#sorry just need to get this out this comparisons been in my mind for ages | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dozing-marshmallow · 3 days ago

Note

Back with another request :3c

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

Does Insecurities count?

If so, can you do a The Real Frankie X Insecure Reader?

Hello hello again! Absolutely I can, thank you so much for sending this in and I hope you enjoy!!💛

Final post of 2024! Happy New Year’s Eve!! 🎊

OTHER FRANKIE X INSECURE! READER ONE SHOT

The gameshow was over ages ago, yet you never once made complaint to take your mask off. In a world that didn’t care for looks, you were ready to live the rest of your days with your face as a secret. Somehow though, that vow would involuntarily break when you accidentally walked into a wall and your face felt freshness for the first time in weeks.

Your fingers traced around your skin.

It came off!

Oh no, oh no!

You scurried to retrieve your mask, however Frankie beat you to it, with his extendable limbs, holding it above your head.

“My, you’re quite adorable!” he cooed, that permanent smile not easing your panic.

You gasped, covering your face in the crook of your elbow,“Mask...” your voice was quietened, though Frankie heard you fine.

“What about the mask?”

“I want it back... Can I have it back?” you asked, still keeping your forehead to your arm, eyes squeezed shut. You still couldn’t believe it, how easily it came off!

“Why? The only reason you had it was to conceal your identity!” Frankie remarked, “And now your identity is not concealed, there is no-“ he stopped when he heard a sniffle, shaking from your embarrassed figure,“Uh... You okay?”

“Can I just...get the mask back, please?” you repeated, this time voice crumbling and your other hand pointing at his.

“I didn’t think it would be that important to you.” Frankie murmured, tossing it back,”Sorry.”

You immediately strapped it back on, breathing a few seconds, taking in comfort again.

Frankie folded his springy arms and stepped closer,“If you don’t mind me asking... Where is this sentiment coming from?”

You hesitated, hoping he wouldn’t be able to hear the vulnerability in your tone,“I just...don’t like people looking at my face. I feel a lot more comfortable like this.”

“What? You don’t think you’re ugly or something, do you?” he chuckled, not thinking much of it.

“...I do.”

“Oh.” he let out awkwardly, finger to his chin,“Why do you think that?”

Your head angled to the ground,“My skin’s disgusting and my body’s hideous.”

He tiled his head. Disgusting? Hideous? He’s never heard those adjectives before in that context before. He never said them, Henry never said them, which meant it was from before you and him had history,“Who told you that?”

“A lot of people... My mom, people at work.” you shivered at the thorns of the kinds of people you were around in the past, floating in your mind. Not wanting to elaborate, you shook your head,“I’ve accepted that.”

“And you believe them?” he asked, a tinge of surprise controlling his throat.

“Of course.” it felt like you were speaking to a seven year old, who in Frankie’s case, was naive about the consequences of being reminded how you’d got the short end of the genetic lottery.

The comparison of a small kid proved true when Frankie made his next reply,“Poor contestant! It seems like you’ve been around a lot of liars.” the confidence in his exclamation combined with him patting your head,“Souuuuunds like jealousy!”

“Jealousy?” you repeated in a scoff. It was sounding like one of those flimsy things people said to make you feel better, which is why you weren’t appreciating it,“What’s there to be jealous of?”

“That good face! Be proud of it.” he answered, still patting your head,”It’s not disgusting or hideous.”

You shifted away, but he kept on,“Don’t lie to me, Frankie. I don’t need anyone trying to tell me I’m not ugly when I’m dying soon.”

He couldn’t deny that, so he went off the other thing you said,“So you’re fine with going to your deathbed with all these lies?”

This time, you swatted his hand and he retrieved it,“Stop calling it a lie, it’s not!”

Red gloved hands falling onto the sides of his robotic body, he asked with a stirring seriousness,“When have I lied to you, contestant?”

“Tons of times.”

“Example?”

“Well when you said-“

“What I said is besides the point!” he interrupted you, almost making you roll your eyes. Why ask if you won’t wait for the answer?,“I don’t want my star feeling so low. Besides, how does reassuring you you’re not ugly benefit me? You’d think I’d waste time telling you otherwise?”

You grabbed onto your jawline, underneath the mask,“Oh, what do you know about beauty anyways? You’re a robot! An animatronic!” you knew you wouldn’t have the courage to raise your voice like that if you didn’t have your mask on, churning more self hatred in your stomach.

Frankie didn’t care about the volume, merely answering back in his usual pitch,“Shouldn’t that make my words more valuable then? If I’m not bombarded by those weird images you see of your type everyday, that means I have nothing to compare to and can go off based on my own eyes.” he argued, raising his arms by his head,“And I think you’re easy to look at! I wouldn’t mind looking at you again!”

You lightly groaned; you couldn’t make a counter argument. He made a good point, a point in which you won’t openly admit to.

Your fingers touch the edges of your mask. One conversation wasn’t going to suddenly lift years of mental wounds.

“As you can tell, this whole self love thing, I’m not the best at, but you shouldn’t be hard on yourself.” he turns his attention back to the monitors,“No matter how you feel, having a cute face didn’t and won’t save you here. It’s all about the performance, contestant.”

No one to compare to.

Maybe you’ll take it off later.

#request #finding frankie #real frankie #the real frankie #the real frankie x reader #the other frankie #finding frankie the real frankie x reader #finding frankie the other frankie #other frankie #the other frankie x reader #finding frankie the other frankie x reader #finding frankie x reader #finding frankie game #happy new year eve!

20 notes · View notes

forest-falcon · 4 months ago

Text

Not written anything in ages. Just scribbled this down while making dinner. Gonna continue to scribble this evening and hope for the best!

Scott whump plus tinies being tinies.

💙🧡💚💛❤️

The Butterfly Effect

Chptr 1

It was nothing.

Scott's head throbbed in retaliation at the thought, and the pilot suddenly regretted the English breakfast he'd savoured just a few short hours ago.

Tentative fingers explored the swelling at the back of his head.

He inhaled a hiss as the injury bit back, and the eldest Tracy found himself nose-breathing to abate his rising nausea.

Ok, so it was something...but it had to be nothing.

Nothing until he was home, dry and safe - then he could rest...sleep it off - ice it, if needs be.

Nope.

Scott lost the bile battle and found himself filling a in-flight bag he usually reserved for passengers.

Goddamn it.

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back, willing the universe to equip him with a functional brain - one that could last out the two-hour flight back to Tracy Island. He just needed to plot a course, then One could bring him home.

Then, and only then, could it be something.

One hovered patiently, her hum soothing and familiar in the absence of family.

"Thunderbird One?"

Fuck. He had to get going now before younger brothers grounded his clumsy ass. Scott summoned his best game face and ignored the sensation that his hair was gelled wrong.

"John? To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He'd confess his stupidity once home. Suffer the wrath of the Virgil-brows, and worse - Grandma, if he could just skip out on a hospital stay.

"Thunderbird One, you've not moved from your current location for some time. Is everything okay?"

"Sorry John, just had some stuff on my mind. Will fill you in later. I'm setting off now."

Scott allowed his fingers to dance over the controls, trusting muscle-memory over conscious thought. Thinking seemed to be a prelude to filling further bags - a desire he had no wish to to kindle.

"You sure you're okay?"

"Yes. FAB. M'good."

One's boosters fired and Scott swiped the hologram of his brother away.

Thunderbird One began her journey back across the South Pacific Ocean.

* * *

Scott's line went quiet.

"M'good."

John chewed on a pen-cap as he turned the phrase over in his head.

"Is everything okay, John?"

EOS hovered just at the edge of his peripheral vision.

"I think so."

"Penny for your thoughts."

John chuckled. Pennies hadn't been used for decades.

"Did Scott seem... different at all to you?"

"Not noticeably."

"Can I have a reading on Scott's vitals please? I'm sure everything's fine..."

"Blood pressure is slightly low, and heart rate raised, but all within normal parameters given recent exertion on mission."

"Good."

"My records show that Scott has been working longer hours than usual. He perhaps sounded a little tired, especially given his choice of words."

"I thought so too. I'll get Virgil to check in on him when he's home. If something's bothering Scott, I'm sure Virg can work his magic with a tête-à-tête."

"Failing that, a stay on Thunderbird Five should help to take the weight off, once I've removed the artificial gravity."

John threw his pencap at the AI.

"Thunderbird Four?"

"Present and correct!"

Gordon's voice sounded like a double espresso in comparison to Scott's.

"Mission status, if you please."

"All crew have been safely extracted."

"And the vessel?"

"Four's never better."

John rolled his eyes and looked to EOS for strength.

"The ship, Gordon."

"You're gonna have to be a little more specific than that, Thunderbird Five. The sea is full of ships," Alan's voice chirped in.

John glared at the comms line. He could hear their smug, stupid smiles. He was being set up. May as well get it over with.

"What is the status of Shippy. Shippy. Bang. Bang."

"Ooooh, that ship. I mean, she's not really a ship, more of an S.S.O, strictly speaking," Gordon sniggered.

S.S.O, was nearly as bad as Brain's R.A.D, in John's book. Gordon had coined the phrase Ship Shaped Object, to define any ocean vessel not fit for purpose.

"Yeah she's toast. S.S.O Rust-Bucket's embarking on her final voyage to the ocean floor." Alan supplied.

Our amateur angler friends are back on dry land, so we'll be heading back. Clean up will have to wait until the storm has passed."

"FAB."

#thunderbirds are go #thunderfam #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderwhump #scott tracy #john tracy #gordon tracy #alan tracy #virgil tracy #the butterfly effect

49 notes · View notes

jozor-johai · 5 months ago

Note

So do you think Dany and Jon are just two Heads of the Dragon? and if so, who do you think is the third? my money's on Bran as like, the Ice Representative to balance out Dany's fire and Jon's Ice/Fire dealies.

Thank you for this ask, sorry it took ages to respond.

Say that we know (or we think we know) that two "heads" of "the dragon" are Jon and Dany—insofar as we even think we understand what that phrase is supposed to mean (an assumption that I think is worth questioning as well, but that's not a task for now).

Here's what I love about this question—the issue of "who/what is the 'third head'" comes up as a literal question in a religious sense when Arya is talking to the Sailor's Wife in Braavos. There's a statue to the god Trios, and the Sailor's Wife can't tell us the purpose of one of the heads:

Three-headed Trios has that tower with three turrets. The first head devours the dying, and the reborn emerge from the third. I don't know what the middle head's supposed to do.

GRRM is definitely referencing the concept of the "three headed (dragon)" when he invented Trios; the imagery is too central and too specific for that not to be the case. What's fun, of course, is that we're all asking ourselves the same thing—what (or who) is that middle head?

I like your suggestion about Bran. It's a pretty unorthodox idea, because most people assume/expect that the three heads of the "dragon" must be Targaryen or at least Valyrian... but I don't think one needs Valyrian blood to ride a dragon, so as far as I'm concerned Bran is an option. He's a cool idea, too, because of his attachment to the North, the far North, and maybe even the "Ice" concept, like you say. Bran's also a powerful skinchanger—or, in training to be one—and there's not a doubt in my mind we're going to see some dragons get skinchanged. GRRM has been asked about that idea before and he's gleefully dodged answering it.

That would also be interesting because it's worth remembering that Jon is technically not canonically a Targaryen (yet), or even a contender to be a "head of the dragon" (yet). We think we've figured it out (and we probably have) but it's still technically a mystery. In that sense, then, if I was going to lean on the comparison with Trios, I would say: perhaps by now we should have met the first "head" —the "death" head—and we should have met the last head— "rebirth" head—so we should be missing this middle head whose purpose we don't know. However, we think we've figured out that Jon is the marriage of Ice and Fire, so maybe he's the "unknown" middle head—and then Dany is, on one side, the "rebirth" head (of fire?), and we should have met the "death" head (of ice?) already, but we don't know who it might be. Perhaps it's Bran!

If I'm being honest, I personally haven't thought too much about solving the third head of the dragon issue. It's clear to me that some key piece of the puzzle is being intentionally obscured from our view, so it feels like a fool's errand to be confident in solving it at this point. I realize that's a lame answer, but it's the truth—I try to approach these things beginning with how they work in the story and how they work with the symbolism at play, so without being sure how the "three heads" are even supposed to work I haven't tried to solve this mystery.

If there are truly three people who are going to be the "three heads of the dragon," I think the rules of good storytelling limit our options to characters that were introduced in AGOT. If we limit that to POVs—which is not necessarily a valid assumption, but I think is likely—then that's only Tyrion, Bran, Arya, or Sansa. I'm torn on the common "Tyrion Targaryen" theory... I don't really like it, but it would explain why he's included as a POV in AGOT and why he makes the shortlist for possibilities here (among other things). Bran would be a much more interesting option, though.

The thing is, I'm ultimately not convinced the "three heads" are going to work like we expect. Yes, it's said that Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya were the "three heads," but who knows if the common understanding of that is true? Plus, the person who presents the idea to Dany of the need for "three heads" to ride the three dragons is Jorah... who I don't think knows shit about dragons. So my mind is wide open when it comes to possible interpretations of the "three heads of the dragon."

#ask the red temple #jozor thoughts #asoiaf #asoiaf meta #daenerys targaryen #bran stark #jon snow

33 notes · View notes

gardenofnoah · 7 months ago

Text

that’s the home of my love//she’s dancing in the sky

my submission for my beloved @threadbaresweater ‘s milestone event, inspired by one of the most beautiful songs I’ve ever heard (Caroline by Colter Wall). sorry to make him a little sad for the summer collab

tags: Nanami Kento x reader, aging, sudden death, grieving (it’s not that sad I don’t think), drabble, smut (loosely)

He never had enough time. That’s the root of his regret—you were there waiting, and then you were gone and suddenly he had too much time and the loneliness stretched on as far as he could see. Kento almost comes out of retirement for this reason—needing something to keep his mind off of the aching void you left. Even if it is the very thing that kept him away from you in the first place. The thing that took up his space in your bed, when all you really needed was the steady rise and fall of his chest at your back and his arm slung around your rib cage. He gets that now.

He doesn’t go back to work, though. He finds that, in the crest of his 60s, his mind and his memories have not left him yet, and to picture you keeps him just this side of content. The closest he’s gotten since you’ve been gone—he’ll take it.

He remembers being 30, and meeting you like it was normal. There was no curse to exorcise from you, no snapping mouth to pull you from—you in the park on his day off, interrupting his reading to ask him to share the bench. He’d said no, and you’d sat down anyway. You never did let him forget that.

Being 32, and having your first significant fight. He can’t remember what it was about, but the only thing that really mattered was the way the hurt cracked through your own belligerence, just for a moment. He’d never felt a self-loathing of that magnitude—so sudden and swelling and suffocating him. He’d just pulled you to him and you fought him until the tears came. If he thinks hard enough, he can still feel your fingertips dig into his waist. He’d told you he loved you.

Being 36 and seeing what all the fuss over marriage was about. He closes his eyes and feels the corners of his mouth tug up, picturing you in that dress you’d pulled out of one of your grandmother’s old trunks. The way you’d lost your bravery by the time you reached him at the altar, your trembling only quelled when you tucked yourself into his chest and didn’t let go until it was over. He’d felt like the luckiest man in the world. He remembers the heat of the summer, and how it paled in comparison the fire that radiated off of you.

That same night, relearning your body as if he’d not touched it for years. The give of your soft skin under his rough hands—the way you shivered and pulled him closer, as if he was not already as close as your skin would physically allow. He thinks of the blinding pleasure behind his eyes when he’d sunk into you slowly, and even now, feels the familiar swirl of blood, albeit flowing slower now. His hand finds himself in the dark, half hard on the memory alone, and he knows that the squeeze of his own hand could never replicate the feeling of you, but it’s all he has.

He finds, at this age, there’s no real urgency. He’s content to think of the way your mouth would part on a moan and let the sound swirl in his gut, fading as quickly as it came. The desire swells and recedes, and it’s not so much the longing to be touched as it is a yearning to be touched by you. But you’re not coming back, and he’s trying to make his peace with that.

Kento remembers how his 40s came and went with little fanfare and more neglect than he’d intended. You’d asked him to slow down, to be there on slow mornings and stormy Sunday nights—and he wasn’t. It never seemed urgent, because he’d promised you forever and couldn’t be bothered to worry about the quality of those days that stretched on before you—only the sheer quantity of what you’d vowed to each other. He’d thought that counted for something.

And then you’d turned 50, but had not made it to 51. As sudden as a light switch, your lungs inflated once, and then never again.

The memory of the 15-odd years between then and now runs together. The pain distorts the passage of time in his mind. He can only recall one long day of grieving that hasn’t ended yet.

But even in his mourning, he finds himself back in that park. He takes up the whole bench now, laying down across it and ignoring the stares of younger passerby, hoping to feel the weight of you press down on his chest. Kento watches the sky—which has seemed far too blue since you died, as if he was expecting everything else to dull when he did. But cicadas still chirp and children still stomp about in the grass. Wisps of cloud swirl and float on, and he wonders where you are. If you have a hand in what he sees—if there’s a record playing to guide the movement of your hips and the direction of the warm, summer breeze. He extends an arm out— straight up, as if you could reach down and touch him again.

There is no grave to visit. Your name is here—on a little gold plaque, fastened to the top of the bench—and on the tip of his tongue, always. His great love in the sky.

#I’ve been waiting for the inspiration for this to come for months #and I just wrote it all in 40 minutes #I swear I love him. I just like to make him sad #nanami Kento x reader #Nanami x you #Nanamin #nanami drabble #jjk drabble #jjk x reader #jjk fic

43 notes · View notes

kaga-ribi-612 · 2 months ago

Text

Oh… you seem very… very… interesting…♪

Full name: Jördis Kagari

Nickname: Courtney*

Age: 38

Birthday: 6th of December

* The nickname Courtney was given to her by some members of Team Magma, the motives behind that nicknaming are unknown

I like to… observe… and analyse. And… of course… be helpful to leader Marc and Lis…

I��ve seen… the other me‘s… you are interesting… ♪

OOC & Lore/Infodump down below (I may add stuff in the future)

//OOC - About this Courtney:

Hi, I’m @starlightcosmos04245 and I’m playing this Courtney as well as her universes Maxie (@matsubusa-m) and my OC Lizzy (@ematsubusa).

This Courtney, her name is Jördis (from the personification of earth in Norse mythology, Jörð), is from the same universe as my Maxie (aka Marc) and therefore from many years into the future. She still works for the reformed Team Magma. She’s a researcher and very observant. In comparison to other Courtneys in the multiverse, though, Jördis is a lot calmer. Although she can always explode if provoked. Aside from that, she loves to share pictures of Marc and his family. She’s a little leaker, when it comes to that point. To some members of Team Magma of this universe, she’s like a strange older sister.

She is bisexual and currently in a romantic relationship with Team Aqua’s biggest puppy - Matt.

♪

//OOC - About this blogs boundaries:

I, personally, am usually very open about everything. Though I have to admit I’m very shy and get nervous easily… so sorry for that. I’m happy though to be included in everything happening ^^

(I maybe disappear sometimes for some time due to mental health reasons or just stuff in my life happening. We all need breaks sometimes ^^; )

I’m okay with ic anon hate, poke fun at Jördis. Tease her, or just joke with her. She will be responding accordingly. Also, feel free to ask her any questions. If they’re too extreme, though, I’ll ignore them (fyi). I also won’t condone any ooc hate. It’s inappropriate. This is a RP-Blog, after all. We’re all here to have some fun :)

♪

Heads up, there will be my headcanons and lore for her following! ^^

☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★

HEADCANONS / LORE

Like I already mentioned, Jördis and the others live in a future many years after the events of ORAS.

After Team Aqua and Team Magma made peace, the teams started to hang out together more. That’s when she started to actually notice Matt. His puppy-like energy and his whole personality overall scratched her curious brain just right… so she put herself together and became friends with him. After some time, they started dating and eventually had a son shortly after Marc and Lis had their fraternal twin sons.

(Sorry, I’ve been a sucker for Betaadminshipping ever since I saw Chip‘s Fanart for them σ^_^; )

Speaking of relationships, she is on very good terms with Lizzy, Marc’s wife. They are as close as sisters, often hanging out, going out to the arcades together, etc.

Marc is her mentor, her role model, and kind of like a father to her after she ran away from home.

Her parents were abusive of her, so she ran away at 11 years old and found shelter at the newly formed Team Magma. Marc saw her potential and decided to take care of her until she can care for herself (which is also why she seems a little obsessive about Marc sometimes. She feels grateful towards him and it’s her way of showing). Thus, she brought her bright, clever mind into his plans and quickly climbed up the ranks. She was there before Homura (aka Tabitha), wo joined shortly after her.

Homura is her best friend and somewhat of an older brother-figure. She knows she’s not good with people, so he takes care of most of the people-oriented things within Team Magma for her.

Jördis likes to take pictures. Not just of Marc and his family, but also of landscapes, Pokémon… basically anything. She likes to collect as many memories as possible like this.

She also likes to play video games. She’s a regular customer of the arcade in Mauville. The owner of the arcade is afraid of her. Not only because of her somewhat unnerving stare but also because she’s impudently talented at the claw-machines. Her room is filled with Pokémon plushies she won there.

Jördis is half icelandic half japanese. Her mother is from Sinnoh, her father from the Pokémon-worlds equivalent to Iceland (if someone has a fan region based on iceland, please tell me). She was born and raised in Sinnoh until she ran away from home.

She likes Vocaloid music. A singing computer program… that scratches her brain just right and intrigues her. Her favourite Vocaloid is Megpoid Gumi.

Aside from that, she also often listens to J-Pop, J-Rock or the things Marc likes.

☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★

If you read through all this, again, thank you very much! I hope you have fun with her ^^

#pokeblog intro #rotomblr #pkmn irl #cw: abuse #//OOC: say hi to my Courtney! ^^#//I delivered as promised (UwU)

15 notes · View notes

forsakenwitchery · 2 months ago

Text

Finished Veilguard the other day and I need you to see my Rook. xD idk I tried to create something similar to my face, but then it hit me I had Tallis on my hands. 😂

In case someone's interested in my thoughts (no spoilers): it was kind of a mixed bag experience for me. I couldn't agree more with the sentiment that the game's too sanitized, but I did have some fun with it and I did grow to like the companions after all. ALSO MANFRED NEEDS TO BE PROTECTED AT ALL COSTS! And Lucanis reminds me of Gale so much, guess that's my new type. xD Men cooking is the hottest trait ever, legit a dealbreaker no griffon or sentient skeleton can beat.

More rambling under the cut & adding all the critical tags I could think of.

I do think they sort of shot themselves in the foot by calling it Dragon Age, because I kept thinking it reminds me of Guardians of the Galaxy A LOT which was a good & imho underrated game!!! but it's not the best comparison for a DA game. I didn't like Bellara at first, but then it hit me she reminds me of Mantis. SO. MUCH. And I loved Mantis! So Bellara just felt so out of place in DA. I have a lot of thoughts, yet my main takeaway is that it should have been a new IP. Literally had it been called anything else 70% of my beef with this game wouldn't exist, and I think it's true for most people who are critical about it. Like, I played as a Crow, and literally all the Crows in the game are good(TM). My Rook told Harding she did some bad things, but nothing too bad! Literally no Crow in this game is willing to kill anyone. The banter about Grey Warden contracts... Was wild. What's the point of even having assassins who are so uwu goody two-shoes. :( Legit had they made a game in the vein of DA, but not DA, with new not preestablished factions, I wouldn't have this critique. And you can't say or do anything too bad in this game which is wild for DA. I think I was only allowed to be mean about Solas, but even tho I always chose the dialogs akin to 'he can go F himself', the game kept telling me 'he's just a poor sad little meow meow' by legit every character around me. WHICH GIVEN THE FINAL TWIST OF WHAT HE DID. FUCKING FUCK. There are not nearly enough mean things this game lets you say about him, and it's mind-blowing why half the characters would toot his horn so much. Sorry, I hate Solas' guts, I didn't think it was possible to hate him even more, but holy shit was I not prepared...

But like, had it been a new IP, my only critique would be all the handholding, especially the constant 'pointing out the obvious' at the start of the game. The first hours were driving me insane with it. Like guys, I'm not stupid, I don't need to be told the same thing 3 or 4 times. Or how to proceed in a linear location if I stop for one second. Yeah, it gets better with the obvious part, but not with repeating the same info, which made me wonder what age were they targeting with it. Because I don't think kids like to be talked down to, either.

BUT I expected way worse. It was overall not a bad game. Not a super great 10/10 one, but it had its moments. For me, it was a solid 6/10, maybe even a 7 in some parts. idk why, but I especially loved Evka and Antoine. And the cooking party banters. Super pretty, too, once I got used to the style.

Oh, and I also called my Rook Anthea, and since the Crows had a character called Teia, I got an added bonus of Lucanis actually saying that name a few times. xD

#dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #da: the veilguard #veilguard critical #solas critical #datv critical

10 notes · View notes

filthforfriends · 2 years ago

Text

Glass Houses

Read parts 1 - 4 of DILFiano on my Masterlist

CW: Morally grey age gap and power dynamics.

Word count: 4.9k

Three hours: barely a respectable amount of time to party hop with your friends before asking to go home. It’s not like you didn’t have a good excuse: they wanted to drive over an hour to some bougie party in the hills. Icarus liked to use her dad's name to get into events every now and then, just for the thrill of it. Most of you were leaving for college on Monday anyway. This was one last hoorah.

“I just feel super nauseous.” The statement was an excellent way to get home because no one wanted you in their car.

“You better not puke, or I swear to god…” Icarus threatened

“It’s just nerves about the move. I’m struggling to remember why I wanted to attend college on the other side of the country.”

“You had like two sips of punch, anyways,” slurs Elliot.

“Fuck you,” playfully shout towards the backseat. “Someone needs to take care of your ass when you have alcohol poisoning!”

“Hey, I’m on your side!” protests Moxy.

“Oh, I’m sorry, love!” You blow kisses in her direction, both tacky and affectionate.

“Is it okay to just drop you off at mine? Or do you need me to take you home?” Your heart jumps at the prospect of spending time in the David’s home. Pretending you were on this little adventure for Icarus was morally exhausting. It’s not that you didn’t care about your friend, but because the globe had shifted its axis. Your world now revolves around Damia. Ingesting various substances, dancing until you broke a heel, and stumbling back to your car at dawn was totally ineffectual in comparison to him.

“You can drop me at yours, I don’t want to deal with getting my car tomorrow morning. Ugh! I’m just fucking tired for some reason.” You were wide awake and so impatient you couldn’t even disguise it. Luckily everyone’s attention was on Google Maps.

“Just crash at mine like we were going to do anyway,” Icarus offers. “And we’ll be home…” She looks back at Elliot, who’s scanning the directions on his phone.

“It’s an hour and 23 minutes away,” he supplies.

“Okay we’ll probably just sleep there then.”

“Sick! I’ve always wanted to spend the night in the hills!” Moxy is excited to cross something off her stereotypically L.A. bucket list. You try to be happy with her, but internally you’re counting the trees as they pass. While your physical form is trying to plaster a smile on her face in the passenger seat of Icarus’ G-Wagon, your mind is already at the David’s house. Biding your time on the ride was unbearable. You wanted to crawl out of your skin or just feel the dry desert air on your face as the wind rushed by.

The sound of the tires changed as Icarus turned from asphalt, to her smoothly paved driveway. You wanted to jump out of the car and sprint while the SUV rolled forward.

“Wait, what is the turn off again?” She whipped around, coordinating with Elliot.

“Uh, shit, let me check. I screen shot the directions in case my battery gets low.”

“You can just charge it.”

“I forgot my phone charger,” he groans, and Moxy rolls her eyes.

“I literally texted you –”

“Okay, okay!” He holds up his hands defensively. Elliot had smoked too much random weed at the second party and was jumpy as a result. It was a risky move, just taking whatever was offered with no questions. Sometimes you’d be fine and others you’d want to rip your eyebrows off.

“Are you playing nice back there?” Icarus called.

“Can I get out?” Keeping the urgency out of your voice was impossible.

“Huh, what?”

“The car is still moving,” you snap.

“Oh shit,” she puts it in park. A good person would make sure Icarus was absolutely fine to drive. A good person would make sure all their dumbass friends ended the night safely. A good person would put aside their own personal needs for the sake of others, but that had been your entire life. Tonight you weren’t going to be a good person, you were going to seduce your friend’s dad.

Hopping out of the car, you exchange various expletive ridden farewells. The wave of relief at watching your friends drive off was like fully exhaling for the first time tonight. How freeing it was to be in the company of someone you didn’t have to take care of.

Damia had the house to himself, now. Alexander stayed at his mothers apartment so his older sister could have a going away party. You wanted to know how exactly Damia came to chaperone. Did he volunteer? Were you on his mind every waking moment too?

After your meeting a week and a half ago, Damia hadn’t called or texted. You waited in rapture for the first four days, then gave up hope. A grown man isn’t going to chase after you like a teenage boy would. You’d have to earn that reverence. Holding it against him wouldn’t be fair, anyways. Chiara would probably use your relationship against Damia in court, trying to win sole custody of Alexander. She seemed like the type to play dirty, and with a heart as pure as Damia’s, that was reprehensible.

The house was dark, so you kicked your shoes off on the welcome mat instead of the tile, that way your arrival didn’t echo through the silent house. It felt early to you, but the kitchen clock read 12:07am. He must be asleep. You go to the trouble of depositing your belongings in Icarus’ room for appearances sake, before tip-toeing to the otherside of the house. Damia’s bedroom door didn't squeak when you opened it, the whole home was well-oiled and in perfect working order.

However, you could sense that Chiara’s presence here was waning. All of Damiano’s eclectic art she’d managed to arrange in an orderly fashion stood on its own. No longer balanced between a neutral-toned painting and a perfectly proportionate end table, the heavy colors of a disfigured facade leered at you from across the hall. Up until today, you’d thought the bust was of a humanoid face. Now it was so clearly a mask, crazed eyes boring through wind-warped wood from the other side of some secret.

Another painting had been moved from Damia’s office to the living room. The piece was both gory and abstract, radiating deviant energy. There were no mangled figures, but the blood red paint had been applied to look like straining muscular ligature. In fact, all the paintings that had newly achieved pride of place were disconcerting, which you realized, was the point. In an effort to find himself, Damia must first be uncomfortable in the world around him. He was too beloved for anyone to do that to Damiano except himself.

Walking into his bedroom, you found the space above the headboard surprisingly baren. At 15 years old, you'd snuck a peek during a dinner party. There was nothing remarkable about it. The David’s had an under-stated European style. Given how Damia had centered his sexual charisma as a musician, you’d expected plenty of nude imagery ranging from sensual to erotic. Hell, maybe even attachments for restraints on the bed. However none of this was true, and you’d shut the door, fearful of getting caught. All you could recall was the absence of things, but had no memory of what the master bedroom looked like.

In a room lit only by artificial light sleeping through the window, it was hard to decisively observe anything. After closing the door, you became distracted by the books. First and second editions of Maya Angelou, Willian Carlos Williams, Walt Whitman, Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf, Allen Ginsberg, and others whose names you didn’t recognize. There's a sensuality in your fingers running down every spine, as if caressing their drug addled ramblings.

Of course your eyes then fall to Damia. No one is more angelic when they slumber or more evocative of sin when they wake. The dark washes us clean. Maybe you and Damia could stay up all night together.

“Hey,” you whisper. He doesn’t stir and after a moment you're glad you haven’t woken him up. He lays on his side and you lift the covers, scooting in behind him. It wasn’t an unfamiliar position. You always rose first at sleepovers, even in elementary school. The boredom of waiting was hellish, but not now. Nothing could hold your attention more completely than the even rise and fall of Damiano’s ribcage as he breathed peacefully. In such close proximity, you could see he was shirtless and propped yourself up on one hand to admire him. The muscles of his pecs were relaxed as were his biceps. All this beautiful body resting easily, folded in on itself.

You lay back down before the urge to run your hands on his warm, freckled skin becomes overwhelming. Testing the limits, heart racing, you put the pad of a single finger on Damiano’s back and hold your breath. As far as you can tell he’s still sleeping. You scoot closer so certain places are just barely brushing against his body: knee, forehead, stomach, the back of your left hand. You imagine Damiano had invited you into bed with him, that you’d fallen asleep together like this, maybe after a night of love making. You press your lips to his spine, then can’t bring yourself to pull away.

Damia startles and flips over suddenly. The glass house you’ve built in your mind is shattered.

“Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me!” he heaves, hand to his chest. The mortification sets in. This wasn’t the slow, sensual wake up call you’d be hoping for, with kisses and gentle touches. Of course it wasn’t, because you were an 18 year old girl and a near stranger in his bed.

“Sorry, I’m sorry.” Damiano reaches over you for his phone and for a moment he’s held above you so intimately it makes your cunt throb. After a few taps his sighs and lays back on his bed, disposition changed.

“I take it Icarus is with her phone?”

“Yeah, of course! I wouldn’t – fucks sake I wouldn’t do this if there was any risk of be found.” It's then that the reason for Damiano startling occurs to you. “Oh shit, you thought I was Chiara for a sec.” You sit up, weight resting on your hip and left hand. Looking down at him felt so casual, a snapshot into a fantasy life.

“No, no. We haven't shared a bed in almost a year. This bed,” he pats the mattress on either side of him, “is brand new. I’d like to sell the house, but…it’s not the priority right now.”

“Alexander.” Damiano was trying to give some consistency to his son. He nods and puts his arm behind his head. His tattoos stretch across his skin. The claw of a sprawling dragon pierces the head of a sphinx because Damia hadn’t coordinated between tattoo artists. He says he prefers it this way.

“You’re a good father.” Damia snorts and you realize immediately why that might not have been the best comment.

“Oh am I?” God he’s gorgeous. His happy trail is dense because Damia’s body hair spans his lower stomach. It also partially conceals the coiled serpent on his sternum, and reaches across his pecs. You’d never slept with a man who had adult body hair. It must tickle. Everywhere.

“You could move to a different room? That should be a manageable amount of change.”

“The guest bedroom is right next to the kitchen, though,” he wrinkles his nose. Moving Icarus’ bedroom likely wasn’t on the table either.

“What about an add-on to the studio? Expand the bathroom, add a bedroom, and make all the Swedish producers sleep in here?”

“You know, that’s actually not a bad idea.”

“Sleep in the guest bedroom when Alexander has friends over.”

“So I can hear all the nefarious activities happening in my house,” he chuckles, nodding. “You're full of good ideas.” He extends a hand to your knee, face thoughtful. “You know what the issue here is though? You’re better at these conversations than my peers.” His words are the sweetest, most delicious, most unbearable torture.

“Damia, you can trust my discretion.”

“I trust you as much as I can possibly trust an 18 year old, since I’ve been one.” You don’t like this answer and he can see it. “Where is Icarus tonight?”

“Getting drunk an hour and a half away in the Hollywood Hills and spending the night. Probably will be too hung over to get home before 4pm.” Damia is bargaining with himself and visibly gives in.

“You can’t spend the night in my bed, but we can cuddle for a bit.” Is cuddling what he called tucking Icarus into bed? Or did he say something else like snuggle? Is cuddling what he called his caresses with Chiara? Which role are you: daughter or wife? You are neither.

“Also please don’t tell my daughter that I have a tracker on her phone. It’s for her own safety, but –”

“I understand.”

“Of course you do. This’ll be our secret too.” There was no earthly thrill like keeping a secret with Damia, because it created an intimacy that couldn’t be denied. Even if neither of you named it, that tether was made stronger. You wanted thousands of secrets with him, to drown in all the promises you made and kept like your life’s purpose.

You scoot closer, putting off the moment where this touch could feel parental rather than romantic. It was far worse: contrived. As you lay down on his chest, Damiano’s smell was everywhere: his bedsheets, his pillows, his skin. It was the perfect encapsulation of his sex appeal: mature, masculine, refined. His arm wrapped around your back, fingertips dragging up and down your side. The sensation made every hair stand on end and you shivered. Damia chuckled which broke the awkwardness.

Feeling a little shy now, you turn your face against his skin and get a whiff of body odor. For some reason you want to hide how hard your nipples are, like there was any point in decency now. The hand strewn across his chest comes alive, holding onto Damia’s ribcage. The deep breaths aren’t really enough. Some part of you wants to bite into the muscle of his pec to feel it in your mouth, dig our fingernails into his skin and drag him across the bed. Consume him whole. It’s so carnal that you don��t recognize yourself.

“Pheromones. The smell thing it's…you’ll grow out of it, I think.” Having your mind read by Damia evokes that forbidden, cherished memory under a vibrant sky. For the first time ever, you weren’t thinking of the kiss already. Damia falters in stroking your arm, eyes turned to the ceiling in thought as well.

“Then why is it so hard for you to hold back?” The outer corners of his eyes crinkle as Damia lets out a short laugh. He shakes his head, not at you, but at himself. He should have known you’d be capricious.

“You call this holding back? Hmm.” Damia brings you closer and presses his face to your scalp, breathing in deep. Mothers say the heads of their newborns smell sweet when making the same gesture. If not sweetness, then how did you smell to him?

“I’d say we’re doing a terrible job,” Damia whispers. Upon being released, you finally feel confident enough to give into the craving that nags you, throbs between your legs. Nuzzling his arm out of the way, you press your face into his exposed armpit.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize for your depravity, then take deep gasping breaths of Damia’s body odor. “Sorry,” you mewl, trying to scoot closer. His hair tickles your nose, lips, and cheeks. Damia lifts his arm, permitting easier access. You pet his armpit hair with trembling fingers and your knees bump his flank. Testing the limits, you open your legs and try to nudge his thigh in between. Only when he abides, do you realize why you want Damia positioned that way, why you want his thigh wedged as high up as you could get it.

“I’m sorry.” He shushes you soothingly.

“Sweetheart, stop apologizing.” You stick the tip of your tongue into the hollow of his armpit and taste the salty skin, then lick upwards. Thankfully, he’s not ticklish, but your rapid breaths against his wet skin makes Damia shiver.

“I want you so bad,” you whimper. “And if you’d just – I’d be happy just to give you a blowjob or handy or anything. If you wanted I’d eat you out. God, I’d lick you clean after a run. I don’t even need you to touch me, because just knowing that I got to touch you…I’d be so thankful and I’d never ask for anything again. I’d take it to my grave, I promise.” This had devolved from propositioning into pathetic begging, but you really were that desperate. Damia looks pained when you want him aroused.

“Sweetheart, if this situation were different –”

“But it’s not. This is the situation.” There's a flicker, a candle fighting the wind. Deep down, a fraction of a fraction of Damiano is considering it. Maybe pity wasn’t the way to go. He was so confident, he probably was attracted to confidence in return.

“Sorry that was rabid, um...” You have to instigate because Damia can’t. But push a little too far, he’d shut down completely and ask you to leave out of guilt. You commit to a course of action, rolling over to the side of the bed and peeling off your tights. Damia’s eyes go wide in alarm. Instead of taking the rest off too, you kneel in front of him, wearing just panties and a skirt.

“I want you to feel how wet you make me.”

“We can’t –”

“And I’m not asking you to do anything! I just want you to feel, just once. You don’t have to get me off, but I want you to know.” There's that flicker, no longer just one candle fighting the wind.

“This is a horrible idea,” Damiano responds, propping himself up on an elbow. “I can’t believe I’m…” He extends his hand and you shift position, parting your legs to make room. You pull his wrist under the skirt and his fingertips bump right above the waistline of your panties. Before you can control the reaction, everything tenses in excitement, pussy pleading for you to give it something to squeeze down on.

Damia’s gaze is knowing, but he doesn't break the asphyxiating sexual tension with a witty remark. He’s not going to invalidate this moment for either of you. Trying to read into that, you lower his hand a centimeter to your panties. Damia’s short fingernails catch on the elastic, but his eyes never leave your face. Rather than blush and turn away, you stare right back, pushing his fingertips past the waistband.

Of his own volition, Damia slides his hand between your legs. His mouth falls agape, because you’re so wet he has to focus on not accidently slipping inside.

“Tesorina, I –” he touches you at a loss for words. Damia sighs in admiration at how warm and silky your pussy feels. Out of habit, he goes to apply pressure just outside your vulva with his pinky and pointer, while his middle and ring finger play with your pussy. He has to stop himself. You almost wish Damia was wearing a wedding ring so your body’s lubrication could loosen it.

“You feel lovely,” he purrs, pulling his hand back. You close your legs around his touch, clutching it between your thighs. It fits there so perfectly that you can’t help but rock against his palm. Both hands wrap around his wrist. A shameless part of you uses the grip to work back and forth against him.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but mm please – don’t –” Damia wedges his upturned hand firmly against your vulva. “Oh my god,” you mewl, careening forward. You get fistfuls of the quilt and cry out, pelvis naturally finding a rhythm to rock against Damia’s hand.

“Ah mm, I’m sorry.”

“Shh, stop apologizing,” he insists in a whisper. Damia isn’t even concealing the relief in his expression at you making this decision on his behalf. Testing the boundaries, you sit back on your heels and give Damia’s hand your weight. He applies firm upward pressure to counteract and your source of friction ends up being even more snug against your pussy.

“Fucking, fuck. Thank you,” you moan, grinding your clit against the heel of his hand.

“Right now, it's okay to listen to your body, tesorina.” Experimentally, Damia’s finger slides into the divot of your vaginal opening. He strokes your hymen in circular motions. Without using any pressure, Damia allows just the tip of his middle finger to slip inside. A car drives by and the headlights momentarily illuminate half of Dami’s face. You can’t tell if it's the half he shows the world, or the half he’s failing to hide from you.

Captivated but conflicted, Damia drags the arousal up to your clit, middle finger dipping out of your hymen. Immediately you're grieving the lack of intrusion with a whine. Upon reaching the crest of your labia, he brushes back and forth in progressively smaller strokes. Damia uses a massaging motion around and on your clit. Rather than blindly picking a spot to rub, he allows the messy slickness of your pre-cum to inform his movements.

At first you're in awe of his presion while so deep in thought. Until you realize that subconsciously, your hips were shifting to bring his touch to the best spot. Under all that focus, he was listening to your body’s minute signals. When Damia does find your clit, he puts it directly under his thumb and your hips buck violently.

“Are you sure?” Something changes in the way he’s positioned. One of his fingers is extended and you falter as he presses it inside. It’s all you can do to nod. Head hung, your expression is corrugated by pleasure. He curls the digit against your g-spot and now your hands are pushing the blanket away, back arching, mouth falling open as your moan.

“Hey, look at me,” Damia prompts “Are you really, really sure?” It’s absurd for him to expect an answer while he finally pleasures you. Maybe this isn’t an overwhelming amount of stimulation for some women, but you’re on the verge of full body trembles. Damia holds your clitorous between his fingers internally and externally and stays consistent, titrating the pressure up and down, trying to find that sweet spot for you. One hand tightens its grip on Damiano’s wrist as insurance. The other is planted in front of you, bringing your face closer to his.

“Sweetheart?”

“Yes.” Your intrepid confidence issues a scorching challenge. If this interaction ceases out of someone’s fear, it wasn’t mine. Because I am sure. You hold eye contact, gaze completely level. Equal. No longer a little girl in need of a replacement father figure. Damia returns your gaze, alarmed at your power, but also something like impressed. His pupils flit down to your lips. Eyes. Lips. Ridiculing himself. Lips, again.

“If you have the slightest doubt, tell me.” There's a sinking sensation in your stomach, not out of regret, but out of the knowledge of how wrong this was. It just made the whole thing more enticing; a door into the world of depravity that you coveted. People expected you’d spend your life as a righteous woman. Instead you wore a lacy thong under your skirt to seduce your best friend’s father when she was driving on the 405 tipsy.

“If holding on to me feels good, that's fine, but I won’t pull away if you let go. I’m not cruel.” Damiano visibly makes the same kind of enduring moral concession. During which, his hand had stilled in the last few moments, but you didn’t have the decency to stop using it as a source of stimulation. It was an inexcusably filthy thing to do, hump Damia’s hand with so much vigor it made you sweat. It was fucked up. While Damia couldn’t bring himself to verbally encourage it, his eyes begged you not to stop.

It was the briefest glimpse into the version of himself that Damia chained to the back of his mind, because it was a danger to his own reputation. A version of himself that sought out rules so his unquenchable rage had something to pulverize. That version of Damiano was allowed to fixate on the girl who fell to her knees in public and begged to blow him. He was allowed to accept the offer, and drag her back to the backseat of a car and have her ride his thigh. Both over and under the trousers, depending on which she liked better.

“I know you’re desperate just from touching yourself, because sex toys are still embarrassing at your age. I could probably just buy you one, but…” he clicks his tongue at an intrusive thought and shuts his eyes. Jaw set, Damia carefully gets himself under control, but can’t stop the hand against your thigh from shaking.

“I know you’re desperate because you’re so turned on that I can feel your heartbeat.” His fingers slowly curl towards your belly button as his thumb draws a straight line up your vulva. A breath gets caught in your chest, the pressure underneath your sternum threatening to become a scream.

“Please, please, ” you babble, mouth falling open when he finds your clit again. With the plentiful pre-cum, Damia runs his fingers back down your pussy and inside. The reentrance makes a squelching sound from all the wetness and you cringe hard, eyes closed in embarrassment.

“Shh, tesorina. Did you know most people have to use lube to get this wet? Hmm?” You had so much to learn. Why couldn’t he teach you? Damia’s fingering feels amazing, the slightest bit of delicious strain. You realize that he’d been using two. It’s more than you’d attempt so soon, but totally painless. Of course, Damia would know your body better than even you.

“How's that?”

“I didn’t think that I could take...but it feels mm.” You shift your hips side to side, exploring new sensations.

“Of course you can,” he coos. Just as it had reflexively a minute ago, your body bears down out of a desperate craving for internal stimulation. This time you get to squeeze down on two thick fingers and that relief brings you to your forearms.

“Damia, oh my god,” you moan. At this point, you’re just breathing in your own hair where it falls around your face. Damia uses his spare hand to pull it from your mouth and tuck it behind your ear. Somehow, it's the most intimate thing he’s done today.

“Do you want to try three?” No one had ever asked you that. It was counterintuitive to the goal of staying tight. It felt like you could take three. Maybe you’d really enjoy it, even if that was wrong. The stretch of two was deeply satiating.

“Sweetheart, it’s okay if the answer is yes.” He sets his hand on your thigh and rubs up and down slowly.

“Yes,” you blurt, scooting your legs apart to create room. Damia works the third one inside much differently than the second. He starts with his pinky, just pushing the tip past your hymen. That’s easy after a couple passes, so he switches to using the pointer as the third finger. You’re frozen in anticipation for something you’d never allowed yourself to be interested in. When he pushes three inside you adjust your pelvis without thinking about it.

“See how you spread your legs to open your hips? It's totally intuitive. Never let anyone ignore your desires.” Listening attentively, you manage to integrate all three fingers to the last knuckle. It takes a little force from Damia, which just makes the whole thing hotter. The flat of your hand slams against the mattress in stimulation. A whine turns into a throaty moan that wasn’t supposed to escape.

“Mm, see? No one teaches women how good having your pussy stretched feels.” You’re nodding in agreement even though Damia hasn’t asked a question. He thrusts his fingers in and out at a relaxed pace. At some point during this exchange, Damia went from laying under to kneeling on top of the comforter to be closer. The hand stroking your flank was equal parts sexual and reassuring.

“I could fit four fingers if I wanted too, hm? I could fit my whole hand, even. Would you like my whole hand inside you, tesorina?” You think about it, nod, and turn bright red. Even too embarrassed to meet Damia’s eyes, you can feel his smile. He’s thrilled at your honesty in this moment of self-discovery.

“Now I bet you didn’t know that about yourself until I asked. Here's the secret: most women love the way this feels. A woman, when she’s aroused, relaxed, and really wet because someone’s been patient with her, can fit more than just a cock. She can fit a cock and a finger, a cock and a toy. Never let anyone shame you for what it takes to feel full. It's your pleasure.”

Notes: No, that is not the end of the scene, however it is the end of my patience. My blog has been broken for months and it hasn't been fixed. For one, I can't tag people, hence the lack of taglist. PLEASE submit a help to Tumblr on my behalf. Yes, I know you're not supposed to, but I've resorted to annoying them into action. I'll post the rest once people can actually see my writing.

#daminao #damiano david #damiano maneskin #damiano david imagine #damiano david smut #damiano david fanfiction #damiano david x reader #maneskin #måneskin #må #maneskin fanfiction #maneskin imagine #maneskin x reader #maneskin smut #damiano david x you #age gap fanfiction

163 notes · View notes

aogram · 2 months ago

Text

Friend to All - (Prisoner 004) Danzmyr First Trial Voice Drama

Read under the cut! No TWs apply

The sound of a door creaking open, then heavy footsteps. A chair scrapes across the floor, and someone sits down. The person across from them draws in a sharp breath.

Danzmyr:

It’s about time.

Verus:

Apologies. The woman before you proved… difficult to question. I was taking a little longer than usual to steel myself.

Danzmyr:

Oh. You had trouble with 003? Qibra?

Verus:

Yes. Her.

Danzmyr:

Whatever she said to you, I wouldn’t take it personally, Warden.

Verus:

My name is Verus.

Danzmyr:

Right, Verus… Well, what you need to understand is that we’re all in a very stressful situation right now. Being taken here, being accused of murder, whether we did it or not… It’s a lot, y’know?

Verus:

Are you implying that you don’t believe you killed someone?

Danzmyr:

Oh, no. I know I ended a life. With my own two hands, in fact. But I’m not convinced everyone here has.

Verus:

If they hadn’t, they wouldn’t be here. I didn’t come here to argue. I came here to question you.

Danzmyr:

Right, right. I’m not trying to cause a conflict, Warden. All I’m saying is that I think Qibra is a good woman. Now that I’ve said that, and I really hope you’ll think about it, go ahead and ask away.

Verus:

…Alright. Good. Name, age, and occupation.

Danzmyr:

Danzmyr Maeneld. 267 years old. I’m… an adventurer of sorts. A hero, some would say.

Verus:

A Drow adventurer. Like Dri-

Danzmyr:

No.

Verus:

No?

Danzmyr:

He has his own tales, Warden, and I have mine. I’d like to keep them separate.

Verus:

Sorry. Is that a comparison you got a lot?

Danzmyr:

Yes. I heard it probably hundreds of times, when I was first starting out as an adventurer. It is a comparison that annoys me greatly, and I’m sure would annoy him as well if anyone were to bring it up.

Verus:

Why does it annoy you? Why would it annoy him?

Danzmyr:

Tell me, Warden. Have you ever been unwelcomely compared to some other Aasimar by a person you don’t know?

Verus:

I’ll admit I don’t remember much about my life before this, actually.

Danzmyr:

Do you think it would annoy you if it did happen?

Verus:

Probably.

Danzmyr:

So you understand me, then. We walk different paths. We’ve never even met. Move on to the next question, please.

Verus:

…Well, because you asked respectfully enough. Tell me how you’re adjusting to life here.

Danzmyr:

Life here? Well… I can’t say it’s too bad, I guess. I miss the sun, which is something I never would have thought I’d say, a few centuries ago.

Verus:

Why is that?

Danzmyr:

Sunlight sensitivity. The Drow were cursed, thousands of years ago, to be affected by exposure to the sun. It does a few things. Issues with sight, a slight uncomfortable burning sensation on the skin, although it’s nothing that does lasting damage. Dulled perception. A feeling of disorientation upon first reaching the surface.

Verus:

Then how did you become a hero on the surface world?

Danzmyr:

There are… various ways of dealing with it. Some use spells or magic items. Some are granted boons. Some simply try to stay out of the sun as much as possible. I myself had a minor ritual done, although mostly I just forced myself to become accustomed to it. After a while, the burning started to feel good, almost.

Verus:

The pain felt good?

Danzmyr:

A little, yes.

Verus:

…That can’t be normal. I wonder how Dri-

Danzmyr:

No.

Verus:

Sorry. Continue. What else do you think about being here?

Danzmyr:

Like I said, I miss the sun. But we have everything we need here, and I have people to talk to, at least.

Verus:

How do you feel about the other prisoners?

Danzmyr:

I get along well with most of them. Renata is a sweet person. I enjoy Qibra’s jokes. The druid… he’s… um, well.

Verus:

He’s what?

Danzmyr:

Never mind.

Verus:

Never mind?

Danzmyr:

Never mind! Let me move on to other prisoners!

Verus:

Alright. Tell me more about the others, then.

Danzmyr:

Esvel. He has a… spirit about him.

Verus:

What kind of spirit?

Danzmyr:

Well, it’s certainly… a spirit.

Verus:

I see. Anyone else?

Danzmyr:

It is truly sad that a child like Araglar would have ended up here.

Verus:

Hm. Is there anyone you dislike?

Danzmyr:

I have a… complicated relationship with Aeana.

Verus:

How so?

Danzmyr:

We don’t like each other.

Verus:

That doesn’t sound all that complicated.

Danzmyr:

Yes, but I would hate to call us enemies. I’m sure that given time, we will work out our differences.

Verus:

Really?

Danzmyr:

Yes, of course.

Verus:

Well then. I believe you’re one of the oldest prisoners here. How does that feel?

Danzmyr:

It feels the same as it always has. I’m kind of used to being the oldest person in the room. Not quite as used to being around…kids, though. And especially not teenagers.

Verus:

Teenagers?

Danzmyr:

Samako. She says she was a student at a big famous mage college, admitted two years before the usual admittance age. She’s a smart girl.

Verus:

I hope she’s smart enough to not try to attack me.

Danzmyr (laughing):

Is that what Qibra did?

Verus:

She tried to kick me in the shins.

Danzmyr:

Wow. That’s… I’m sorry, it sounds kind of funny. Especially given the height difference.

Verus:

It was just annoying.

Danzmyr:

Mm, fair enough.

Verus:

Speaking of which, you mentioned earlier that you think Qibra is a good woman. What makes you say that?

Danzmyr:

I’ve been around a long time. I like to think I have a good eye for people. I can’t say I know anything about her situation, but I think there’s a certain strength to her character.

Verus:

A strength? Mind elaborating?

Danzmyr:

She is stubborn and self-reliant. But she cares, too, as much as she would hate to admit it. I doubt she would kill someone, at least not without a very good reason.

Verus:

And how did you know all this?

Danzmyr:

Like I said. I have a good eye for people.

Verus:

Is that a good skill for an adventurer to have? The eye for people?

Danzmyr:

It’s very useful.

Verus:

And what else exactly does being a hero entail?

Danzmyr:

Finding kidnapped children, killing huge monsters, foiling the plans of those looking to bring carnage. Rescuing cats from trees. The like.

Verus:

Killing people?

Danzmyr:

Not usually, no.

Verus:

Interesting. See, I’ve been spending a bit of time in the library. You’re the subject of, or at least mentioned in quite a few books. You’re quite high profile.

Danzmyr:

I believe the total was 24 books, last time I checked.

Verus:

Something stood out to me, when I was reading about your exploits.

Danzmyr:

And that is?

Verus:

The value you’re known for. Mercy. Not one recorded instance of you ending the life of a humanoid. Even in self-defense. How is that even possible?

Danzmyr:

Well, it helps that I don’t usually fight humanoids, and I don’t participate in large-scale battles. I’m more of a “take down one powerful and dangerous enemy” guy than a “plow my way through hordes of men” guy. But to answer your question- through lots of discipline and self-control. Nonlethal attacks and all of that. Knock them out, tie them up, bring them to justice.

Verus:

So are you telling me that there have been no instances where you’ve been forced to end a life? Where it’s been impossible to win a fight without killing someone?

Danzmyr:

I can’t say there’s ever been an instance like that, no. I believe that there is always a way to achieve what you need to while sticking to your principles. It simply requires more resourcefulness than the average person has.

Verus:

And you have that resourcefulness?

Danzmyr:

Yes, I believe I do.

Verus:

So then… how did you find yourself in a place like this? You have to have killed to get here. And you said it yourself-- you even did it with your own two hands.

Danzmyr:

No one can stick to one value forever, hm?

Verus:

Quite right. But it made me wonder, why now? After almost three centuries of life, why now?

Danzmyr:

Hm. That’s a loaded question.

Verus:

Is it? I’d thought it was quite straightforward. Why did you commit your crime?

Danzmyr:

I’m not quite sure.

Verus:

How can you not be sure?

Danzmyr:

In all honesty, not many thoughts were going through my head when I did it. It wasn’t premeditated. It just happened.

Verus:

It just… happened? So you were able to kill just like that?

Danzmyr:

Yes. It wasn’t something that took any thought at all. It was… easy. Surprisingly so.

Verus:

(He found it… easy? So about what 002 said earlier…)

Hm… Mind if I ask you another question?

Danzmyr:

Ask away.

Verus:

One of the other prisoners mentioned something earlier. Do you believe you’re a good man, Prisoner 004?

Danzmyr:

Would you believe me if I said ‘I don’t know’ to that, too?

Verus:

It depends.

Danzmyr:

On what?

Verus:

How you justify not knowing.

Danzmyr:

I have undoubtedly committed more good deeds than bad. But is that how justice works? Is it a balance scale? Would my centuries of heroics cancel out one murder? Or is the fact that I broke my code of mercy enough? Or is it perhaps about intention?

Verus:

Let’s say that for the sake of this argument, we are judging purely based on your crime. No background of heroics in play.

Danzmyr:

Well, then, like I said earlier, there were not many thoughts going through my head at the time. If there were not any thoughts, there was no intention of malice. If there was no intention of malice, does that make me a good man?

Verus:

Did you regret it?

Danzmyr:

Yes.

Verus:

Then that points one way.

Danzmyr:

Yes. But while the absence of thoughts proves there was no intention of malice, it also proves there was no intention at all. If I was able to kill someone without even thinking about it, does that make me a bad man?

Verus:

Then… that points the other way.

Danzmyr:

Exactly. And there are many more questions, just like this, regarding my sin. Many such complicated questions that I have not decided to worry my head with.

Verus:

So you’re saying you don’t know how to feel about it yourself?

Danzmyr:

I don’t. And that’s why I actually am quite excited for the trial to proceed.

Verus:

You’re excited?

Danzmyr:

Yes! I really, genuinely, do not know how to feel about my own sin. And I really cannot wait to see the perspective of an unbiased observer.

The sound of gears grinding as the platform lowers.

Danzmyr:

Oh, there it goes! You know what, Warden? I like you.

Verus:

You… like me?

Danzmyr:

You’re very logical. Way more so than I. Like I said, I’m almost… oddly apathetic about the situation that got me here in the first place. But I know that whatever you see down there, you will come to the right decision.

Verus:

…I see.

Danzmyr:

Thank you. I trust you, Warden. I apologize for wasting your time with my own hypotheticals. I am sure you would have preferred to ask me more things about myself.

Verus:

It’s alright. You were at least not antagonistic.

Danzmyr:

I wouldn’t dream of being that way. I know why I’m here, and I fully accept it. Whatever you see down there… just tell me how I should feel.

Verus:

I’ll be sure to. It’s time to go. Prisoner 004, get ready to sing your sins.

---

Read Danzmyr’s first trial MV Description here

Vote here

5 notes · View notes

rinse-and-repeat2 · 8 months ago

Text

Decided to go through with it and start posting my different AUs, but I'll only do a few per post to keep it short (tried to do all of them in one post but it ended up being so long that it was crazy) so maybe about 3 per post? sure, yeah, and I'll add a small excerpt for each if I've written one for that particular AU. If you don't want to see them just uhh I dunno block the rinse AUs tag or something sure there you go anyway here's to the first group

Sunset Order AU - An AU about Dale, Warren, and their parent’s backstory. This includes something I created called the Sunset Order which is a branch off of the Knights of Dawn for any kind of behind-the-scenes work that would need to be done, including getting hands dirty (which was made while the Sphinx was the head of the Knights). When Dale is forced into the magical world not exactly by choice, he has to quickly adapt and continue to care for Warren after the recent deaths of their parents alongside uncovering secrets from their past. In its entirety, this is self-indulgent and cobbled together by how little we know about their past/the past of Fablehaven. (No excerpt written)

Street Magic AU - Another short idea I had where magic is more widely known, and the preserves instead serve as schools (very, very prestigious schools). This is in a much more modern world, and magic is incredibly complicated to wield. So, it's often not used unless you pay for the education. Much of the population cannot use magic because of this. Kendra, having shown a proficiency in her understanding of magic, is able to get a full-ride scholarship to what would be Fablehaven's school. Meanwhile, Seth (who is not good at typical academics, studying, and the like) finds a typical, yet hidden, magician's shop and begins to learn magic there instead, under many people's noses (as he does). While Kendra begins to learn what secrets Fablehaven was built on, Seth learns magic in its entirety, not the typical watered-down version by society. (No excerpt written)

Viridity - This one is very near and dear to my heart, but it may not be that near and dear to some others because one of the main people it focuses on is Knox and it also has to acknowledge the end of Dragonwatch (whatever that was). This is a character study on Knox, Seth, and the relationship between them, as they're the same age but such different people in such different situations. This deals with reflections, comparisons, and interactions between them in almost one-shot form. This is partially an AU because I change bits and pieces of the end of Dragonwatch as I wish, but I also keep it as a plot in order to sow doubt after the fact. This fanfiction is about masks, late night conversations, sleep deprivation, and the inherent doubt that is included in growing up (Excerpt Incoming).

Silence worked its way around the room again, filling the gaps no longer in a comfortable way, but in a way where it sunk into their bones, sidled up next to them and breathed down their necks. A shiver rattled down Seth’s spine as an undercurrent began to flow of some emotion he couldn’t identify. Breaths were no longer easy to come by as they had been moments before. Now, suddenly, Seth stood in the kitchen with someone else when before, he had been happily existing alone. It felt… off. Wrong. As if Knox’s eyes could somehow pierce through his very being, analyze him… despite knowing Knox couldn’t—wouldn’t—do that. Kendra would, of course, but not Knox. Not… Knox didn’t have the brainpower to do that, probably. Even now, he spun and flicked the milk bottle cap on the table, looking frustrated every time it spun out and fell. Seth would usually laugh at him, say something about the stupid face he made every time he failed, but Seth couldn’t. Tonight, the tension hung heavy in the air like a smog, having followed Seth down ever since his dream—nightmare, not dream, his mind tugged at him—and it wouldn’t go. It wouldn’t leave. “I’m sorry.” The word slipped from his mouth like a whisper, a small wisp that gets caught up in the smog. He didn’t know why the words came from his mouth—whether it stood as a betrayal from his mind or sleep deprivation finally grasping him in its claws. Maybe… maybe Knox hadn’t heard him. Maybe this would blow over and mean nothing. Knox, meanwhile, stared at Seth, eyes wide and bottle cap forgotten, halfway teetering off the edge before it fell, plummeting to the ground with a sharp clatter. “…What?” Well, shit.

(If you have any questions, want to comment, send an ask, anything else, please do! I love these AUs with my whole heart, whether or not they're anywhere close to being done and I'm going to keep sharing them)

#rinse AUs #fablehaven #dragonwatch #seth sorenson #kendra sorenson #dale burgess #warren burgess #knox fhdw

18 notes · View notes

dilfiam-afton · 2 years ago

Text

Wily William

wily; skilled at gaining an advantage, especially deceitfully.

William was just as manipulative as he was charming. Naturally, you, his beloved spouse would never grasp how horrid he is, due to being too emotionally dependent thanks to this charming mans skill to woo people.

GENDER NEUTRAL

READER IS OF AGE

Possible TW for non-sexual nudity

Your friends, or well, at least the friends you had left now have been telling you how much of a manipulative sociopath your dear William is. Not once in your life did you seize to give their words second thoughts. Never. Not even when William asked you to cut those off who “badmouth him, trying to make you break up with him just for fun”..Oh how could you not tend to his request of ending multiple friendships when your lover, your beloved, looked at you with a worried expression; eyebrows furrowed, corners of his mouth weighing down heavily, titanium eyes laced with tears and worry that his precious Y/N would possibly consider ever leaving him, just because their friends told them to. “Yes, yes, he might be a little old-fashioned indeed-” you giggled at your friends` comment about your beloved, calling him out for treating you as his spouse like it was still the 1950s “but you do have to consider that William is old. It´s only natural for him to act this way since he was brought up like this! Plus, he´s a good provider and partner.”. Your friend just responded with a short huff, sipping on her coffee. You both perked up in surpsie when you heard a house key jiggle in the lock of the front door. He was back from work early! Your friend quickly thanked you for inviting her over and was swiftly seated in her car whilst you greeted William, who didn´t exactly seem happy about your... hospitality towards your friends.

“Hello, my Darling.” you pecked his cheek and continued asking him about how his day went, whilst hanging his trenchcoat on a coat-hanger, neatly tucking it away in the garderobe and handing him his house slippers, storing his leather loafers in the shoe cabinet “how was your day?” “how was having someone over in my house without asking me first ?” you paused dead in your tracks. “Oh i´m so sorry, I didn´t think I needed your approval to have a friend over!” William quickly made his way to the dining room, where you and your friend have sat, chatting away whilst sipping on some coffee and each enjoying a slice of cake. “And then you even leave me to clean up after you and your silly friends!”. Something weird about William was that you could never exactly put a finger on how/what he was actually feeling, and as of now you were rather uncertain if he was mad or just disappointed. “No, please let me handle this!” you took the plates he had just picked up from his hands, letting your (in comparison to his) small hands and soft skin graze against his larger, calloused ones. In response, William just raised a brow at you, whilst you cleared up the table, loading the dirty dishes into the dish washer. “Why are you home so early today, Darling?” he sighed, a small, soft smile now gracing his sharp, masculine features “I figured, since it´s Friday perhaps I´d come home earlier, spend some quality time by myself for an hour or two, then I´d be free for anything you have on your mind.” good, his mood improved you thought to yourself. You smiled at him brightly “That´s lovely!! How about I run you a bath? So you can wash the stress of the week off you and just relax a little until I finish making dinner.” “Why yes that´d be lovely.”

You quickly ran off, preparing the master bathroom for your partners bath; lovingly laid out his usual “home outfit” which included a plain, black turtleneck, loose fitting black suit slacks and of course, his underwear as well as laying some fresh towels onto the heater so that when he gets out of the tub, they´ll be nice and warm for him as well as letting the tub fill up with water and adding his favorite bath salts. Hygiene was important for William indeed! You were soon caught off guard when you heard the rattle of a belt; William was getting undressed for the tub. That was your que to leave the man by himself: nobody likes being watched while bathing after all. “Thank you, my dear.”, William was never too physically affectionate. You nodded your head, flashing him a warm smile again before taking a quick glance of your partners body “HEY!!” older man giggled, making you squeal with both emberassment and amusement as you hurried out the bathroom giggling.

Whilst William was bathing peacefully, you decided to start dinner and prepare his study; getting ready his cigar-cutter, already putting a whiskey decanter along with a whiskey glass¹ on his table until you hear him call your name. As independent, classy and how much of a loner William might be; sometimes he spends an insane amount of time with you. Like for example calling you into the bathroom while he´s taking a bath (when he´s done with his stuff like washimg himself, shaving etc) just to talk to you whilst he himself was just relaxing in the tub.

“Yes?” you poke your head into the bathroom to not invade his privacy too much “come, sit..please?” so you went and sat on the (obviously closed!) toilet. “why were you so angry with me today?” you asked whilst eyeing your darling lovingly. “Well you see- I find it rather disrespectful to let someone into the home I pay for without consulting me first.” he raised a hand to his face, as if he was face-palming, “but perhaps I´m being too old fashioned, no? I´m sorry, my dear.”. Now your ears were burning up, you didn´t mean to make William think badly of himself after all. “No, it´s fine I was just wondering!” you assured him “when were you planning on getting out, by the way? Your skin is pruning up already, Darling.” you only asked because you wanted to change the subject and you were 100% sure he knew. “Oh? Well then I suppose now” William spoke while pulling the drain plug in the bathtub and making his way out of the tub. Per usual he shamelessly stood there, peacefully drying off in front of you. And per usual you were trying to focus just looking at his face, yet every now and then your gaze drops to scan his full body. William wasn´t exactly muscular, nor was he skinny. His thighs were plush yet still² held a thigh gap, and littered with reddish-brown and grey hairs, his shoulders were broad and well defined, just like his chest, which also held some hair, his arms were rather thick; even to strangers it would be obvious he has to lift heavy parts now his belly was the most adorable thing ever to you; it was slightly pudgy and it held a happy trail.down to his nether regions. William was more than perfect for you! You truly did love him.

After Williams bath, eating dinner together and him enjoying his alone-time (reading a good book whilst having a nice cigar and enjoying some whiskey) you found yourself in bed, next to William. As you snuggled up to him, you decided to make some more conversation with him, he didn´t seem to mind. "Will?" "What is it? What's wrong, my dear?" he gently petted your head while you looked up at him. "Why don't you tell me about your childhood?" and oh boy, he did tell you about his childhood alright. After a while of William going into extreme detail of how his mother used to make all of his clothes by hand because they couldn't afford buying any, you zoned out.

You started to think about the fact that William was indeed still treating you as if it's the 1950s; he wants you to ask permission for many many things like for when you want to get your hair cut or dyed, or perhaps a piercing or tattoo or the way he expects you to cater to his every need as he is the one who brings home the money or how he once even spanked you (not in a sexual) because you disobeyed him. Your mind wandered and wandered, you giggled to yourself when you realized he practically fit into the typical "50s husband scheme" people have nowadays, just that he wasn't really abusive.

You came to the conclusion that your William wasn't manipulative, nor was he possesive nor abusive just old fashioned.

Poor, poor, clueless Y/N.

1. Drinking fancy whiskey and smoking cigars is such a clichè old man thing, and I LOVE it. William is a classy, fancy man in my opinion and so is drinking (good) whiskey and smoking cigars.

2. I basically described squid_nuudel's design of William. (6simp_nuudel9 on instagram)

#fnaf x reader #william afton #william afton x reader #fnaf #fnaf imagines #fnaf fanfic #dilfiam afton

100 notes · View notes