure, everything about the man seemingly perfected for politics, serving only to irritate the prince further. “the princess has accompanied her older sister and her new husband on their trip to laenor velaryon’s home.”

that was the last daemon had heard of you.

a near moon later and you were still out of reach, likely turning your nose at the smell of salt that coated the walls of the velaryon household and wondering why a certain red-speckled dragon had yet to swoop in on the island, carrying the cause and answer to all your problems upon it’s back.

“dare i say i agree, your grace,” another of the men chimes in, his words barely a whisper at first, glancing nervously toward the king. “perhaps we may write for her return and see to it that a betrothal be made.”

daemon chooses to observe viserys in this moment, eyes trailing over his features and taking note of every wrinkle in his brow, every greyed hair within his unshaven face, every upturn and scorn of his lip. there’s a wave of unease that’s fallen over his brother, and it only grows with every moment that the lords speak of you in the rogue prince’s presence, the air thick with the discussion the two brother’s had yet to have regarding the rumours of your deflowering.

“and, tell me, my lords, what you suggest we tell the princess’ current betrothed?” maester mellos, ever incapable of holding his tongue, barks across the table, deathly unaware of the looks that befall the council nor the tensing of daemon’s shoulders. “the king is trying to avoid war, not further instigate one by implying her current betrothal is not good enough, that house-”

“that’s enough!” the king rises from his chair all at once, slamming his hand down on the table and commanding the attention of everyone in the room, more so when he recoils in pain. all at once, the rumours of his declining health and the effect it’s had on his body feel all too true. “there will be no further discussions of my daughter nor the prospect of a new betrothal. what’s done is done and i will not go back on my word to appease your fear-mongering speculations. we will continue our diplomatic relationship with these houses and ensure they do good to remember who sits the iron throne.”

the men obey like sheep, each bowing their head and mumbling false reconciliations.

one by one, they all take their leave.

first, lyman beesbury, who with pale face and solemn eyes lays apologies at visery’s feet. next, the master of laws and maester mellos, neither of them wasting time with niceties and opting for a mere bow towards their king. when all the chairs lay empty, save for daemon’s and the king, silence runs thick through the room. neither brother moving, each testing their unnamed opponent and awaiting the first blow through the tension to be made.

daemon grows impatient.

“unless corlys velaryon fucked a new son into our lady cousin and had the babe birthed in a matter of days, i do wonder who you’ve betrothed my niece to on driftmark.”

“do you know what your problem is, daemon?” though viserys’ words come out with inquisitory tones, he leaves no space for the prince to answer. “you’re so busy with your own schemes and plans that you fail to see when you’re the one being played.”

daemon feels small.

for a moment, he’s no longer a man grown into a soldier, with a mighty sword and a fearsome dragon. instead, he’s frail and weak, and staring across at his older brother as he beats him once more in the game of knights and checkered spaces, a taunting look on his face as he knocks over the little boy’s king piece and declares himself victor.

when the moment passes, he straightens his posture and rises from his seat, and reminds himself of the words his mother would comfort her crying babe with each time he failed to win, whispers of how there’s always something to be gained in any loss he finds.

he settles with leading his brother further into the trap of rumours him and his niece have conjured up together.

“i hear your new wife is fond of the seven, brother.” the prince reaches to grip the hilt of his sword, only to find an empty space and the reminder that he carries no weapon as of late. “ask her to pray for your daughter, i don’t believe she tasted the bitterness of moon tea after our evening together.”

the king does not call daemon’s bluff.

“this right here? the rook, worth more than the bishop or knight, yet less than the king or queen, it is an allusive piece. play the game wisely and your rook may trap the king, leaving it with nowhere to run.”

with the passing of another moon, daemon plunders deeper into insanity.

he’s always been a man of possession, the kind who owns and conquers and takes. objects, lands, people. they’re all the same in daemon’s chequebook of ownership. and, while living a rather messy and unkept life, he enjoys the pleasantness of having his possessions in his line of sight, like the sword he’s worn at his hip since the old king bestowed it upon him, or the seating he takes at every royal feast, chair angled perfectly to keep his eyes on the brother, nieces, family he possesses.

with dark sister out of reach and his most recent favoured family member out of sight- the pretty niece he’s silently layed his claim on-, destruction is imminent.

no longer does he debate with his own inner-turmoil over if he will go against the king’s orders but, rather, he questions when.

when will he redeem his previous loss against ser criston cole, beat the knight to the ground and steal his weapon as he lays unconscious?

when will he slip through the cracks in the castle walls, making use of the secretive halls built by maegor the cruel himself and slice through any guard who may attempt to get in his way?

when will he take the skies atop his fire-breathing mount, fleeing the city of whispering cunts and chees-playing fools?

the answer to each questions comes back to one thing, one person, one possession he needs to locate first.

you.

the events to follow the council meeting had lead him to several conclusions.

the first, and most obvious one, was that you clearly were not on driftmark, as lord strong had so boldly claimed. the second took him a few sleeps to fully decide upon but, remembering the words spoken of your betrothal among the council men and the apparent greater houses they could have given your hand to, daemon crossed off the possibility of you being in winterfell, the young stark lord likely too prideful to entertain the king’s earlier propositions of marriage after the way you’d left him amid a feast to go and- falsely rumoured- fuck your uncle.

with the dandarrions, the lannisters and the dornish folk already ruled off the list, it left daemon with few options.

his strongest lead is the baratheons, a long-standing connection between the two houses and a recently widowed lord who’s previous wife had gifted nothing but girls from her womb, it took no genius to assume a targaryen bride would serve him well.

daemon will soon find out he's wrong.

there’s an unease that takes over someone’s chambers the moment they notice something has been tampered with, whether it be as silly as a glass moved a few inches across a table or something as significant as a chest of drawers laying open when they’d clearly been left shut.

it tickles the back of the prince’s neck this very evening, skin rising to mimic that of a goose as he trails his eyes over his surroundings.

he’d returned to his chambers later than usual this evening, the day spent cornering council-men and threatening them- daemon had quickly discovered they feared him less with no blade to slice through them and his own personal minder at his back, that ridiculous kingsguard armour reflecting every ray of sun and every burn of candlelight.

daemon had taken to tormenting the poor ser crispin only a matter of days into their forced companionship. he figured that, if he may no longer seek joy in the streets of silk or the bloodshed of his enemies, let him at least take pleasure in the squirming discomfort of a man he loathes entirely.

“my niece,” he’d spoke as the two sat through their usual quiet supper together. “did you enjoy fucking her?”

“i did not fuck princess y/n.”

“well, of course not,” daemon pushed his spoon back and forth, passing time while he thought up his next taunt. “my younger niece has always had the more refined taste out of the two of them. rhaenyra, on the other hand, well she’d fuck a hound if it licked her the right way.”

“all this from a man who preys on his own blood for his sexual deviance. you and i both know what you done to your niece, how you seduced such a-”

“my nieces have always seemed so alike. both pale haired, both sharing the same smile, both wearing the same dresses.” the knight and the prince had long abandoned their food now, discussion heavy with daemon’s accusation of ser criston abandoning his own vows and committing what he can only imagine would be declared treason, deflowering a princess. perhaps soon the two will share something in common. “now i wonder if they feel the same. you must know, so tell me, did rhaenyra’s cunt grip your pathetic cock in a vice that threatened to ruin any other woman for you? or is that a trait only my youngest niece possesses?”

even now, hours into the late night and several more cups of wine drowning in his system, daemon can not bite back a dry laugh as he recalls the astound look upon the knight’s face, a mixture of disgust and discomfort.

he’s seated- more accurately speaking, he’s draped- upon a chaise, muscles tense and mind racing, in need of distraction. most of his nights end like this now, several emptied pitchers of wine along the floor, red staining his mouth and his own figure collapsed over whatever surface he finds first. occasionally, he’d attempt to have his way with a serving girl, ignoring the looks of ser criston as he stands guard outside his chambers and watches the prince enter with his partner for the evening, yet most were dismissed before daemon could satisfy himself, a mixture of his own drunken incontinence and their far too placid natures.

at least the whores of the silk street make him believe they want him.

letting out a groan, he sinks further into the seat, legs bent at the knee and feet planted firmly on the ground as he lets himself lay back fully. he’s contemplating taking rest here for the evening, and weighing the likely-hood of awakening with a new pain in his neck. 

it would certainly be a more comfortable sleep than the would he’d taken last night, back slumped against a wall and body sat atop the cool marbled floor.

he makes his choice, limbs too tired to make the few paces to his bed, and resigns himself for the night, twisting once more to find the most comfortable position upon the chaise and closing his eyes.

only to reopen them instantly.

something rustles. that feeling of unease creeps in once again, slow like fog over the horizon, hazy and threatening, and cold in every sense of the word. someone has been in his chambers, is in his chambers, and they’ve left something askew.

his eyes dart over the room, trying to assess every nook and corner and crevice within it in hopes of spotting a pair of spying eyes or unsettled objects. struggling due to all the blind spots his position has created, daemon heaves himself back into the upright position, figure slouched and back curved uncomfortably.

the rustling happens again.

he shoots up from his seat, wondering if his inebriated state has begun to create delusions, or if the psychosis caused by staring at the same red walls of the keep nonstop has finally begun to take over. he must be going mad, he thinks, eyes scanning over the whole of his room as he turns in place, cursing the more he notices nothing out of the ordinary.

until he sees it.

there, placed exactly where his tired limbs had been mere moments ago, lays a note.

it’s folded over and sporting a strange yellow blotch in one of it’s corners while, in the centre, written in the blackest ink so delicately and flowery it near stirs his cock in his breeches, kepus.

he snatches at the paper, near tearing it in two with the speed he unfolds it, eyes racing over every scribble and every swirl of pretty inked words.

the rain is the only thing that brings me comfort these days.

the letter begins and, while the writer has still not identified themselves, the prince is more than certain he knows who is speaking.

i’ve never been a fan of change (i’m sure you recall my horrid tantrums as a child whenever my mother assigned me a new handmaiden), yet never have i faced one so large. where in the capital i spent my days with books and needles and rides upon dragon’s back, here i am told to sit quiet as a mouse, as though i am merely another ornament within the lord’s home. where i once spent nights rolling my eyes and wishing to be excused from public feasts, here i cry and ache for a morsel of socialising outside the lord’s inner circle. where once i slept sound over the small folk screaming and cheering into the late night, here i sit awake by the window and listen to each raindrop.

i am not built for the cold, both in weather and in people. they frighten me here, which is a thing i never thought i’d need admit to. there are no whispers here, only silence. but their eyes, they speak paragraphs of hatred and disdain and ill-intentions with a simple glance. i need not worry if they will eat me alive here, but rather whom will be the one to do so. in the capital i’ve always felt untouchable, first because i was my father’s daughter, a princess of the realm, and, when that began to lose effect, you stepped in and taught me safety can be found in another, with your advice and your combat training and your inability to let me fall asleep without you on my mind.

i’ve developed a sick obsession for you, uncle, and it is entirely your fault.

he’s sunk back onto the chaise, hand gripping the letter tighter as a mixture of worry and anger stirs up in his loins. worry over the tales you tell, anger for the possibility of this being a sick game, a note written by some pathetically bored serving wench aiming to ruffle some feathers.

he decides he must keep reading to uncover the truth.

and so, now, it is with heavy heart that i must admit i’m disappointed. don’t perceive me as foolish, for i am wiser than some maiden who believes the things i feel for you to be love. but i always believed there was understanding between us, two different souls yet so completely immersed and knowing of each other’s drives and needs. even when i was a child, you were always the first to notice once i was too tired to continue with the festivities or when i craved the thrill of sneaking down to the dragonpit to spy upon the great beasts. i thought you’d understand, too, that this is not the life i wishfor: a husband with the personality of a wet piece of parchment and a life of silence and gloom.

i am a dragon, just like my sister, and my father, and our ancestors. and a dragon can not grow in a cage, so why have you let them put me in one? you agreed to help me, to ruin me for any other lord so that my father would have no option to but to wed us, leaving us both to our own devices. you, gaining that valyrian wife you always wanted while not changing your whorish ways, and i, earning the freedom i would not find shackled to some low achieving, overbearing, egotistical man. yet i now have a betrothed who’s hair is brown and who’s house has no dragon.

i will risk writing this only once, for the spiders may not spin their thread here but they still bite, and ask this of you: speak sense into my father. tell him i’m with child, tell him i’m a threat to the realm, tell him i’m plotting my own death. tell him any lie you need to put a stop to this betrothal and bring me home, to where i belong.

or, outsmart him and simply come rescue me yourself, like some knight on his white stallion (caraxes would likely singe my hair off if i ever dared call him such a thing in his presence).

i’ll be awaiting your next move, uncle. be sure you play wisely and don’t lose both your princess and your king.

coldest regards,

your little dove.

p.s. i have cum to learn that, while my fingers are indeed skilled, they are nowhere near as good as yours were, kepus.

the intensity behind the stare he holds the note under may just set it alight.

no longer does he doubt who could have written such a thing, the mentions of your joint ploy to deceive the courtiers and the wording used to describe the connection shared between you both marking the undeniable truth of the letter’s author. 

perversion brings him to reread the final sentence, mind fully registering them and flooding him with pink hued paintings of his pretty niece, as nude as the day you were born, now flushed skin and hardened nipples and honey dripping down your thighs as your dainty hands fail to fuck themselves as deeply as his had.

daemon can’t help but wonder what his little dove must think of in moments of self-pleasure, questions of whether you were depraved enough to think of men doing unspeakable things to you or if you merely blush over the memory of your uncle.

reading over the last part two more times, his eyes scatter back up the page- first, in an effort to avoid having to deal with his own impending arousal, and then because he feels compelled to read over the letter once more, eyes scanning over every detail.

it takes an unknown number of reads for him to notice a code among the words, a subtleness of ink layered to appear harsher, darker, more noticeable than the other words upon the parchment.

i’m, where, you, once, were.

i’m where you once were.

an inexplicable sense of pride comes over him, the fact his little dove has found a way to tell him something whilst, simultaneously, telling him nothing. were your worries true of spiders and the risk of one of them reading this letter in the time it took to reach him, he doubts any of them would be wise enough to notice the message, much less decipher it’s meaning.

and, while he applauds your display of wits, he despises his own inability to comprehend it. if you are where he once was, where had he been?

just about everywhere in the seven kingdoms, is the unfortunate truth.

by the time sleep at lasts takes over him, daemon has gained two things: the letter you’ve sent and the unbreakable will to move in on the king at last.

“the objective of chess is to protect your king while attacking your opponent’s. you must back the king into a corner, leave him with no way out, place him in check. only then will you be able to call checkmate and win.”

daemon nudges the knight with his foot.

as they’d sat for supper that evening, the prince had felt doubtful of the contents in the vial. he’d pinched it from the grand maester himself and, though he payed no real coins, the prince would argue he payed a grater price: feigning interest in conversing with old crone. a near three hours he’d sat, listening to the man drone on and on, till at last he’d excused himself to relieve his bladder and left daemon with a window of opportunity, his ointments and medicine all in a neat little display.

having little time, he’d grabbed at what he was sure to be milk of the poppy- a significantly smaller dose remaining within the vial compared to the rest- and tucked it in his trousers, at last excusing himself from the bore of a lifetime.

it wasn’t difficult to slip the liquid into a cup of wine, nor was it particularly hard to convince ser criston to drink from it, inviting the knight to join in on his empty toast towards the hightower queen and yet another pregnancy.

hours later and ser crispin lays slumped over outside his door.

daemon gives one more nudge for safety and, when the man merely slouches even closer to the ground, he grabs at the knight’s weapon and nestles it in his own scabbard, making use of it for the first time in two moons.

the hour is late and most of the keep have given in to the temptations of rest, yet the prince still travels the halls with caution, one eye looking over his shoulder. he half expects every guard he passes to seize him on sight, spewing some nonsense of his wrongful weapon or non-permitted solitude. with luck he reaches his destination, no one to spy upon the way he enters into the emptied library nor to witness as he shoves a bookcase aside and steps into the tunnel.

his memory serves him well, even after all these years, navigating himself through the interconnected secrets of the keep. he passes rooms of lords laid in bed with women they do not call wife, and ladies disrobing for the evening, and the still empty chambers of his little dove, till, at last, he reaches where he wants to be, not bothering with patience before barging his way out of the tunnel and into the regal chambers of the king.

“it took you longer than i expected.” daemon had counted on his brother being the one wearing shock upon his face, yet it is the prince who plays the fool, stepping into the room to find his older brother sat at a table, goblet in hand and a familiar checkered board in front of him.

it irks him to hear the king even imply he’d been expecting his arrival.

“don’t you have a wife to be bedding, brother?” he steps deeper into the chambers with caution, eyes on the empty bed and the lack of sight of his brother’s breeding mare.

“pregnancy, daemon. it works wonders on a woman’s body,” he takes a sip of his drink before reaching to pour a second cup meant for the prince. “it’s just a shame one of those wonders comes in the form of my wife snoring louder than a lion roars.”

it’s strange to hear his brother discuss details of his new bride.

daemon had never sought answers for their marriage, yet he’d forever questioned what had driven his brother to marry such a girl, childhood friend of his eldest daughter and so clearly lacking the backbone needed to stand up for herself against the injustices forced against her by her own father. were the prince a more gentle person at heart, perhaps he’d find it in him to pity her.

instead, he sees her as just another thorn in his brother’s side, waiting for the chance to poison his mind and seat one of her wretched babes upon the throne.

“come, come,” dragging him out of his thoughts is viserys once more, now half-hovering over the table and moving his limbs back and forth, hands carefully placing each piece upon it’s designated checker. “sit down! let us play!”

only as he’s seated across from viserys does he notice he’s been bestowed with playing the blacks on the board. never before was he allowed, the older of the two always insisting black was his lucky colour and refusing to play the whites.

in truth, daemon has always suspected his brother had been to fearful to play white, not knowing how to make a good first move and relying on his opponent to instead kickstart the game and give him places to move his pieces.

“isn’t it a beautiful board?” the elder must confuse his staring as a sign of fascination, gawking at the splendour of it. “it’s the very same one mother gifted me after i bested her for the first time.”

there it is, that familiar lick of envy, a sick and cruel twist in his guts as he stares down at an object viserys gets to remember their parents by, while all daemon ever got was disapproving looks and half-hearted embraces. perhaps the rumours are true and the prince has a complex which forces him to pity himself, to cast a shadow upon his own image and declare that it was a wrong forced upon him by others.

or, more likely, the consequences of watching his parents prop viserys up on a mantelpiece whilst leaving him in a corner to collect dust had lead him down the path to the destructive man he’s become.

even when he’d claimed caraxes, he could only imagine what his father’s reaction would have been, were he still alive to witness it. 

impressive, but your brother claimed the greatest dragon to have ever lived, the one who the great conqueror rode upon and forged a throne under the black dread’s flames.

“‘tis exactly the same as any other chess board, brother.” he lets petty feelings spin lies on his tongue, rolling his eyes and disregarding the clear etherealness, the intricate carvings on each piece and the extravagant linings of the board, and each of it’s shimmering onyx and quartz squares.

daemon downs half his cup in one sip, eyes trained on his brother’s first move.

king’s pawn forward two spaces, a strong start and an immediate attack to the centre.

it’s fitting, daemon thinks, for this to be the first move his brother makes while leading a game. while a powerful start, it’s rather obvious, one he’d seen viserys defeat in a manner of mere seconds. perhaps age has taken away his astute mind and skill for the game.

daemon retaliates, moving one of his bishop’s pawns forward two spaces.

with the crease that forms in viserys’ brow, daemon delights. his brother was not expecting him to move in such a way, likely expecting him to do something erratic like bringing his queen’s pawn forward.

the pair continue to move in silence, sips of wine and scratching of pieces echoing around the chambers. it’s deceivingly peaceful, nothing like the confrontation the rogue prince had geared himself up to walk into. while he’d awaited bursts of anger and scathing accusations and marks of betrayal, the two sit like children once more, moving empty objects in an imitation of politics.

the only difference is daemon appears to have the upper hand, a growing collecting of white pieces stored to the right of his long-ago emptied and refilled cup.

as always, it’s daemon who takes the first bite.

“i’m afraid i must pay you your dues, brother.” his words slip through his own smirking lips, satisfaction rolling in by the hundreds as he spies the white king, slowly losing places to hide on the board. “it’s truly applaudable how you managed to not only secure one daughter a marriage amid questions of her virtue, but two! young helaena will follow in her half-sisters’ footsteps, surely.”

viserys’ hand pauses mid-air, his remaining bishop held in his grasp. his grip tightens with each passing second. the older has always been more level-headed, that no one can dispute, but the rogue prince will forever swear up and down, high and low, that it is his brother who carries the more foul temper.

viserys’ anger is just harder to weed out from behind false niceties and calmed breathing.

“if you mean to say that helaena will be so lucky as to marry a noble man, filled with honour,” he lays his bishop down at last, not managing to capture any of daemon’s blacks. “then yes, i should hope so. both the betrothal of my eldest daughter and my middle-born were to good men, faithful lords. my helaena will be lucky to do the same.”

“you never did quite tell me about y/n’s betrothal, brother.” the king chuckles at daemon’s words, empty amusement in the obvious statement the prince makes. still, he makes no attempt to stop him, letting him string the conversation along to the dreaded topic between them: the rumours of what daemon had done to you. “last i spoke with her, she was rather... occupied with something other than the prospect of marriage. when you announced her future union to her, did she drop on her knees and kiss your feet in gratitude? or did she spit at you and-”

“did she drop on her knees for you?” the raise in viserys’ voice is minimal yet enough to have daemon smirking over the rim of his cup, amused to see his brother being led into his trap for once.

he makes his next move on the board fist, plucking his knight and moving it over one of his own pawns. if he plays is cards right, messes with his brother’s head just the right amount, perhaps he won’t notice how he’s moving in on his king.

his only hope is to keep talking about his little dove.

“so that’s what you wish to discuss, brother? how it felt to fuck your young daughter?” for the first time he speaks the lie out loud, no hiding behind innuendos nor insinuations. they need to believe you’ve stolen my virtue, kepus, were the words you’d whispered to him, face still fresh from dried tears and teeth stained purple with the wine he’d let you sip from his glass late into the night as the rest of the world had slept, they need to think that you fucked me.  he’d sworn an oath to you, to put on a show and ruin you beneath the judgement of others. he’ll be damned if viserys becomes an exception to this oath. “because i can go into detail, you needn’t beg. i can tell you of how it felt to have her squeeze around my cock, and how she arched that little back like a cat, spine curving deeper each time i pounded into her. i can tell you of how she begged for her uncle, her kepus, to shoot his spend into her aching womb and-”

a screech rings out as viserys’ chair flies backwards, the king rising to a stand and glaring down at his brother, who only sinks deeper into the velvet lined seat and allows himself another sip of his glass, face painted in pure amusement as viserys’ reflects that of an angered dragon.

“enough! i will not have you speak such atrocities about your own niece!”

“oh spear me the lecture of the seven, brother!” the hypocrisy to shun him for lusting after his own kin, it has to be the hightower cunt’s doing. feeding lies into her new husband’s head, any means to have his true-blooded targaryen daughters removed from the line to the throne. daemon at last feels himself begin to irk, a scowl engraving itself into his forehead. “your own beloved, your late wife, shared blood with you and you never once objected to bedding her. it is our family’s birthright to keep the blood of the dragon burning hot, not dampen it with that of lesser folk. i mean our parents, for gods’ sake, they were siblings! are you going to tell me it’s wrong?”

“this is not about you being her uncle, daemon. this is about you being you! and her being my sweet girl, one of the last pieces of aemma-”

daemon can’t help himself, flying out of his own seat with the slam of his hand on the table. the pieces rattle under the impact, the white queen toppling over and sending her pawn flying off the board.

“your sweet girl who you let be slandered by the same lords who break bread at your table and drink from your cups!” the prince stands taller than the king, shoulders straight and head held high as he flips positions, becoming the one staring down upon his older brother, who’s slouched and frailer than he once was, hands searching for the steadying hold of the oak table. “tell me, brother, where were you when she drank herself sick as they spoke on her fertility? what did you do when they mocked her for being scared after an attack on her life, in her own chambers!? did you even ask her what happened between us before you shipped her off like cattle to the slaughter, let her tell you it was she who asked it of me? she detested the thought of marrying some unknown lord so much she’d rather destroy her maidenhood and her honour, but you wouldn’t see that, too blinded by your own downfall into becoming a boot-licker for all these cunts who hold land in your realm.”

viserys can only stare, frozen where he stands and eyes widened in bewilderment at his brother’s own outburst, chest heaving in anger and hands shaking with adrenaline as he points towards the king.

“are you in love with her?”

no more than a whisper, so quiet the rogue prince is almost sure he imagines it.

till the king repeats himself.

"gods, don't be ridiculous!" it’s neither a yes nor a no, and daemon is so painfully aware of this, aware that he gives no real answer to your father nor himself.

the concept of love and all it entails has never appealed to the prince, at least in the way it’s presented in song and written of in history. all his life he’d heard of knights who’s lady love was a gem they sought to hold, to sing songs of faithfulness and dance around with hands entwined by marriage. of men who made themselves better, kinder, more gentle, all in the hopes of pleasing their lover and winning her hand. daemon had never experienced such a feeling.

while love is something most feel in their heart, daemon feels it in his loins.

it’s a hunger that consumes his very being, aching, and growling, and demanding to be fed with bursts of passion and shouts of anger. it’s a possession he needs to take, to mark someone as his, in every sense of the words. his to own, his to touch, his to drown in expensive gifts. his love is not kind, but brutal, and loud, and forceful, never leaving room for the rest of the world to doubt it. it makes him want to march into battle, to burn down cities, to spill the blood of any who dare harm the object of his obsession. his love is a fire that burns him from within, spilling out from his skin and scorching everything in it’s path.

the prince is not sure if he wants you to burn in its flames.

“but i could give her a greater life than any other man in this realm.” what he is certain of is that he will not stand by as your father let’s you be ruined by someone other than him. “a good man means nothing if he can not keep her safe, or even happy. at the very least, wedding her to me would mean her husband is someone familiar. she wouldn’t have to leave her home, or change her ways, or even bare a child if she does not wish to.”

viserys sighs, tired body dropping back into his chair and his mangled hand reaches up to brush over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as his eyes squeeze shut. the prince almost believes he sees a flicker of resignation, winning his brother over at last or exhausting him so deeply he sees no choice but to accept his words as truth, if only to silence him.

instead, the king reaches for the board once more, an airy laugh escaping him as he examines the placement of each piece. leaning over, he sits his queen back up and drums his fingers on the table.

he laughs once more.

"after all these years, daemon, you still struggle to capture my queen."

“but your queen, daemon. the queen is where you hide all your power, look for where your opponent keeps their queen and there you shall find true victory.”

the words of years ago spin round and round in the prince’s head.

his eyes, glued to the board, watch as the king moves his queen out two spaces and captures daemon’s knight, snatching it off the board and tossing it over his shoulder. viserys looks up, awaiting for daemon to continue the match, to put an end to it at last.

but he’s too stuck on the phrasing his brother had used, stubborn in his belief that it’s meaning has little to do with the game upon the table and, rather, the one that’s being played with words and whispers and undisclosed betrothals.

the prince thinks of the queen, the hightower girl who parades around the courts in green silks and upon swollen ankles, face downtrodden each time she foolishly thinks no one is looking. if ever he believed viserys held true affection for her, he’d wonder if she was who the king refers to, if otto hightower had truly been sent back to oldtown empty handed or with a new bride on his arm.

but any fool with a set of eyes can see the king loves his second wife like he loves the iron throne: through duty and obligation.

it is, instead, the late queen aemma who viserys must speak of.

and, while her maiden home, house arryn, where she’d spent her girlhood in the days before she’d been betrothed to her cousin, possesses no lord nor man awaiting a wife, a neighbouring house had just recently named a new wifeless lord.

a house which remembers, especially those who wrong it.

“no…”

i'm where you once where.

“you have to understand, daemon, that the actions you take leave me with consequences to bare. after what happened to lady rhea… after what you done,” his brother, so clearly exhausted with the secrecy and the scheming, folds like a house of cards against a gentle breeze, collapsing further into his seat and shaking his head. he does not notice as daemon moves his own queen along the board. “the vale were at an unease. threatened, was the word they used. so when lord royce staked his claim over his house’s seat, demanding i compensate runestone for the marriage agreement you destroyed and the lady you took from them, i had to give them a show of good faith. i had to reassure them of the longstanding trust between our houses.”

“so you gave her to them, sold her like some slave!”

“i made a political deal!” he attempts to defend himself in both words and on the board. in both, he fails. “one where lord rhoyce gains a bride, i avoid war and my daughter gets to finally take on the duties bestowed upon her at birth.”

“you’re a fucking fool, viserys. you would have been better delivering her to the triarchy. least they would make her death a more swift one. that rhoyce twat’ll have her head on a pike, and her tits and cunt will be hand delivered to you. they’ll slaughter her, as payment for their-” daemon swallows every ill coloured word and expression of his despise that comes to mind at the memory of his bronze bitch, giving no out for his brother to twist this conversation into a matter of his own wrongdoings. “late lady.”

with no more hesitation, the rogue prince moves his queen one last time and delights in watching the white king fall into check.

he knocks the piece over, quietly declaring checkmate.

“brother, please,” the king’s words are as fragile as his health, failing and mute against daemon’s scowling features, which refuse to play nice any longer. “do you think this is what i wanted, for my daughter to be used as a bargaining tool for peace? but there’s no going back, what’s done is done.”

“then undo what is done!”

“how can i when they threaten violence and-”

“you’re the king! who gives a shit what they threaten, they have a dozen men to your thousands. you have dragons! if the threat of fire worked on the men of the vale once, it’ll do so again. so regain your pride and write to that cunt royce. tell him to have your daughter cleaned up and sent back to where she belongs, to find fulfilment in his new lordhood and to drop this notion that he even deserves to gaze upon a targaryen princess, much less stick his shrivelled cock within her. i urge you to send this letter post-haste,” that familiar blade of his sits neatly by the entrance of the chamber, attracting the prince over till he clutches it in his grasp at last, quickly returning dark sister to her rightful spot by his side and discarding the blade he’d stolen from ser criston. he glances back at the king, now risen once more, and twists the doorknob. “and pray, dear brother. pray that it reaches gerold royce before i do.”

with the slam of the door, daemon plunders into the halls of the keep, footsteps heavy and echoing with each one he takes. jaw clenched and hands fisted, he paints the image of a man enraged, sick and fed-up with the games being played.

by the time he reaches his chambers, shoving his way past the sleeping knight at it’s doors, there’s bound to be a flurry of gossiping fools who speak of the prince and his defiling of the king’s commands, but he cares little as he straps himself into leathers and steel, hell-bent on reaching the dragonpit before day breaks and the sun paints the sky alight.

daemon is done sitting idly by, waiting for the king to see reason.

because while at the age of five, naive and easily influenced, daemon targaryen had looked up to his chess-genius of a brother, it was at age five and ten that he realised why his brother kept winning, why pawns and knights and rooks would conveniently move to the places he needed them to be.

he cheated.

#daemon targaryen smut #house of the dragon smut #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen fluff #daemon targaryen fic #daemon targaryen oneshot #daemon targaryen imagine

[hootbon]

Since I saw someone else talking about their fucked up ideas, I am too lol because I suddenly remebered them. But, pretty much just how my lore making brain decides to look at characters.

Kinger: He’s a king chess piece, obviously. He didn’t have to work for that position, unlike the queen, no chess piece can ever become the king, but a pawn can prove itself and become a queen, in a way. Kinger is now forced to be a lowly magician, because he never had to work for anything on his way up. Cracks from pressure, knowing he didn’t do anything, and now has to make up for it, whist his queen, the one who worked to gain that role, is no longer around

Ragatha: A rag doll, something that is quite literally a toy, old, not many people would chose that sort of doll over the newer kinds. Tossed around, ripped, lost, decapitated— so what? It’s a doll. If the doll breaks, you can just sew her back together again. If she does something wrong, you can watch her unravel in front of your eyes until you decide to stitch her back together again, though no one really cares for fixing her. She can be replaced easily, and so easily broken, used and abused by people endlessly, that’s what she’s made for. If she gets too chatty, you can just take out your thread and needle to shut her up

Pomni: A ballerina, she looks quite beautiful when she dances, she is a living ‘doll’, a puppet. A puppet by the strings, not much she can do, but be there helplessly as the ringmaster tugs them. A puppet, also a doll, are just used by someone else’s hand, she has no control over what they might make her do in the circus, and she never will.

Gangle and Aingle: The two sisters, ‘twins’ even if one of them doesn’t actually exist. A false persona, a forever toxic relationship, in a way. Bound to someone who looks like you, is always around you, but acts nothing like you do, wants to be the opposite of you, in a way. With all that ribbon, Caine could really tie the loose ends of the circus, like the abstraction issue for example…

Zooble: Quite handy with a thread and needle if they do say so themselves. Almost like the druggie of the whole group, they let intrusive thoughts kick in one day and than… they could never have enough. Dysphoric, their body never looked normal anyways in the first place, so it didn’t matter if they took parts of those now gone and tried to use them to fill the void of their own ever ending spiral of lack of self-esteem, right? They never liked the person in the mirror, so they change it every day, it only feels normal to be scavenging the halls after hair raising screams of pain can be heard in the hallway, sewing parts together to make something they enjoyed. A bad habit? Of course not, they never see it that way, they are simply making use of what others never appreciated, and now aren’t around to appreciate

Jax: The fluffy murder set bunny, we all love him. His silly little pranks go from sudden silly string ambushes, to agonizingly terrible ways for any mortal being to die— good thing you can’t! Caine would never let you. He’s just a bunny, a sweet little guy who wants nothing else but to put a smile on your face— well, that’s a lie, all he wants now is to satisfy his needs, and out a smile on his face. What is he thinking? You’ll probably never know, ever since Kaufmo disappeared for a few hours and came back, starting to act differently from normal, Jax acts like it’s the end of the world. Silly Jax, it’s just all fun and games! Kaufmo needed some help, so Caine got our friendly twins to help tie up those loose ends!

…Basically random shit, character design analogies and random ominous comments I thought of on the spot for these guys

.

#the amazing digital circus #tadc #freakshow au #tadc freakshow #I just think you guys need to hear this

[our-happygirl500-fan]

Something I’ve been thinking about is that when the Turtles come up with code names for their family they tend to combine Splinter’s nicknames for them with their special interests.

Meat Sweats: Turtles? Red? Blue? Orange? Purple?

Splinter: Oh, you know their names

Throughout Rise Splinter mostly refers to his son’s as their colours when talking to them, treating their designated colours as nicknames & whenever the Turtles make code names they combine their dad’s nicknames for them with their own special interests by making sure that their designated colours are part of their code names

Donnie: This is Purple Knight is everyone in position

Raph: Red King is set

Donnie: Orange Pawn please use your-

Mikey: What!? Why am I the pawn?

Donnie: Scooch over Hypno, chess is my domain 

In the episode Mind Meld, Donnie gives his family Chess Code names showing his interest in Chess but he didn’t simply give them Chess Piece names he combined Chess Pieces with their designated colours when making their code names.

Raph: Yellow Submarine are we clear?

April: Affirmative Red Rover

Raph: Purple Rain, do you see the target?

In the first episode & the episode Bull Hop we see Raph do something similar to Donnie where he combines the families designated colours with his own special interest in music.

Raph: Jumpin’ Jack Flash!

It seems as though Raph has an interest in music even yelling out ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash!’ sometimes in surprise & Jumpin’ Jack Flash is actually a song by the Rolling Stones so that combined with the fact that the codenames Raph came up with are all different song titles it shows that Raph chose code names for his family based off his interest in music.

However Raph didn’t simply choose the song titles of any random song when coming up with code names but instead Raph specifically chose songs with colours in the titles to stick with the nicknames that Splinter gave them.

Though April doesn’t have a designated colour from Splinter the same way the Turtles do, April is often associated with the colour yellow with her often being coloured in yellow in the Rise comics & in the movie her Donnie Pod is yellow as well, so it’s very likely that the Turtles might associate April with yellow the same way they associate themselves with their own colours, which is why Raph gave April the code name Yellow Submarine.

The reason why Raph gave April a code name with a colour might be because Splinter gave the Turtles colour based nicknames so the Turtles might view getting or giving a colour based nickname as a form of affection.

Leo: I’m changing my code name too, uh... Blue Bluey! No... Blue... uh-

Donnie: No! No! No one is changing their code names

Leo: I’m Captain Bluemask

Though we don’t really see Leo make code names for his family whenever Leo tries to come up with a code name for himself he includes the colour Blue, calling himself ‘Captain Bluemask’ in Portal Jacked when he’s trying to sneak onto a pirate ship & though he struggles to make a code name for himself in the episode Mind Meld the one thing he’s sure of is including the colour his dad gave him in his code name.

Though the fact that Leo was easily able to come up with a code name when he had a pirate theme to work off of but struggled to come up with a theme for his codename outside his colour in Mind Meld shows that Leo has a harder time coming up with code names based off his special interests than Donnie & Raph do.

Leo: It’s me, you’re favourite teen detective Leo Splinterson 

When Leo comes up with a name that doesn’t include the colour Blue his code name is still obviously influenced by his dad as Leo calls himself ‘Leo Splinterson’

The name ‘Splinterson’ might be a slight nod to the 2003 TMNT series as in the 2003 series the Turtles didn’t use Hamato as their last name since the 2003 version of Splinter wasn’t Hamto Yoshi but instead similar to the Mirage version of Splinter, Spinter in the 2003 series was Hamato Yoshi’s pet rat that learnt ninjutsu from watching him.

The 2003 Turtles used ‘Splinterson’ as their last names because they were Splinter’s sons. Whether or not Rise is referencing the 2003 series when Leo calls himself ‘Leo Splinterson’ in the episode Bad Hair Day doesn’t change the fact that whenever Leo is trying to come up with a code name he’s thinking of Splinter, either putting the colour Blue in his codename because that’s the colour Splinter gave him or simply calling himself ‘Splinterson’ because Splinter is his dad.

Mikey: This is a job for Doctor Delicate Touch

Mikey: Good Morning, I’m Doctor Feelings

Mikey: Doctor Positive! The one whose gonna turn you from bad guy to glad guy!

The only one of the Turtles who really seems to break the convention of basing codenames off of the colours that Splinter gave them seems to be Mikey who instead consistently comes up with Doctor personas for himself.

Though Doctor Delicate Touch & Doctor Feelings ect aren’t exactly codenames it does show a pattern for Mikey to the point where Mikey even calls himself Doctor Rude when he & Raph pretend to be villains in order to crash Ghost Bears wedding in the scrapped season 2 episode Wedding Smashers giving himself another Doctor persona.

The fact that Mikey doesn’t include his colour in the aliases that he comes up with for himself might show that Mikey is the least influenced by Splinter out of his brothers, in contrast Leo might be the most influenced by Splinter because he can’t come up with a name outside the colour that Splinter gave him & when he tries to he still focuses on the fact that he’s Splinter’s son.

Raph & Donnie might be in the middle in regards to Splinter’s influence on them because they still hold onto the colours that Splinter gave them & their family when coming up with codenames but they combine those colours with their own special interests.

#rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #teenage mutant ninja turtles #donatello hamato #raphael hamato #april o'neil #leonardo hamato #michelangelo hamato #hamato yoshi #rottmnt #tmnt

[selarina]

Ode to Psyche

The King's Gambit

-> Gojo Satoru x Fem!Reader

Summary: A fallen Princess battles against her captivity in a tower pitted against the usurper Gojo Satoru, but soon their relationship shifts from hostility to a delicate alliance.

Content Warnings: usurper gojo, war, gothic au, politics, power dynamics, isolation, manipulation, forced marriage, psychological drama, enemies to lovers, dubious morality, beauty and the beast motif, implied sexual undertones, violence (non-graphic), feelings of inferiority, infidelity (but not really), suicidal thoughts, mention of death

Read on AO3 | Part 2 | Part 3

You're a member of the Royal Family, and after a lengthy and frankly boring fight against the enemy, they emerge victorious. They're led to glory by a few distant allies, clans to be precise, who seemed to have turned against your family.

At the front of this alliance stands a man called Gojo Satoru — with otherworldly features like white hair, and a general tall looming presence that you can't fully explain. His eyes seem to have never seen the light of day for you to even place color to them. It's always tightly wrapped with a gray or eggshell white cloth, and yet he moves the same as any other able person if not better. He seems to be faster and stronger than anyone else in this entire kingdom.

Some days you find yourself believing this yourself. You hate him but he is strong, and a strategist at heart. When you play chess with him, he's always playing the Closed Ruy Lopez, the Slav Defense, and of course, the Queen's Gambit — your personal favorite. He's always playing the long game and alas, always winning.

But mostly you think you hate him because he makes you feel less than what you were, less than god to be precise. You are Royalty — were — it's complex, but you were once always bathed in gold, and your hands were always soft because you never had to lift a single thing in your life unless it was you who wanted. But now they bear a calloused nature with bruises because you are stubborn and will not let these foreign hands touch your skin. But mostly, you hate him because you were smart. You were smart because you could be — I mean, who's to question a Princess?

But now you're talked over — walked over — by men and women alike who were previously less than dirt to you, and it leaves you reeling with enormous sadness and pure unbridled rage.

You want it back, you want it all back.

You're still a Princess, you think as you're trapped in the tall tower. You will feign incompetence, and they will believe you because who's to question a mere Princess? And then you will strategize, and you can marry or slit all of their throats — whatever works out faster, you will do.

But Gojo Satoru is cruel at heart. It may be a game of strategy that you know to play all too well, but it twinges something in you. He refuses to let you bury your father in your family grounds that have been told to hold a divine link between Heaven and Hell themselves, all because he needed to make a message and couldn't be seen to show empathy to your family — even in death.

And you're almost certain he considered just killing you but kept you strategically alive because the very first time you sneaked out of your tower before you realized you could never truly escape his eyes, you realized that his hold on this kingdom wavers greatly, and you could easily find a few allies and win the kingdom over yourself.

But it seems Gojo Satoru knew this all too well, because now you stand to be forever betrothed to the man. He announces this the very first time you win against him at chess. Maybe he knew of this and let you have a small victory as comeuppance. Now your gloating seems to akin to a player gloating over collecting pawns on the board.

After refusing to let you leave the tower, refusing to make your marriage a real one, after he married and brought in another mistress to further strengthen the kingdom after he killed your brother — your only remaining family — you think you've had enough of this indignation. You don't just feel less than god, you feel less than human, less than mere dirt.

As the days turned into weeks and then months, almost nearing a year after the war, you found yourself increasingly trapped in a peculiar dance with Gojo Satoru. His visits became a regular occurrence, and he no longer visits just for intel on the proceedings of the kingdom. Each time he entered the tower, he brought with him an array of gifts. His gifts varied from rare and exotic books to delicate trinkets from distant lands. You couldn't help but wonder if these offerings were genuine gestures of goodwill or just another move on his intricate board.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Gojo Satoru walked into the tower. The golden hue cast across his face as he carried a small, intricately carved box. He placed it before you, and as you opened it, you saw a delicate silver pendant, a radiant sapphire at its center.

"It belonged to my mother," he said softly, his eyes betraying a hint of melancholy. "She once told me that it held a piece of the night sky within it."

You casually dismissed the pendant, fully aware of the history it carried. Throughout the kingdom, the tales of Gojo's tumultuous relationship with his mother were well-known—filled with heated arguments that culminated in her tragic demise, a victim of a mysterious poison. With a derisive snort, you sneered, "And what of it?"

"Perhaps nothing," he replied. He smirked. "Merely a token of my appreciation for our… ongoing conversations."

As the pendant lay discarded on the table, Gojo's smirk only seemed to grow. His eyes appeared to study you with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. The year at this tower and his occasional company have driven you a bit insane. If only you could unravel the cloth that hides his eyes. You would be content. You think you could fling yourself off this tower, and you would be okay in Hell with the company of his eyes and only his eyes. You think again.

"What do you want, Gojo?" you finally spat out, breaking the tense silence. "Your trinkets mean nothing to me."

He chuckled. A low and slightly chilling sound that reverberated through the room. "Oh! But isn't that where you're wrong, my Queen?"

He stepped closer, his presence seemingly filling every inch of the space around you. You clenched your fists. His presence never intimidated you before, not when he treated you with disdain or mere dismissiveness. But now that he's trying to show and have the first conversation that holds something real, it's scaring you. It makes you want to go hide under your bed.

"I won't be swayed by whatever this is, Gojo. You should stop, and we should be as we are."

"Hmm?" He bends to look straight in your face. You wonder if he even sees you, even from under the cloth. "But I wonder, have you truly considered your situation? You're alone in this tower, isolated from the world, and your kingdom is under my control. You may resist now, and the next year, and maybe for the next 10 years after that. But what will you do when the weight of your isolation becomes too much to bear?"

He steps in closer, and closer until you’re backed up against the stone walls of your castle, “What if you go absolutely bonkers and off yourself as your mother did?”

At that, you snap, punching his chest, over and over, and yet, he remained unmoving, an unyielding monolith. You continue your trivial rampage until you grow tired, your eyes weeping blood, and your hands aching for more, but falling against your side — you’re only human and he’s — you’re not sure what he is. 

He doesn’t say anything as you you fall against his chest, your forehead resting as you think about nothing. He merely picks you up, placing you under your sheets as he kisses your forehead. His lips were as strangely tender, an unsettling contrast to the turmoil he had wrought. 

In your weariness, your eyes half-lidded. You speak up but your voice comes out as a soft whisper, “Why are you doing this?” 

"We are more alike than you care to admit," Gojo remarked. “I guess I want you to understand me as I understand you,” he replied, his voice mirroring your softness.

After that, you change. Your heart remains unwavering and loyal to yourself but you try with him, if only to unravel the cloth around his eyes. You take his gifts, with the occasional thanks. You start making requests, requests he fulfilled in excess. One time, you asked him for a rare book – one that only had about 11 copies in the world, and he got you all 11. Plus, a 12th one that seemed to have been hidden from conversations. 

And on one fateful night, that you still can’t seem to forget — a storm raged right outside the tower, casting an eerie glow through the windows that you left ajar on purpose. Satoru decided to accompany you, and the two of you found a comfortable tune in the silence. 

You turn as you feel him shuffle to sit closer to you, and as a bolt of lightning split the heavens above, he reaches up to his eyes as he slowly unwound the cloth from his eyes, revealing eyes that held the same depth as the sapphire that sits in your bureau. 

You reach up before it fully unveils his eyes to assist him, your hand sitting on his cheek as you’re halfway done. 

“Do you see me as I finally am?” He implored his question lingering in the charged air. 

But you don’t respond, merely a puppet to the moment as you inch closer and closer and closer until you feel his breath against your lips. 

That night, he lays against your body, awake as his hand caress the slope of your hip, as you finally don the sapphire he got for you as your eyes come to close.

You wake the following morning greeted with the sight of the same man offering breakfast, and as your gaze entwines with his, his eyes no longer obscured by cloth, you're uncertain how to confess to the dreams that have been haunting your sleep — dreams of a raven-haired phantom. With black eyes that seemed to eclipse his blue. 

#idk what came over me #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo angst #gojo x you #gojo fluff #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk fluff #jjk angst #gojo satoru fluff #gojo satoru angst #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen angst #gojo satoru x y/n #jujutsu kaisen hurt/comfort #tw dark themes #tw mention of death #tw isolation #jujutsu kaisen x female reader #gojo x y/n #gojou satoru x reader #gojou satoru x you

[cafeacademia]

𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐬

𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭 𝐌𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Matt's interest in chess leads you to surprising him one rainy, autumnal Sunday with a blind accessible chessboard and he's more than excited to learn how to play.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: Mostly flirty couply stuff, fluff, a couple of mildly suggestive comments but nothing in detail.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: Approx 800

𝐌𝐲 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: Hello! This is my first Matt Murdock fic. I have no idea if this is OOC for him, I've been wanting to write for Matt for a long time but I always find it difficult to write for characters I've never written for before. Please let me know what you think? I hope the anon that requested this enjoys and thank you so much for requesting, honestly this was one of the cutest requests ever and I couldn't wait to write it!

Matt was almost giddy, which was unusual for him. Not only was this date spontaneous on your part, but he’d really not expected the level of thought that you had put into this.

“What is this?” He asked, a laugh on his voice as he smiled brightly. You sat opposite him on a rainy Sunday morning inside of a warm, cosy and largely quiet cafe. There was a storm outside, the autumn leaves thick with rainwater as they piled up against the edges of the pavements and porches in a myriad of orange and red hues. In front of him was a latte and you had your own coffee too. But between you on the table was a chessboard.

“Well, I remember what you said not long after we met.” You began. “You were impressed by my amazing chess skills.” You teased. “And you said you wished you could play.” “Oh, absolutely.” He chuckled, bowing his head in amusement. “Well, I found a blind accessible chessboard online and I wanted you to be able to enjoy it with me.” You told him truthfully, all teasing and joking gone from your tone. Matt’s smile softened, hands reaching across the table to find yours. “You are too sweet, way too sweet to be my girlfriend.” He grinned. You only heated at his comment, but Matt sensed your shyness and took your hand in his. “Come on sweetheart, teach me how this works.”

“Alright,” You said, holding his hand in yours and guiding it to the chessboard. “The board has two colours of squares. One is black and the other is white. The black squares are indented.” You explained, letting him feel across the board to identify the grid pattern. “The pieces are all on pegs, so each square has a hole they can fit into.” You tell him, watching as he curiously lands on a pawn and pulls it out of the board. “All of the pieces are textured so you can tell which one is which. Mine have raised bits on the top and yours are smooth, so you can tell if it’s an enemy piece or not.” You explain and he takes it in, nodding and reaching over to get a feel of the pieces on your side of the board.

“What do you think so far?” You asked. “You really did this for me.” He’s soft now, cheeks glowing with warmth, his smile reaching high up to his eyes. “Of course, Matty.” You said. “Sweetheart,” He paused, taking your hand in his and lifting it to his lips, leaving a kiss on your hand. “What the hell did I do to deserve you?” “Hmm I don’t know but I think it has something to do with being a flirt.” You giggled and watched as Matt fell into a relaxed laugh. “Okay, okay, tell me how to play, baby.”

For the next twenty minutes, you held a tutorial game, where you did your best to slowly teach him how to play a game of chess using the new board and allowing him plenty of time to get used to the layout and how the pieces moved. Matt, unsurprisingly got the hang of chess, the pieces and their movements within a couple of tries.

“You know, for a guy who's never played before, you run a tough game.” You told him as you played through your first proper game. “That’s just beginner’s luck, sweetheart.” Matt chuckled, a proud smile tugging at his lips. “Are you sure you’ve never played before?” You asked. “I’m sure, baby. But I’ve got a good teacher.” “Oh really?” You giggled softly. “Tell me about that.” “Well, she’s got the prettiest voice I’ve ever heard, she bought me a chess board I can use, she’s super sweet and I think I want to take her out to dinner tonight.” He gave you a devilish grin and you couldn’t help but become shy and giggly over his statement.

The storm grew worse outside as you started another game, but as the morning went on, a couple of hot drinks later and you were convinced Matt was now going to get this chessboard out as much as possible because every time you finished a game, he was eager to begin another.

“Sweetheart, will you come over tonight?” You paused, drinking some of your coffee before you spoke. “I’d love to.” “When the storm dies down and bit, we should head to mine and get comfortable. I’d like to listen to some classical music while we play.” “Chess?” You asked. “Yeah, something like that.” The devilish grin made its way onto his lips again and you felt your cheeks heat intensely. What a tease.

@megantje123

#matt murdock x reader #daredevil x reader #matt murdock fluff #matt murdock x you #matt murdock x y/n #daredevil x you #daredevil x y/n #daredevil x female reader #matthew murdock x reader #matt murdock imagine #matt murdock fanfic

[aaakikoo]

RANDOM BAKUGOU KATSUKI SCENARIOS

1. WHEN YOU’VE BEEN WAITING FOR HIM

It is a winter day in the middle of January. It was 19:30 and your boyfriend would be just now leaving his agency. Today is your first date with your boyfriend since almost two months. You two had been busy with lots of hero work. So today was a break for the two of you.

You wore a white puffer jacket, and white boots that were hidden under your baggy blue jeans, a thick white scarf and ear muffs on. Katsuki had texted you to meet him at an entrance of a park that was near his agency.

You had been caught up by making yourself look all cute for him, wore the golden necklace with ‘k’ on, gold hoops and bunch of rings. You even did your make up carefully. Conclusion, you left late, 19:45, when he had asked you to meet him by 20:00.

So you ran and ran on the way there, you arrived around five minutes late and waited for him at the entrance. You looked at the watch on your wrist to see that it ticked 20:15. Did he leave? You sat down and decided to wait a little more. 20:20..20:25 and then you were mad, you searched for your phone to see that it was gone. You felt your heart drop as you tried to find a possibility of where you had dropped it.

You probably dropped it while running all the way here. You looked at your watch to see that it now was 20:30. You felt tears in your eyes for some reason. As you got up to leave you heard your boyfriends voice. “Y/N!” He said as he ran towards you.

It was snowing now. “Y/n…sorry I was late.” He said as he was breathing heavily. “Katsuki!” You said angrily and hit his chest. “Do you know how long I waited??” You asked him angrily once again. “I’ve been here for 30 minutes! You made me run here and you end up being late!” You said as you started crying.

“I-I’m sorry, They kept me for extra long because of a meeting.” He said as he held your shoulders. “I’m sorry for making you cry.” He said as he smiled at you. “Cmon let’s go.” He once again said as he reached for your hand.

“Katsuki.” You said, as he bummed in reply. “I-I lost my phone..” you said as you looked at him. “You what? How?” He questioned in confusion. “It probably fell out of my jacket as I was running here.” You answered as you sort of yelled out the last part.

“I’ll track it don’t worry.” He said as he sat in the car. “What do you mean you’ll track my phone? Do you always track me?” Silence.

You found your phone after the date.

2. WHEN HE WINS IN CHESS

“Katsuki!! It’s not fair!” You said very very irritated. “Alright pack the chess set, I’m tired.” He said confidently. You almost felt humiliated by his words. “One more round! Please babe!” You begged him with eyes closed. “Alright I’ll teach you some tricks.” He said as he flashed a grin.

“See how this bishop moved? Move this pawn to block it.”

“See now you’ve created a battery, by moving the knight he’s protecting the queen.”

“Don’t take this pawn, if you take it, you’ll loose your rook.”

“No he doesn’t move diagonally only the bishop and queen can move diagonally.”

“See now it’s checkmate.”

“Thanks katsuki!” You thanked him as you smiled, you felt more confident now. “Can we play one last round? Please!!” You asked him and he knew he had to say yes to this. “Alright.”

He ended up checkmating himself on purpose to make you happy.

3. WHEN YOURE TOO NERVOUS TO MEET HIS PARENTS

Today you were meeting your boyfriends parents and you’ve been stressing the whole week. What should you wear? What perfume should you wear? What gift do you bring? What to do at all?

Katsuki tried to ease your nervousness by telling you that it isn’t deep, and it should be fine. It’s easy for him to say because these are his parents. They’ll always like their son, but you have to make them like you, or else, you don’t know if you and Bakugou can have a future.

“Y/n hurry!” Katsuki said as he walked inside your bedroom. “Wait idiot! I’m doing my hair.” You tried to brush him off a little. He ended up dragging you to the car.

Once the two of you at his family house you made multiple self notes.

DONT be yourself too much

Compliment Bakugou

Laugh at his dads joke

Compliment his moms cooking

Act lovey dovey

None of that ended up happening, because the second you walked in his mom showered you with compliments. His parents weren’t how you expected, but better than expected.

They were both super nice and you think you made an amazing impression on them both. They both teased you and Katsuki on certain topics, over all the visit went 10/10.

When you and Katsuki left and got into the car he said, “I’m pretty sure they love you more than they love me now.”

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