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tired-and-ticklish · 25 days ago

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Employee Training

Disclaimer: This is a tickle fic, so if that isn’t your thing, then just ignore this.

Summary: Jax isn’t taking his job seriously, so Gangle decides he needs some extra… training.

TW: Tickling (maybe a bit intense?), Restraints, Jax Being Jax, Spoilers for Episode 4: Fast Food Masquerade.

(Let’s face it, a lot of us saw that scene and were all thinking the same thing.)

Working a normal fast food job wasn’t at the top of Jax’s list of adventures. He’d rather be back at the circus, putting more centipedes in Ragatha’s room or stealing Zooble’s parts. But instead, he and the others were forced to work a terrible minimum wage job with an annoying Gangle as their shift manager. Hell, it was the crybaby’s idea in the first place!

“Ooooh Jaaaaax~!” Speaking of the pain in his tail, Gangle called out from behind the rabbit, that stupid smile from the mask Zooble gave her still plastered across her face.

“The bathroom looks like a biohazard and needs a good scrubbin’!” Gangle told him.

“Shouldn’t like, a biohazard crew take care of that?” Jax asked, not wanting to put in anymore effort than the job was already requiring.

Gangle laughed. “Ohoh, Jaxy boy, don’t you want to be a model employee?”

“No, I don’t care about any of this.” Jax responded, crossing his arms.

“Well, that doesn’t sound like a can-do attitude to me!”

God, was she getting more annoying? “It’s not.”

Another laugh, simply followed by one word. “Bad.”

“I like you better when you’re sad.”

There was a sound, like glass cracking, but Jax ignored it. Honestly, the whole ‘chipper, happy-go-lucky’ attitude Gangle had at the current moment was making him wish they had stuck to the butcher adventure Caine suggested in the first place. Darn Pomni, darn suggestion box, darn not being able to actually swear in this Hell hole called a circus.

“Well..” Gangle replied, Jax either not noticing, or more likely, not caring, how close she sounded to strangling him. “Maybe you need some more…”

She paused, like Caine did sometimes, it was a bit uncanny to see. “More-”

“Training!” Gangle interrupted before he could finish.

Suddenly, two hands grabbed Jax, squishing him like a squeaky toy before dragging him into the back of the restaurant. Once they let go of him, Jax was shocked to find himself in a completely empty, dark room, save for the TV that suddenly turned on. On it was an employee training video, complete with the ‘motivational music, staring and made by Gangle, explaining how it would teach him how to be a good team member and asset to the cooperation.

Jax questioned when Gangle even made the video. Or maybe it was Caine’s doing? The adventures made no sense, so why did he expect a ‘normal’ one to make sense? The way the Gangle in the video spoke made Jax uncomfortable, talking about how dreams were unrealistic, and to stop trying. It was like she was losing it.

“But before we get into all that, first things first!” The Video-Gangle asked, smiling. “Are you smiling?”

“Uh, no…?”

The music stopped. “Why not…?” Gangle wasn’t smiling anymore, just staring right at him.

Faster than Jax could respond, he was suddenly in a chair, four mechanical arms coming out and grabbing his limbs. They twisted him a few different ways, before shoving his face right into the TV. “Wait- Wait wait! N-Nobody can see this… right?” Jax asked nervously, suddenly regretting any and all decisions in his life that had led to this moment.

“Time for your employee reevaluation!”

With that, the robotic limbs pulled Jax back into the chair, his arms pulled up as far as they would go, his legs pinned down to the leg rest. Jax’s eyes darted around the room, trying to see anything he could use to try to free himself. He couldn’t move, couldn’t escape, couldn’t stop whatever Gangle had planned for him.

“As an employee, you have to remember to smile!” The video continued, Gangle sounding more and more manic. “Don’t worry, we can help you with that!”

More arms popped out of the chair, Jax feeling his heart skip a few beats when he saw what the hands were doing, wiggling their fingers at him teasingly. Gangle couldn’t be serious, right?! His dread only grew as two of the hands removed his shoes, another unbuttoning his work shirt.

“G-Gangle wait wait wait! I-I-I’m smiling! I’m smiling!” Jax cried in a panic, trying to pull his arms down. “Y-You don’t have to do this!”

The Video-Gangle tsked lightly “Silly, we have to make sure our employees know that we serve with a smile~!” A sinister giggle came from her as she said that.

Jax swore he was going to find a way to break that plastic mask Zooble gave her! However, his thoughts of revenge were put on hold as one of the hands made a few test pokes to his stomach, causing him to jolt. This was bad, the way Jax’s body had been designed in this digital world physically made him unable to bite his lip, so that strategy was out the window. Seems like the jolts he made were all the hands needed, descending upon him.

“W-Wahahahit wahhait nohhohohoho!” Jax snorted, trying to twist and turn away from the devilish hands.

“See, isn’t that better~?” Video-Gangle asked, her ribbons wiggling as well “I’ll check on you in a while!”

A while?! How long was a while?! The darn clock seemed busted, what if he was in there for hours?! Unfortunately, it didn’t seem like Gangle, or the robotic arms cared, the TV turning off as a pair of hands attacked his armpits.

“N-Nohohohoh nohohoho come bahahahack!” Jax pleaded. “I-Ihihihih’m smihihihihihling!”

The robotic hands continued their assault, gently tracing around his armpits, while the ones on his stomach dug right in, causing him to attempt to kick his legs. They hadn’t exactly gotten to his absolute worst spots yet, but Jax had a feeling it was only a matter of time. His paws were exposed, and he could swear he could sense two hands just behind his ears, waiting for the go-ahead to strike.

“Cohohohohome ohohohohon!”

He really hated how much they could actually feel in the circus sometimes. Sure, it was funny to see the others in pain, or watch their panic as he attacked their own worst spots, but having the tables turned on him? It also didn’t help that, thanks to Gangle, the arms knew exactly where his worst spots were, and how harshly or softly to tickle them to drive him up the wall.

Case in point, one hand swirling a finger right on his navel, threatening to tickle the inside, while also cruelly never actually doing it. The ones on his armpits spidered up and down, even attacking his ribs at a few points. Jax wasn’t sure how long the tickling had gone on for, before the TV turned back on, Gangle’s face smiling at him. The hands stopped, allowing the rabbit to catch his breath. The relief Jax felt was short-lived, however, as the Video-Gangle spoke again. “Step one of your employee reevaluation is complete!” Gangle told him, sounding proud. “Now that you’re smiling, we’ve got to work on your attitude! Being rude to customers, or other coworkers, especially by throwing them in the deep fryer, is strictly forbidden at Spudsy’s!”

“Come on, it’s not like Rags was hurt all that badly.” Jax tried to argue, before immediately regretting it as he noticed the arms were grabbing something just out of his field of vision, making him dread whatever would be next.

“That’s the kind of attitude I’m talking about!” Video-Gangle huffed, before smiling again. “So, I thought you could use some extra motivation!”

Jax’s heart, or, what he supposed he could call a heart in this digital body, nearly stopped as the mechanical hands came back with paint brushes.

“Oh�� [trumpet honk]...” The rabbit responded in disbelief. “Y-You’re not actually [quack]ing serious, r-right?!”

Unfortunately for him, Gangle was dead serious, as the paintbrushes glided up and down his paws, making him snort. The pair of hands by his head also got in on the action, softly, slowly, and tortuously rubbing up and down the insides of ears, making him scream out in ticklish agony.

“GA-GAHAHAHANGLE NOHOHOHOHO!”

“Aww don’t worry, I’ll check on you in a while again!” More random noises came from Jax’s mouth, trying to swear, but instead there were a few more musical instrument noises, a car honk, and even a cow moo at one point. That only seemed to encourage the hands to be even harsher toward him, one of the paintbrushes going in between his toes. Jax howled with laughter, trying to twist and turn away from his fate.

“IIHIHIHIHIHIH HAHAHAHAHATE THIHIHIHIHIHIS STUHUHUHUHUHPID AHAHAHAHAHAVEHEHEHENTURE!”

Jax then let out an uncharacteristic squeal as he felt feathers brushing up and down his ears. This was maddening! As the paintbrushes picked up their pace, Jax felt a horrible thought enter his mind. Would Gangle actually let him out of here? Or would she just keep him there until the end of the adventure, making sure he couldn’t destroy anything or cause problems for anyone else? “P-PLEHEHEHEASE PLHEHEHEHEASE IIHIHIHIHI’LL BEHEHEHEHEHAVE!” Jax cried out desperately.

It seemed to work, as the tickling suddenly stopped, the arms releasing him. Jax caught his breath, feeling a few phantom tickles linger. He brought his hands up to his ears, trying to rub the tingling sensation away as the TV turned back on.

“Thank you, valued employee, for deciding to be a team player!” Video-Gangle told him, looking happy, proud, and… relieved? Maybe Jax was imagining things. “Of course, here at Spudsy’s, we respect our employees needing time for themselves, so you may take a few moments to get yourself together before heading back out there!”

Small mercies, Jax supposed. “You’re uh… not going to tell anyone about this, right?”

Video-Gangle simply giggled, before the TV turned off once again, leaving Jax alone with his thoughts. Well, he supposed this made both of them even, in a way. Jax knew about the figurine thing, and Gangle managed to make him beg for mercy. He shook his head, getting his dumb uniform back in order. Once he was more composed, one of the large hands from before gently pushed him out of the room and back into the work area, patting his head before disappearing to God knows where.

Back to work, Jax supposed.

#tadc tickles #tadc spoilers #tickle fic #lee!jax #ler!gangle #technically #does it count?#on one hand i think it's a shame we didn't get a tickle scene in show but on the other would any of us survive if it happened?#the amazing digital circus tickle #ticklish!jax

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yandere-daydreams · 1 year ago

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Title: Final Girl.

Pairing: Yandere!Chrollo x Reader (HxH).

Word Count: 1.4k.

TW: 'Girl' Is In The Title But Reader Is Gender Neutral, Death and Blood, Mentions of Guns, Manipulation, Implied Kidnapping, and Spoilers for the Ninteenth-Century Novel Dracula.

The night you met him was, by no coincidence, also the night you learned what it meant to feel your blood run cold.

‘Met’ might’ve been an exaggeration. You didn’t meet him so much as you stood still and stared at him – lumbering down the hallway, clutching a gore-splattered butcher's knife, his suit disheveled and stained with a dark, blotting substance you couldn’t bring yourself to put a name to, in your fear-induced paralysis. With the manor's high ceilings and dim lighting, he seemed impossibly tall, his black eyes blank and terrible, his smile manic in a way that sent a chill up your spine, that left you frozen where you stood and unable to run as he came to stand in front of you, as he raised a hand and—

And pointed to the book tucked under your arm, a yellowed paperback beaten to hell and back from weeks of loving abuse. You’d spent hours wondering if you should bring it with you, if there was anyone else on the face of the planet who’d be stupid enough to bring a book to a mascarade ball, but you figured you’d have to step out for a breath of fresh air at some point, tonight, and phones weren’t really an option at this kind of thing. Looking back on it, you struggled to remember why you’d spent so much time agonizing over something so inconsequential, especially when whoever found your body likely wouldn’t pay it a second glance. “Is that—” He started, pausing to wet his lips before correcting himself. “Is that Bram Stoker’s Dracula?”

You blinked several times, shifting your weight. “It is,” you managed, eventually, just before the point of no return. “I… I’m only a few chapters in, though. They’re only on the second blood transfusion.”

His smile widened. “I’m reading it for the second time, now. That’s one of the best passages - you can practically feel the dread mounting in the prose.” While he spoke, you stole another glance at his attire. With your shock beginning to fade and your nerves given a few seconds to cool, you could see that he clearly hadn’t just walked out of a crime scene. His clothes were wrinkled, but not torn, not displaced the way they would’ve been if he’d been in a real fight, and he was covered in a cartoonish amount of (presumably fake) blood. He couldn’t have meant for it to be realistic, not unless you were supposed to believe he’d bled twenty people dry on his own.

He must’ve noticed you staring. His rambling trailed off into an airy chuckle, his free hand drifting to his blood-soaked shirt. “I’m afraid I might’ve misread my invitation,” he admitted, with a slight shrug. You were almost in awe of his nonchalance. Showing up to a masquerade ball in a costume fit for a b-rated haunted house would’ve left you catatonic for… god, the rest of the year, at least. “That’s how I found my way back here, actually. You can understand why I wouldn’t want to stay in the ballroom for very long, considering I’m dressed for a very different party.”

“No, no, that makes a lot of sense! I mean, a costume party would be more in-season.” You felt like an idiot. You could only hope you hadn’t looked as scared as you felt. “Honestly, I’m just surprised they let you in with a prop.”

He glanced to his ‘knife’, too, as if he’d forgotten he was holding it. “Oh, this little thing?” He took the blade in his free hand, bending it downward. Unceremoniously, it snapped into two pieces as easily as if it’d been made of little more than tin foil and plastic - which, to be fair, it probably was. “Most people struggle to see me as a threat, for whatever reason.”

“The doormen probably just felt bad for the strange man who showed up to a charity gala covered in blood.” You spared a small smile, then genuinely brightened, taking up your novel and fishing out the spare mask you’d shoved between the pages while you were getting ready. He should’ve counted himself lucky that you could never be bothered to find a real bookmark. “Mine came in a set of two,” you explained, signaling for him to bend down. A little too easily, he obeyed, stooping just low enough for you to work your spare mask over his head. It was cheaper than anything you would usually like to show off – the base simple black cloth, the embroidery meaninglessly gaudy, the main body kept in place by little more than a simple white ribbon that never seemed to sit just right, but he accepted your offering with a grateful hum. “It’s not much, but—” You paused, buttoning his suit jacket, doing your best to make it look a little less like he’d just walked out of a bad slasher movie and a little more like a tragically color-blind, but ultimately well-dressed party-goer. “It should get you through the door.”

He straightened his back, and you thought you might’ve seen something spark in his dark eyes. Then again, it could’ve just been the moonlight. “I don’t think I ever got your name.”

Oh, right – that was something most people did before offering to fix a stranger’s clothes, wasn’t it? You rushed to introduce yourself, and he did the same. “Chrollo Lucilfer.” And then, offering you his hand, “Perhaps I’d be more warmly received with a plus one?”

As hesitant as you were to slip back into the ballroom on the arm of a disheveled stranger who’d already made an impression of his own, it would’ve broken your heart to turn him down. That, and you might’ve had a weakness for disheveled strangers who fell on the more handsome side of the spectrum.

You laughed as you threaded your arm through his, letting Chrollo guide you back to the main event. A second passed with only the sound of your footsteps and distance music to fill the quiet, then another. Eventually, you broke the silence. “It’s very well-written,” you started, trying to fight the urge to fidget. “But… I don’t think I’m the right audience. I care too much about Lucy. Seeing her go through so much and knowing she’s not going to make it is just—” You sighed, shook your head. “It’s agony. Especially when the villain is literally in the title. I mean, I know the characters don’t know that, but still.”

“The benefit of a voyeur's perspective.” For all his glowing praise, he didn’t seem very offended. “I think the dramatic irony is part of the appeal. By the time the tension breaks, it’s nearly too painful to keep going.”

“Which is exactly why it hurts to read,” you groaned, slumping into his side. “I get why it’s happening, but I just can’t stand spending so long on the build-up knowing how it’s going to end. It probably doesn’t help that Lucy’s one of my favorites, either. Well, aside from Mina, but it wouldn’t be fair to compare her to the author’s self-insert.”

The two of you came to a pair of rounded oak doors. There’d been a pair of attendants stationed outside when you left, but Chrollo didn’t seem to mind shouldering it open himself, ushering you inside with a smile and an idle gesture. You took a second to steel your nerves, still not entirely prepared to throw yourself into a very crowded room filled with very loud music and very eager socialites, then crossed the threshold, coming face to face with—

Carnage. Pure, unadulterated carnage.

There were bodies everywhere, each corpse mangled and bruised and broken in every possible way. Dark blood and broken glass covered the formerly pristine ivory floor, and the walls were painted with the remnants of gunfire. A few people were still standing – the murderers, you figured, judging by the blood on their outlandish clothes, the weapons in their hands, the indifferent agitation written across their expressions as you stared at them in horror, as your heart threatened to give out for the second time that night. The tallest man you’d ever seen pointed a hand-held machine gun in your direction, but Chrollo found his way back to your side, resting a hand on your shoulder as he spoke. “Hold your fire,” he said, casually, as if you weren’t standing at the edge of a bloodbath. As if he’d known what he was leading you into. “I think I’m going to keep this one.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe. The air hitched in your throat as he brought a hand up to your chin, tilting your head back and forcing you to meet his unblinking stare. You’d been right the first time. There was never anything his eyes could’ve been but terrible. “I always did like Mina.”

There was never anything he could’ve been but a monster, prowling for his next kill.

“I guess I just have a soft spot for survivors.”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere oneshot #yandere hunter x hunter #hunter x hunter #hunter x hunter imagines #yandere hxh #hxh imagines #yandere chrollo lucilfer #chrollo x reader #yanderecore #yancore

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fangdokja · 19 days ago

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He crushed a man’s skull beneath his boot and turned to you with a smile.

♡ Book. A Heart Devoured: A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Marine Corps x Fem. Reader

♡ Oneshot. #1

♡ Word Count. 963

The battlefield reeked of death—the sharp tang of blood mixed with gunpowder hung thick in the air. Smoke curled around the shattered remains of buildings, a grim reminder of what once stood in defiance of destruction. You stood amidst the wreckage, small and fragile against the chaos, your lips pressed tightly together in the silence you’d perfected over the years. Not a single sound escaped you, though your trembling hands betrayed what your carefully composed expression could not.

He was a towering figure in this nightmarish theater, a soldier honed not just by war but by something darker. The brutal efficiency in his movements was terrifying to witness; each step deliberate, each strike calculated. His broad shoulders rippled with tension under the tattered remnants of his uniform, the black tactical vest clinging to his chest soaked with the blood of both comrades and enemies. His eyes as cold as steel burned with an unrelenting fire as he surveyed the carnage around him.

“Stay close to me,” he growled, his voice deep and gravelly, as though dragged from the depths of the abyss itself. You didn’t dare disobey. Not after what you’d seen.

The man—no, the madman—had just butchered three men who dared to corner you. Their screams echoed in your ears, a haunting melody of snapping bones and gurgling cries. He hadn’t hesitated. His massive hands, calloused and scarred, had torn one’s throat open as if it were paper, while his boot crushed another’s skull with a sickening crunch. The last had tried to beg, but his pleas were cut short as the man plunged a blade into his chest, twisting it slowly as if savoring the act.

“You’re shaking,” he said, his tone devoid of comfort. His gaze flicked down to you, taking in the quivering of your small frame. “Good. You should be scared. That’s what keeps you alive.”

He reached for you, his hand large enough to engulf your shoulder completely. His touch wasn’t gentle—it never was. It was possessive, a silent declaration that you were his, and that no one else could lay a finger on you. The blood smeared across his gloves left a crimson stain on your clothes, marking you as part of the carnage he’d wrought.

“They were going to take you from me,” he murmured, his voice low and menacing. “Do you understand what that means?”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Words felt useless in the face of his overwhelming presence, and your selective muteness provided a convenient shield against his unrelenting intensity. But he didn’t need your words. He’d learned to read you—your body language, your eyes, the subtle shifts in your posture. And right now, he saw fear.

He leaned down, his breath hot against your ear. “It means I’ll kill every last one of them if it means keeping you safe.”

As if to punctuate his statement, a figure emerged from the smoke, a rifle raised. The man’s reaction was instantaneous. He grabbed you by the arm and shoved you behind him with a force that left you stumbling. In the same motion, he drew his sidearm and fired a single shot. The enemy soldier dropped, blood spraying from the precise wound in his forehead. The man didn’t even blink.

“Pathetic,” he muttered, stepping over the corpse as if it were nothing more than debris. He turned back to you, his expression softening in a way that only made him more terrifying. “Come on. I won’t let you die out here.”

You hesitated, your feet rooted to the ground. The logical part of your mind screamed at you to run, to escape this monster masquerading as your savior. But your body betrayed you, obeying his command as if compelled by some unseen force. You followed him, your steps faltering but obedient.

The slaughter continued as he carved a path through the battlefield. His methods were brutal, each kill more horrific than the last. He used everything at his disposal—guns, knives, even his bare hands. One soldier was left choking on his own blood, his windpipe crushed by the man’s iron grip. Another was disemboweled with surgical precision, his intestines spilling onto the ground in a grotesque display. The air was filled with the wet sounds of flesh tearing, the crack of bones breaking, and the muffled gasps of dying men.

Through it all, he remained composed, his expression unchanging except for the occasional glint of satisfaction in his eyes. He didn’t just kill; he dominated, ensuring that each enemy knew their place beneath him in their final moments. It was a display of power so absolute that even you, his supposed charge, felt its oppressive weight bearing down on you.

By the time the chaos subsided, the ground was slick with blood, and the bodies lay in grotesque heaps. He stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving with exertion. Blood dripped from his hands and splattered across his face, but he didn’t seem to notice. His eyes found yours, piercing through the haze of smoke and fear.

“You’re mine,” he said, the words more a statement of fact than a declaration. “No one will take you from me. Not now. Not ever.”

Your breath hitched, and for a brief moment, you considered running. But the thought died as quickly as it came. Where would you go? He would find you. He always did.

Instead, you nodded, the smallest of movements. It was enough to satisfy him. His lips curled into a predatory smile, and he reached out to cup your face with a blood-streaked hand. The contrast between his rough touch and the gentle way he held you was jarring, a reminder of the duality that made him so terrifying.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “You’re learning.”

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drackiszunk · 3 months ago

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I finished book 5 😒

Stupid fucking crown.

I’m only halfway through book 5 but I’ve already cooked up this tragic 9th floor ending where there are still Blood Sultanates or whatever they’re called left so Donut can’t go down the stairs and Carl refuses to leave her and then in the last seconds she releases Mongo to drag him down, leaving her….. and I’m crying.

Donut is one of my favorite fictional characters of all time.

#zack reads #the butcher’s masquerade #dungeon crawler carl #matt dinniman

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ddreamywitch · 6 months ago

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Chapter Two - Butchered Tongue

knight!benjicot blackwood x princess!reader

word count: 3.7k

a/n: a little late but here we are :)) I’m so grateful for all the nice people who have reblogged and commented!!

warnings: mentions of an orphanage, dead mums and Benji is still a little drama queen

song: Butchered Tongue - Hozier

chapter one

Benji hates the capital.

It stinks and it is always busy, with narrow dark alleys that lead nowhere and depraved people lining them.

His life has been ripped from him and handed into your hands. Hands free of calluses and scars, not a speck of dirt caked beneath their nails and yet, no matter how delicate and weak, they hold his fate.

He isn’t meant for a knight’s life, all honour, no freedom. And least of all he is meant for the life of a knight in this godforsaken city, which seemingly offers nothing but sin and tragedy.

Benji has always found the king to be terribly unlikeable. A slimy little man, who had been quick to put to the torch what his ancestors had built up in this realm. He had forgotten just how severe it all is, with his home so far removed from this but now, as he stands next to you, he thinks he could just vomit. He won’t of course, he isn’t like you, with your weak demeanour, to faint at that little bit of sun.

Today you still look pale, though you’d spent the last three days on bed rest, days which he had to spend simply waiting around in front of your chambers.

He was almost glad when he was informed that you were to visit one of the city’s orphanages.

In your hands you hold a woven basket and you listen to the nun introduce you to the children, with little humility.

He doesn’t understand why all the realm is always fussing over you, so far you have yet to live up to any of the tales that have been spun around your name.

Well except, perhaps, those of your beauty. Though it may pain Benjicot to admit it, it is clear as day that you are exquisite.

But still you do not seem as clever or as kind, let alone charming, as he had been led to believe, to him.

He hopes that you are vain and offended enough to want to be rid of him by the end of the week. He would likely be exiled then, but it seems a better destiny than spending the rest of his life devoted to some strange girl he’s only just met.

He had refused all marriage deals before this, and in this scenario he would never be able to bed anyone again. Truly an awful thing for a young man of his age to behold.

Uncomfortably he shifts from one foot to another as Sister Linda continues to rattle on. He’s avoiding to look into the sad faces of abandoned children, so he regards you instead, boring holes into your frame with all his might.

You are wearing the same smile he’d seen you wear during the knighting ceremony. Practised and detached. It seems quite unbelievable that anyone should fall for this masquerade of yours, but apparently it works.

You’re dressed in the colours of your house, though a paler version of them. Lilac. It has only very thin sleeves and he can see the fading imprint of his fingertips on your arm. He had gripped you a little harshly during your little incident, too much taken by surprise to consider his own strength, and then, of course, he was immediately praised for being the perfect pick for his position, so eager to protect his princess.

He should have just let you tumble to the ground, he thinks. But his instincts had betrayed him.

You do not shift every few minutes like he does. You’re very still, hands gripping a woven basket filled with gifts for the children and only every now and then do you react to something.

A humble laugh here, an interjection of a ‘thank you’ there.

Your brother had informed him that you do this every week with a different charitable institution. Much to his dismay, he would have to accompany you to an infirmary next time. As though the city itself didn’t spout enough risk of infection.

It is so foolish, to have you, of all people, visit all these poor souls, give them your feigned smile and a present which leaves not even the tiniest of scratches in the wealth of your father’s house.

Pretentious is what it is. You’re nothing more than a third-born woman, you hold no importance to the politics of the land.

The nun finishes her ode to you and you bow your head graciously. “Thank you, Sister,” you say.

The old hag blushes, like a little girl and Benji simply cannot help the little scoff that escapes him.

Your head shoots around, eyes widened as though you had forgotten about his presence at all, but you compose yourself quickly.

“Ser Benjicot, would you help me hand out the baskets please?” You ask, voice dulcet and melodic. You had chosen a different path than him, after your near catastrophic first meeting.

You have settled on greeting him with exaggerated sweetness.

A farce, he knows it. It is just a question of time before you would tire of it and go crying to your brother that you want a different knight.

He nods at you and the children are quick to line up, each of them eager, with glowing eyes.

You kneel down before them, dress skirts puffing up around you and begin to give them their gifts. There are toys and clothes for the winter time and little cakes and he wonders how in god’s name this is to be of use for longer than a blip in time. They’d outgrow the clothes and they’d fight over the toys the moment you would leave.

It is money which they need, money that currently adorns you in gold and fine silks.

Most of the younglings do not speak to you directly, too shy or too worried about what to say but some grin at you in that untamed way that only children do.

You ask them if they would like a hug or not and they all say yes.

Benji keeps giving the next basket to you, slowly emptying all the trunks that had travelled with you on your carriage. He is about to hand you the second to last one when he finds a little girl perched in your lap.

A redheaded small thing, fragile with scuffs and specks of dirt all over her. Her hair is matted.

“She just arrived this week,” Sister Linda tells him, despite him not having asked. “She’s refusing to take baths.”

He looks at the nun and then back at you.

Surely, you must also notice that stench radiating off the girl, even the other kids have taken a step back, but you do not react.

“My mumsy said yer’ a baker of hope,” the little one mumbles, grimy fingers clutching at the pendant which dangles from your neck. It is amethyst, a dark one, set in precious gold.

You laugh, soft and careful and pat her back. “I believe she said beacon, sweetling. I am not much of a talented baker.”

The girl shrugs. “Your necklace is nice.”

You hum.

When your carriage had entered the heart of the city, you had scrunched your nose in disdain, Benjicot had seen it. It is somewhat paradoxical to this interaction.

You lean even closer, dip your mouth down to the girl’s ear and whisper something. Her mouth drops into a big ‘O’ and she nods before slipping off of you.

You twist your upper half towards him, opening your arms to receive the last basket.

The little girl takes it into her hand and then you do something entirely unbecoming and wink at her. She giggles and with that you get up, knees clicking.

When you grab Benji's arm for support, he almost rips it away before coming to his senses.

But you notice his little twitch and raise an eyebrow at him, hand returning to your side.

“I believe we have done all for today, Sister Linda,” you say. “We shall see each other in about two moons, if god allows.”

The sitter curtsies. “We owe you and the king our deepest gratitude. It is always a delight to have you visit, your grace.”

Benjicot rolls his eyes at this and then, reluctant as ever, offers his arm to help you down the stairs.

You ignore it, surprisingly, dress bunched in your hands, and hurry down the hallway, him hot on your heels.

He catches up within two steps, with no layer of tulle holding him back and practical leather boots in lieu of your ornate heels that click along the cobbled grounds beneath you rapidly.

“Are we in a haste?” He asks and you stop only when you’ve reached the door.

“Ah, so he speaks,” you say, with none of the kindness you had just displayed a few moments ago.

You’re right. Holding his tongue is likely more effective in his ploy to gain freedom back.

He huffs and opens the door, you are halfway through it before you turn right back around and this time he can barely bother to rush after you.

Your hands fiddle with something at the back of your neck and then from where he stands he realises that you’ve taken the necklace off and suddenly the little girl appears from the top of the stairs, where all the other children had disappeared from already.

You hand it to her, crouched down to her level once more.

Now he regrets not having gone after you, too far to hear what you tell her.

And just as abruptly as your manoeuvre had begun, it is over again.

“Let us go back now, I am quite famished,” you tell him, not a single look spared in his direction, as you pass by.

Still, he thinks your cheeks are flushed.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It is quite laborious to not speak.

Especially for a man like Benjicot Blackwood, who is so often quicker with his tongue than his better judgement, who so loved to brag and yell and debate and laugh loudly.

Silence does not suit him.

The only person he has spoken with at court so far, is your brother, if only to request that he isn’t made the full armour of knighthood, a wish that he was granted.

He is almost entirely certain that it is his reputation which allowed him this luxury.

You had addressed the wardrobe change and told him that you were glad that he wasn’t forced into all the steel, the way Ser Rickon before him had been.

Benjicot had only grunted in return.

That is all he allowed himself towards you: grunt, scoff, huff, sigh. Perhaps roll his eyes, or make some other dismissive gesture.

You have yet to abandon your stubborn idea of being patient with him. You don’t chastise his behaviour and you can’t have complained to anyone because in turn nobody has told him to get it together.

As it is now, nobody speaks to him, most courtiers preferring to whisper.

Bloody Ben, they all still hiss behind his back, even though he does not at all feel like him anymore.

Bloody Ben is in the Riverland, in the rise and fall of its hills, buried in its luscious high grasses.

Here he is Ser Benjicot, a trapped up bird.

But he does grow hopeful each day, with every little crack in your angelic facade, with the thinning of your web of false amiability.

When he’d walked with you to the stables this afternoon, you had pushed him to the side to enter first.

Very subtly, maybe not even noticeable to any passerby, but he had felt your well-kept nails in the soft leather guarding his forearms.

And then after, as you had mounted your horse, you had barely waited for him to join you before galloping on out toward the private part of the beach.

Fury, your horse is called, which he thought so ridiculous that he had laughed upon hearing it, but seeing it now, he understood why.

It is bloody enormous. A black Friesian, the kind that is usually bred to the north of the kingdom. And just barely tamed, vehemently refusing to let Benjicot near it.

You’re leaned forward on her now, arms wrapped around her neck, your eyes trained on the sea.

The weather is rough today, strong winds tearing at your hair and coat.

Laughable, he thinks again. Your attire is made to resemble that of the cavalry, deep purple overcoat and a brooch resembling a horse attached to it, right on your chest.

But you are the princess, so of fucking course, your overcoat is embroidered with a golden sun. Of fucking course it is neat and clean. It’s a costume.

Everything you put on is a costume, down to the faces you make.

He’d say he hates you, but then again he has actually hated people in his life before and he doesn’t care that much for you.

“Quit that, will you?” you say, voice raised enough for him to hear you over the roar of the ocean. You look at him, brows pulled into a frown.

He tilts his head, redirects his horse to parallel yours, rather than face it. “What do you mean, your grace?”

You sigh. “Do not act stupid, Ser Benjicot. You look as though you may push me off my horse at any moment.”

He snorts. “I do not.”

“You do. It’s tiresome. I cannot make this feat easier for you, but why do you insist so on making it harder for me?”

This time he doesn’t snort. “Harder for you? Just because I refuse to be your friend, does not mean I am making it harder for you. It isn’t common to be so close with one’s knight. Just because you let Ser Rodrick do all sorts of things with and to you.”

You do not miss the implication of this. “It is treason, what you hint at. It is treason that you should think so lowly of one of the most honourable men in the realm. It is treason to speak of my maidenhood in such a lewd manner.”

Benjicot directs his gaze into the skies. They are grey, waiting to erupt. “I did not say it, did I?”

You huff. “Toad.”

His laugh startles you, he sees you flinch in the corner of his eye. “Too well behaved to even curse properly,” he mutters. “Do you have no emotion left, princess? Was your outburst in the garden the peak of it?”

You do not answer yourself at first, the crashing of waves, the sea gulls, they seem to do so for you. Benjicot wonders if this would be your last straw now.

He decides to push further.

“You are pampered and spoiled. You think you can give away necklaces and make up for it that way. You think that if you’re patient enough, I’ll come to like you as everyone does, but I’ll tell you now, I never will. I am not like the courtiers, blinded by the colours of your clothes and the shine of your royal hair. I do not care for your title or your wealth or your looks.”

He makes a point of staring at her then, surprisingly to find her expressionless and already looking at him. “You are nothing but shackles to me.”

Again you don’t speak. You hold his eyes and for a moment he thinks you would be the one to push someone off their horse

“Get down,” you say.

Benjicot’s smile grows. He’s been told that he smiles like a shark and he hopes you share this sentiment.

“Get down, Blackwood.”

He obliges. He’s done it, he’s hurt you enough. He is triumphant. He is already planning to find the next tavern.

Then you slide off your own horse.

“You have no idea of shackles, you imbecile.” Your voice is laced with venom, angry and acidic. “You are here because nobody wants to tolerate you. You are here because you are a child, a child with an affinity to violence. You are here because with you remaining in the Riverlands, the Brackens would have never agreed to my father’s attempts to finally bring peace upon your houses.”

He towers over you, but you do not appear to mind as you step closer and closer still, so close that he can smell your saccharine perfume emanating from everywhere and engulfing him like a cloud of roses.

“You think it is good that you are feared, but it is the opposite. Good people are good. Good people do not have others crossing the room to be removed from them. You are nothing short of a small babe throwing a temper tantrum. You should consider yourself lucky that somehow you managed to make your contribution to end this foolish bloodshed between the Brackens and the Blackwoods, even though you worked so hard to keep it alive. Perhaps God will be gracious when you go to meet him then, knowing this. I cannot rid myself of you, without having you killed, you are essential to this plan, so unless you wish to meet our Lord himself sooner than planned you must either learn to be civil or learn to be silent.”

You exhale deeply.

“I do not wish to order your execution, I have never had to do such a thing before in my life and it should be a pity that I were to soil my hands on your youthful blood,” you end.

Benji can see the way your chest heaves, the little specks of red that decorate your cheeks. You are nervous but still you don’t waver.

The two of you stand in your positions, you with your arms crossed in front of you and him with his hands by his side.

Useless hands, he realises now. All is useless, no part of him has any power in this play.

He clears his throat and steps back, unsure what else he should do, for what is likely the first time in his life.

You nod, lips pressed together. “Silence it is then,” you say and he can’t help but wonder whether he imagines the tinge of disappointment in your voice.

It is very benevolent of you to not further comment on his indecencies, more benevolent than you should be but you are aware that he wasn’t raised in this pit of snakes. He doesn’t know of the conniving vipers that surround you and he is not learned in making up plans.

The urge to scream gnaws at Benjicot, at the dawning of how final his place by your side is.

There is no way out.

The king and his uncle promised the Brackens that he is no longer a threat to them. He is the debt that was owed and this is his price to pay.

And so is his gratitude for being a wonder boy, for having wielded swords and bloodied himself so early and so well.

“Ser Benjicot?”

He looks at you, upon your horse once more. It is becoming a thing of frequency for one of you to have to look up at the other.

He nods and so the two of you make your way back to the castle.

It is different this time.

He had dreaded it, a few days ago, when the city had come into sight on the horizon, but back then he had thought that he would weasel his way out.

This time, as you approach the castle, he feels himself suffocate.

Garden strolls, orphanages, banquets, infirmaries, this small beach.

You have no idea of shackles.

You trail ahead of him, high up on Fury, no tiara but hair wreathed around your hair in such a way that it is hard to mistake you for anything other than what you are, even sparing your very obvious clothes.

House Aprikate has historically brought forth women of the utmost charm, soft skinned and smiles that ballads are written about and many say it is their princesses that are the backbone of it all. Kind and warm. The mothers of the realm.

Your dynasty is one of greatness, for a century now your house has ruled the kingdom but it is withering now.

The smallfolk grows unhappy, uneasy beneath the sloppy sovereignty of your father.

He is shackled to you and you are shackled to your house and to this place.

And worse so, he has been free before. You have not.

He swallows his ache, as best as he can, still it tastes bitter on his tongue and by the time you reach the stables, he wonders if execution is still better than this appalling place is.

Maybe your father would marry you off to somebody far enough away from this place. A Bracken, for example.

God. Maybe your future husband would dismiss your knight and replace him with a man of his own. Yes that might be his out.

You’re an Aprikate woman, you would marry soon, he is sure of it.

The sun begins to set and paints the skies in shades of magenta and orange when you walk to your chambers.

“I shall take my supper alone tonight, should my brother come by to ask,” you tell Benjicot. “And I do believe it would be best if you do not mention our initial disliking for one another to anyone. The people here do so love to be blabbermouths.”

He nods and gallantly opens the wooden doors to your chambers.

“Goodnight Ser Benjicot,” you say and rush inside.

He glances along the hallway but it is empty, much like your room. He sticks his head in the tiniest bit. “I believe Benji shall suffice, your grace. Ser Benjicot is such a mouthful,” he says, quick and before he can change his mind again, almost stumbling over his own words as he does.

You smile. A good one, a real one this time.

taglist:

@dancingbaek

@knight-of-flowerss

@rebeccawinters

@jhepolie

@majoso12

#benjicot blackwood imagine #benjicot blackwood x reader #benjicot x reader #davos blackwood #hotd #hotd fanfic #asoiaf

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mochinomnoms · 16 days ago

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How do you think explaining Christmas would go down with the boys? I'm specifically looking at Krampus, cause the holiday is all about joy and hope and lights and and giving, and then there's just this half goat demon man that will stuff you in a sack and torture you for Your Sins.

The story of Krampus is actually really metal tbh. There was this evil butcher that killed, chopped, and salted these three kids that were hanging outside his shop, and then St. Nicholas came along and uses the Power Of God to commit actual fucking necromancy to bring the kids back to life. God then cursed this butcher to follow around St. Nich as a punisher that comes around every December 5. The French call him "the whipping father" it's fucking insane actually.

Some of the holiday is also a little weird when you put it into perspective, like: oh yeah, there's this red guy that you write letters to and then he breaks into your house and you leave an offering of milk and cookies for him in exchange for candy and gifts :D! He also has flying reindeer with very cute names btw! But we're not going to talk about that actually cause now we have to decorate this whole ass pine tree that I brought into ramshackle :D it's gonna be great! :D

Bro imagine giving them advent calendars! Those little ones with the small toys or chocolates- give one to Riddle he needs one. Lots of sugar intake to catch up on

🦩

To be real, I was raised very Catholic (ew) and traditionally Mexican so my Christmas stuff is very different from what you see on TV and like in Hallmark movies.

So like, we celebrated it as a religious holiday, so the Santa stuff is kinnda foreign to me, I only heard about it from school. We still got presents and stuff, but I remember doing Posadas, which is children reenacting the Mary and Joseph seeking shelter by going to houses and singing and asking for shelter. At the end we go to one of the parents' houses or to the church and have a little party! We also didn't really decorate like I've seen in American homes, we had like a cute tree usually, but mostly decorated the altars to La Virgen and the Nativity scene.

The biggest difference I've found is that we celebrated Christmas on Christmas Eve instead; we had Nochebuena, so we'd go to midnight mass, have dinner, and at midnight we open presents. Technically, kids didn't get presents because of Santa or anything like that, we got it cause kids get gifts like how the three kings gave baby Jesus presents. Though that also is a different winter holiday in January or February, not sure. When I got older my family started getting more Americanized, and my brothers got the whole Santa deal, but we still did a lot of the church stuff.

Considering that there is no mention of any sort of religious institution in Twisted Wonderland, I imagine my explanation of Christmas would be very foreign. Though Noble Bell College basically being Notre Dame in the Masquerade event and Rollo practically inventing Catholic guilt in a world without Catholics has some implications? I actually don't think there is any mention of any deities that the cast or world in general worship, though perhaps it's implied with Hades? He's not referred to as God of the Underworld though, he's King so maybe??

This got off-topic, but I like to think any explanation of traditions from back home is fascinating to the boys! And there's a lot of winter holidays besides Christmas and Las Posadas, I mean Hanukkah is big and Yule is reemerging as people learn more about where traditions from Christmas comes from.

If you're like me and have a religious aspect to your winter holidays, I think they're curious about it and asking all sorts of questions! If you had the more traditional American Christmas, then they're super curious about the whole Santa deal! Like, they thought you said your world didn't have magic, so what's with this magically man in a red suit and white beard?

(Also, I don't know what advent calendars are, they have candy I'm guessing? If it's a calendar, then I'm safe to assume it's like a count-down to Christmas day?)

#mochi asks #🦩 anon #twst #twisted wonderland #to be fr i thought christmas like on tv was make believe #like it was all disney show or hallmark and that real christmases was way more toned down #you can also imagine my confusion when i first watched the grinch as a kid

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