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cheesewizardry · 5 months

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Fantasy anthropologist: On Dwarves, part 4:

Adventures may find that on their first adventure, one’s dwarf may be, unaccustomed to sleeping outdoors. It is my experience that mountain-borne dwarves are reliably agoraphobic, especially when they can see the sky. Ive heard tell from my dwarf that it’s something about a sky that moves while you’re not watching (as if trying to sneak away and try something), and trees that give improperly timed sways, you see, in the stronghold he was raised in, the sounds of hammers and anvils filled the hall in perfect rhythm, day and night, which was apparently comforting and not maddening as it would be for other races. As such, do not be disturbed that your dwarf may surreptitiously clutch their hand axe while they sleep ‘just incase the sky wants to try something’

Side note: potential cognitohazard: keep in some corner of your mind the unfortunate possibility that due to the stresses of adventuring and sleeping outside, your dwarf may at some point, develop sleep “walking” (If walking involved swinging an axe around like you’re trying to get smote by a forest god). It is the unfortunate responsibility of yourself to take charge if such an event occurs. Those that do not become aware of this occurrence early on rarely live till morning. The obvious solution of chains may seem tempting, but take it from me, its not worth it.

Firstly, your dwarf will never in a million years admit that they in fact sleepwalk, and therefore will never consent to being chained to a tree and may choose to not pull any punches. But if you manage it, it is unfortunate that the soothing touch and weight of iron quickly sets in and they will be fast asleep before you get the chance of ignoring their snoring (which they will never admit to either). So it is doubly unfortunate that once in deep sleep, the dwarf may subconsciously notice that they now control an entire symphony of clinky clinky iron sounds, and missing the steady beat of home, may begin rocking back and forth, creating more noise than any campsite pillow could ever block.

There is one solution of the previous problem that I have found my dwarf to employ. They simply pile stones around the place where their head will go, and on top place a large stone, what to create a small shelter for only their head. Apparently it reminds them of looking up to the stone ceilings of home as well as impeding their progress of sitting up without being fully awake, as getting out from under the rock requires some active shimmying.

Side note: I thought it was silly too, I kept my hopes up waiting for a night I would hear a thunk and a muffled dwarven yelp. That was until one windy night I found my dwarf with a very large rock on his head, and him sleeping sounder than any baby ive ever seen.

#wizard #wizardcore #wizard posting #wizard shit #dnd #fantasy writing #short story #dwarf

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unknownjpegs · 8 months

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scraps/want

It’s not like he’s got sticky fingers for the fun of it, like Lark. No shame in it, either; Maran understands. And he has to admit, there’s a part of him (petty, he’d say deep down but the fact is that it’s more shallow than he could admit) that enjoys Lark’s antics. Steal a nobleman’s nice cloak just to have Maran wear it out to the same deep-pocketed bastard’s party. Feign dramatic offense when confronted. Try not to make eye contact over the crowd. Fail, laugh, run. Find, on their way home to the Undercity, several ivory lime-washed manors to treat as free range piggy banks.

Growing up, Maran had never had one of those. There wasn’t loose coin to throw in it — any coin at all. He’d once sat on the edge of Nomi’s bed at the Rhoades manor (in a neighborhood he otherwise walked only at night, light-footed, to take). The mistress of the home was generous, even if she terrified Maran like nothing else. Generous at least for someone of her standing.

See, that? To him, that was the sales pitch when he was recruiting slick fingered youth at the market. Scraps.

Look at all they’ve got, right? Velvet lined jackets tossed carelessly on the backs of chairs, where you’ve never touched a fabric before in your life? And if that was what you were after, right, the nice shit — you could have that. But you could also have the bits that bought it. The shiny clinky. That’s what I like. Sure, golden bowl to piss in or five horses you’ve never hopped on a day in your gilded godsdamned life, yeah? Nah. Not me. I wanna buy a roof that don’t fuckin’ leak in the winter, wanna buy a new loaf of bread, instead of cuttin’ the moldy bits off. Have real butter, shoes with soles that’ll last, be able to buy a gift without thinking about the price.

He’s never had that one fail. Always strikes home to everybody he lobs it at, and for Maran that’s enough to keep picking pockets and bartering a nice vase (vah-se, how Madame Rhoades says it) to the local fence. As much as he loves Matilda, he thinks sometimes of the little indent on her thumb. For the longest time, he couldn’t figure out what the evenly spaced marks were from. And then he’d realized: she’d spent so long pressing coins against the pad there, loading her gilded pig full, that it had left a physical imprint. That was wealth, he remembered thinking as he stared at those lines. That’s it.

If the fat cats fall for itwhen he fluttered his lashes and reaches for their purse with the other hand, that’s on them. Money can’t buy awareness — but what it can, Maran wants.

Maran wants. Sometimes, what he wants has situated itself firmly at the end of a long, dark tunnel; he can focus on nothing except that distant glow.

Right now, he’s single-minded on the champagne gold stopwatch chain that hangs teasingly from a pocket. It’s a crowded party, and this rich stranger’s body is just one of many that see no purpose in guarding little treasures. Maran bumps into him with a “clumsy” step, a hand flat over the other man’s breast pocket, and a charmingly apologetic grin.

Grin’s not enough just a few moments later when, as he’s strolling away to inspect the pilfered watch, someone grips the back of his shirt.

Maran freezes but a moment — because it’s not so much a touch as it is a magnet for memory. Shit ones, pre-runaway ones, pre-Lark ones. He yanks himself away with what feels like believable confusion: his eyebrows knit, smile wary but warm.

“Pardon,” he chirps as he turns, tucking his treasure behind his back and fixing his collar distractingly. “Goodness, I do believe you’ve gotten familiar with the wrong —”

Maran blinks several times. His assaulter is tall, taller even than his generous (he likes to think). Not the tallest Maran’s seen, sure, but certainly the most intimidating. The stranger wears shiny and expensive-looking armor that might be for ceremony, rather than protection, in purpose. He fights not to let his nose wrinkle distastefully at that.

Noble types. Always want to play about in heroics, or villainy, without any of the effort. Take and benefit, sit back.

But this accosting stranger doesn’t seem cold-blooded the way the others do. He wears that armor, but his eyes also gleam with a fiery, annoyed spark. Aware, the way rich bastards aren’t — so, not rich. And aware enough, it seems, to have witnessed Maran’s sleight of hand. Because a massive and none-too-kind hand fits around his wrist. It’s tight, but discrete enough that the throng of bodies around them will notice nothing amiss with this interaction.

“Why, I —”

“Drop the act.” The do-gooder says. “And the watch. Once you have, walk four steps to the right and around that corner. Keep smiling, keep walking straight, until we get to the garden.”

Maran glances down at the marble floor, aghast and hanging onto the ploy. “Sir, some sense. The good lady Petrova paid splendidly for these floors. They’re of fine, and of course rather tough, quality. My watch will dent if —”

“Do people really fall for that shit, usually?”

Maran’s mask slips immediately, a scowl working its way to the surface. He drops his voice to a hiss and leans in. “Mate, would you fuck off, gods fuckin’ above — I’ll put it back, yeah? And then you’ll never see me again. Swear on my mum’s slab.”

She’s alive, but the man doesn’t have to know that. Promise don’t count if it’s a lie, anyway.

He’s a little too smart, because he simply stares down at Maran, those fingers going tighter. He holds it as long as he can, bluff on the tip of his tongue.

“And what about all the other goodies you’ve stowed away?”

Maran purses his lips, face twisted in a bashful oops, caught. Still, of course, looking for the out to talk himself towards.

“You are wringin’ me fucking dry, man, come on.”

In the garden, all pretense drops. Maran does, too. The man aims a solid elbow to his shoulder and knocks him off-balance. He tumbles to the ground, feigning a stronger blow. If he rolls a bit further, that’s space enough to run—

Maran’s ankles are snatched up in a twin cruel grip. The world upends arse-over-heels.

“Okay. Mate. This is properly insulting now. That really necessary?”

A golden spoon drops from the spot he’d tucked it,between jacket and undershirt. Maran’s eyes flit up to the nasty green of the knight-not-knight.

“Gods,” he gasps, all innocent disbelief. “Where could that have come from?”

“Where’s the watch?”

Maran bends a bit at the waist to reach the hidden pocket on his calf and drops it on the ground. Chucks it, more like. It embeds a little in the lush grass, which looks rather blue in the moonlight.

“Fake anyway. Woulda got ten gold tops.” He spits into the grass near its glimmering metal, swears at his aim. “Needs a polish, too.”

“Rude,” says another voice.

Maran’s head whips to the side as someone melts from the shadows.

“Shittin’ hells,” he breathes, beginning to see double from all the blood rushing to his head. “You’ve got eyes, huh?”

The newcomer, a man Maran is guessing shares his height or slightly less, pauses a few steps away from where he’s being held.

“Two, yes.” His eyebrows are defined, expressive. They compliment smooth tawny skin and interestingly proportioned features.

Maran finds himself slipping into the flirtatiousness easily — or maybe it’s gravity making him loopy, vision shaking and blurring.

“Nice t’look at.” He reaches up to gesture at his upside down face, grinning. “Even down here.”

The man pauses, and then his brown eyes tear away Maran up to the knight wielding him like deadweight.

“No.” The knight says, filling the silence. “I’m not putting him down.”

“Yes.”

“No, Yas. He—“

“Will return it.” Yas glances back down at Maran, who beams even wider. The black-clad man’s pretty face fills with flattered burgundy. “Won’t he?”

If it’ll stop me from gettin’ swung out the window to paint the street below, sure!

Instead of saying that, thought, Maran lids his eyes and notes the roaming gaze that follows his tongue’s path across his bottom lip.

“And pay interest, mate. S’long as the owner wants to keep bein’ merciful.”

“Oh,” Yas laughs. “It’s not my watch. I stole it.”

Yasiel, it turns out, is much more than merciful. Funnily enough, he also knows Lark.

“Not like that,” Yasiel says one evening, sat next to Maran off the river dock. Their feet splash in the clear spring water. Maran’s feeling soft and light and sleepy,

“Good.” Maran says. He splays a hand on the small of Yasisel’s back as he leans in to press their mouths together in a brief, chaste kiss. When he pulls away, Yasiel follows in an enchanted lean that he seems unaware of. “Woulda made that awkward to do, huh?”

Don’t stay chaste. Couldn’t if he tried, and Yasiel doesn’t ask him to. In fact, Yasiel never asks for anything but more. Sometimes Maran wonders if there’s a chaste or innocent corner in the whole fucking city. For as long as they run theodd job here and there together, he sees not a one.

But…that’s also sort of because they go about making sure of it: for instance, now they’re behind the crumbling brick of a half-priced ornate rug vendor, noises of the Undercity a echoing din around them. The corner they’ve found is dark, private— but neither of them are making sounds that will keep it the latter for much longer.

“Shhhh.”

Maran presses his mouth to the slope of Yasiel’s neck, sharp teeth grazing over its flexing tendon. There’s a lingering yellow-green bruise there, reminding him of the imported pears he likes to sneak from market stalls. They taste expensive. Sometimes, Yasiel does too. He certainly feels expensive; black velvet clincher around his waist that Maran had sewn withering red roses on, smooth white linen between his fingers as he plucks the shirt from Yasiel’s waistband.

“W-What did I do?” Yasiel mumbles. The words are nearly lost in their synchronized panting, the soft noises of fabric and buttons coming undone, being pushed aside.

“You know what,” Maran whines back, forehead dropping to the back of his shoulder. His arms around Yasiel’s waist from behind, he begins to trail the back of his knuckles down his stomach. “All those people around, negotiating pay for a contract, and me watchin’ and you just — you just— you stick your fingers in your mouth like that? On fuckin’ purpose, swear. That was mean.”

“Is that not good table manners?”

Maran snorts a laugh into the bunched fabric at his nape and then bites down. Yasiel’s resulting gasp does something funny; to Maran’s insides, to his palms, to the knot of want already coiling his stomach tight. He gets this overwhelming flash of heat, this rolling ache lower in his gut, and the distinct urge to push Yasiel even harder up against the alley wall they’ve tucked into.

So he does.

“Wouldn’t know,” Maran whispers, rubbing his nose into the soft spot behind Yasiel’s ear. “Bit rough, myself.”

He dabs cologne there, a non-obvious place. Thinks he’s sneaky about trying to smell good, trying to get his hair the perfect amount of shiny but not slick, trying to hide the stray threads on his trousers, trying to polish, perfect, and present himself. Maran likes him the way he is, though — when nobody’s looking and he laughs a bit too hard or lets himself admit to being wrong, vulnerable and shy because wrong meant failure.

“Yeah, I’ve seen you deliberate over which dinner fork to use like it was one of Mystra’s own great mysteri—eeees!”

Yasiel’s voice winds high in a sudden, breathy gasp. Maran figures it has something to do with the hand he’s snuck down the front of his pants fully, figures it has something to do with the fingers wrapped firm around Yasiel’s cock, figures it has something do with how he presses forward with his whole body to push them both up against the wall.

That last bit — he’s not sure where that comes from. But Maran wants and wants and wants, and sometimes its not for things and stuff.

#writing #ua #mgc #ym #mgc x ym #bg3 au

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s0ftboihours · 2 years

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I don't draw

I wish I drew because I get these wonderful images of characters in my brain but paper (or any other drawing material for that matter) despises me

So here's concepts of art that I wish I could see! If you enjoy ideas and wanna draw them, let me know, I'd enjoy seeing how y'all interpret them.

• Marvin with cat eye glasses with the dangly chains and shiny earrings with clinky necklaces. Perhaps they're in a flowy skirt.

• Chase Brody in a cowboy hat. That is all. Perhaps he has cowboy clothes. But mainly cowboy hat.

• Henrik, a tired scientist, in a skirt. Because no one draws him in a skirt and I feel he deserves it.

• Jackieboyman and Anti fighting. But it's Uno. On a monopoly board

• Marvin working at a shelter and all the cats follow them, they are doing paperwork with cats everywhere

• Egos kissing. Please, more of this, especially accidental kisses. And pining characters.

This will be added to

#jse egos #marvin the magnificent #henrik von schneeplestein #jackieboyman #Anti #concepts #i would love to see art. please.

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sensitivegoblin · 2 years

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What kind of metal bondage do you like? Regular cuffs or the ones that are heavier and need a lock?

Hmmmm I’m not sure cus I’ve never worn any!

I think the heavier louder thing ones aren’t my thing, I’m more into smaller clinky chains✨💕

Like I loveeeeeeeee locks🤤 but I’m sensitive to sound🫠

#goblinanswers #anonymousanon

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synchlora · 4 years

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put some safety pins on my horse girl boots >:)

#pros: nice clinky sounds and also slightly more punk #cons: looks kinda weird and i do not know how to make these look more punk acshvsgsnsg #made like a little safety pin chain and it looks. eh.#need to make them look a little better :/ idk how tho #i could do a design w the pins or smthn i guess hmmm #i am Thinking #dumbass thots

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hurtthemgently · 2 years

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I’ve had this one in my drafts forever

Masterlist

cw: vampire whumpee, multiple whumpers, vampire whumpers, drugged whumpee, blood, restraints

The arms around Zion felt familiar. Wayln always wore a gray cotton sweatshirt whenever they weren’t around guests, and they smelled like musky chemicals, some kind of strong cologne. Their long hair brushed his face, making him try to scratch his nose. His arms were too heavy to move. There was a flowery scent in their hair, it had just been washed and had nearly dried. All these scents almost mixed with Wayln’s natural smell, the one that humans have, each one unique but unmistakably human.

He was brought to a new room, and set on a low table surrounded by comfy looking couches. At least the drug was wearing off, enough for him to at least try and resist. He pulled his arms away from the bindings that were apparently connected under the table. The moment he pulled his wrist from Wayln’s hold, he felt a weight on his chest.

They were leaning their knee on top of him, using a hand to pin his other arm. “Still.”

They looped his hand through the slim chain, he’d of been able to break under normal circumstances. He felt the sharp tug of the chain being pulled under the table. A lock secured the chains tight against his wrists, and Wayln took their knee off his chest. He glared as they wrapped more chain around his ankles, connecting to the legs of the table.

“Now behave yourself, and maybe you’ll get something to drink”

“You think you can just, make me do whatever you want?” Zion pulled the chain on his wrist, making the metal creak. “I’ll drain you dry. You’re insane— Mmh”

He was interrupted by leather being clamped over his jaw, pulled tight and buckled behind his head. He pulled his head away from the hand that carded through his hair. “If you continue acting like this, you’ll get your venom taken out again. I believe you remember what that was like.”

Zion stopped struggling and looked up at Wayln in fear. He shook his head slightly and closed his eyes. The hand returned to his hair, the gentle touch sent a shiver down his spine.

“I’ll leave you here to calm down while I get ready for our guests.”

The tight leather made his jaw ache. His ankles hurt from kicking against the chains and knocking into the table. But the most prevalent pain was the headache, caused by the alcohol and whatever drug he’d been given.

All he’d accomplished in the past hour was tiring himself out.

“He’s just through here. Since I can’t give him the tranquilizer for this, he may be a little resistant, but that shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

These clients were different from the ones he had hazy memories of. There were two of them, both wearing formal attire. They smelled like vampires.

Zion was suddenly very aware of how little he could move. He had no escape from them.

“I’m gonna take my leave then,” Wayln stepped away, closing the door behind them. He couldn’t have possibly imagined that Wayln leaving the room would make him feel less safe, but with other vampires around..

The chains clinked, he struggled against them with renewed energy. He strained to see as the two sat on either side.

“Would you look at this cute little morsel,” the taller vampire said, grabbing Zion by the chin. They wiped the tears from his eyes then held his head towards the shorter one. The other took his wrist, making sure that Zion was watching before sinking their fangs into the vein.

The venom lit his nerves like a fire.

He gasped and struggled, but fighting the vampires grip was useless. He still couldn’t help pulling away, even though it just hurt his arm.

He could no longer contain the screams as another set of fangs sank into his neck.

The burning spread from the punctures, a sharp ache radiating out. He couldn’t feel the fangs anymore, only the venom.

He couldn’t hear his own cries anymore. Maybe his voice had broken? Or he’d lost his hearing, all senses replaced with pain. It blurred everything. The sound of clinking chains was indistinguishable from his own screaming. He couldn’t tell when he stopped feeling the table, cool and polished smooth turned to void. There were no surroundings.

only the venom and himself, and even the latter was starting to fade.

#vampire whumpee #multiple whumpers #non con drugging #restraints tw #vampire venom

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niqhtlord01 · 4 years

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Backstory: Turns out underneath that sweater she's decked out in gang tattoos and used to run a gang called the "Jinkies Clinkies" who wore chains that clinked as they walked and used them to beat people up. One night her hideout got burned to the ground while she was out and she lost everyone she knew. She then followed a trail of clues back to the person who lit the fire who turned out to be a property manager trying to collect insurance money. After finding him she wrapped him up in the chains of her comrades and then took him to a lake to be dumped in.

Just before she kicks him in she takes off the mans glasses and dons them.

She says that they help her see who the real monsters are in the world before promptly kicking the old man into the lake to drown.

With her old life now at the bottom of a lake in the middle of nowhere, Velma goes on her quest to find a better life which leads her to mystery inc.

#scooby doo #velma dinkley #velm #backstory #hbo #funny #dark

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helpimhyperfixating · 3 years

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Since Jotaro has a big ass chain hanging off him I just imagine Merman! Joot wearing a chain from somewhere as a sort of jewelry

Ooo clinky clinky even as a merman, hehe

#ask

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pogchamps-of-cirxia · 3 years

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okay a question for everyone!! if you had to describe your gender without using any trinary descriptions (ex: fem, masc, gender-neutral, etc), how would you describe it?

Adulationis taps his cheek, furrowing his brows.

"That's a hard one," he finally says, diamond tipped tail swishing idly. "I didn't realize I was male until after I was 18. I was just kinda content to go by she/her because my mother was really the only person I knew?"

Suddenly flustered by his little tangent, he clears his throat and speaks again. "Um, I'd have to say like... geodes. With orange crystals in them."

He ducks his head and fiddles with his fingers, a soft orange flush coloring his freckled cheeks.

"No trinary descriptions?" Leviath contemplates for a moment.

"Then, velvet and silk," he answers smoothly, gloved fingers combing through the fur of the pitch fox sitting in his lap. He seems content enough with his answer.

"Uh..."

Sakareth fidgets where he sits, brow wrinkled in thought.

"Blood," he finally answers, sounding lost in thought. "But not like, blood. I mean when it's like... when you can feel your chest pounding? When it rushes through you and you just feel like you could fight the world? I don't..."

Cheeks flushing red, he huffs out a growl. "Ugh, whatever. Red works."

Brolkoron rolls over, and for a moment, it seems as though they've fallen back asleep.

"Sofmt..." he murmurs, so soft it can barely be heard. "Blankets 'n furs 'n warm."

Azodos doesn't look up from his lap, the jewelry on his wings clinking as he lets the cat in his lap play with the chain jewelry covering his hands.

"Clinky," he says after a moment, wiggling his fingers so the chains clank together. "Clink clink clink. That's my gender."

"Snakeskin and scales." Nammon cracks a brief smile, though it quickly vanishes at another shout from the closed doors of the war room behind them.

Asmarath taps their mouth thoughtfully.

"That's a tough one!" They clap their hands together with a smile. "I'm genderfluid, so I get a bit of everything depending on the day. Right now... Hm."

They think for another moment. "If glowbuds were made of crystal. Crystal, glowing flowers. That's what I feel like right now, I'd have to say."

#About - Prinxes of Cirxia #mun prose #aduchat #Prince Leviath Speaks #saka screams #koro whispers #azo mutters #Prinxe Nammon Speaks #Clover Crown Call #asmachat

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cole-saberhagen · 5 years

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I’m working my way through the Borderlands games again before BL3. I never got around to playing the BL2 DLCs originally but I’ve just finished all of them. Tiny Tina’s Assault on Dragon Keep was so much fun and def my new fav. I love being in the fantasy setting while still running around with guns.

Honestly I’ve never played Dungeons and Dragons before but playing it this way where all the characters come to life was great bc my imagination sucks :))

Finally saw this Borderlands meme

Also finally got to the Bisexual Axton line, woo

I knew the ending was going to be sad but they did it really well. It was masterfully done how Tina has her own way of coping with loss, especially the language she was using channeling Angel and Roland.

Handsome Jack in a ridiculous hat though, lmao

Now I’m just finishing up the side quests. I love the fake gamer one, that teaches a really good lesson about not gatekeeping geekiness.

I found a couple of Bee shields already, the drop rate is way higher than I thought. The clinky noise it makes from amp damage at full capacity is sooo satisfying, especially using it with a Double Harold. I’ll farm another one at 80.

Also I dropped a Chain Lightning off one of the mini bosses in the castle so now I never have to buy grenades

I almost didn’t notice this in Moxxi’s tavern but I found a portrait of Ellie and Scooter as kids and Moxxi and Marcus when they were married presumably.

#now I’m going to run around to see if there’s anything else I missed #cole plays borderlands #borderlands 2 #borderlands #tiny tina

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littlestcorpse · 5 years

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So I wanna make Caninecore a thing?? I don’t really know how to kickstart an aesthetic.

Basically encompasses ‘gross’ aesthetic,, bones,, blood, chunky chokers with spikes and chains, harnesses, sharp teeth, hats with ears and clip on tails. Dark colours n lots of fur. I’m taking a lot of inspiration from the ‘teen werewolf’ craze that happened in like 2012, as well as alternative fashion and ‘animalistic’ influences such as the Pet Play and Therian communities respectfully. That being said,, I fucking love this aesthetic and we dont police looks here, ya dont gotta be a kinnie to wear a tail. Cringe culture is dead, run on all fours, be rabid, wear clinky jangly collars.

I’m not sure where I’m going with this,, but yeye, this my aesthetic uwu

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frogocado · 5 years

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A Golden Labyrinth of Noise Part I (Damien Haas au)

Hello my friends. Here we are with the first official chapter of my newest story, A Golden Labyrinth of Noise, aka the prince!damien au. The word count is around 2.2k. I’d love to know your feedback!

1. Escape

Damien paced his chambers, counting the hours until nightfall. He couldn’t take it anymore. Tonight was the night he was going to finally get out into the city. He had been concocting a foolproof plan for nearly a week, finding time in between council meetings with his father to scribble notes before catching up again. His parents had been insisting that his escalation in clumsiness was simply pre-court jitters—tripping over discarded cups in the kitchen and getting bruises that smelled suspiciously of blackberries, falling asleep during lessons, getting lost in the garden. The more doubt the prince could stir, the more likely his parents were to leave him alone on bedrest. He had even figured out a way to ditch the new boy the guard had given the royal family.

Hearing his father’s wooden heel approaching across the marble floors, Damien sprang into action. There wasn’t a moment to waste, especially as he heard the flittering footsteps of someone else following behind his father’s pace. Two voices, one unfamiliar. Perfect. As he tracked both pairs of steps, he approached to the door, leaning his ear against the keyhole. He shimmied the door handle so it was partially opened and waited, going over his list in his head. The rope of sheets pushed to the foot of the bed, his overcoat covering his bag cast on the chair.

Then Damien flicked his wrist just perfectly as he leaned his shoulder against the oak door. “Oh!” He gasped maybe a bit too dramatically as he tumbled through the opening and into the foyer. Having practiced his summersaults all summer since his last escape attempt, the prince sees the waist crown molding along the walls and knows when to dip his head. Whiplash safely avoided, he then feigns unconsciousness, a forearm draped elegantly across his forehead.

“Ah, your first task,” the king said. “Bring my clumsy son to bed and fetch him something for his eventual bruising. I shall check to see how you are getting on in about an hour.”

“Y-yes, Sire,” the second voice answered as Damien listened as his father’s footsteps proceeded down the hallway. Damien desperately wanted to open his eyes to see this fool officer debate how to best bring the prince to bed. He wondered if he would be dragged by his ankles like in the stories his nurse used to tell him about capturers.

After a few minutes of hearing the poor sod shift back and forth on his feet, Damien sat up. He was growing impatient—he had a schedule to keep, after all. The officer gasped so loudly his chain jacket rattled. “M-my Lord, you are well!”

Damien waved a hand to dismiss the man’s panic. “Keep your voice down, please…?” He glanced at the officer, who was now taking a knee with his eyes cast to the floor. Damien rolled his eyes and tapped the man’s shoulder, causing a second jolt. “Come now, that’s enough of that. How were you going to bring me to my chambers if you cannot even look me in the eyes? Some knight you are.” He scoffed as he dusted off his tunic, heading back into his chambers. He kept the door open, hoping the officer’s pride would convince him to ditch regulations and follow the bait.

It took the officer a bit longer than Damien had expected and he was about to move on to pillow fluffing when he heard the clamoring of chainmail. Peeking out of the curtain from his bed chamber, Damien was surprised that the officer had taken off his helmet, holding it beneath his arm. He was still standing as straight as his father’s tightest arrow, but it was a start. Damien hummed with curiosity at the display and approached him, leaning against the archway before the stairs. “Sir Knight?”

“Your Highness—“ the officer started.

Damien made a noise of disapproval and the man instantly stopped, blue eyes finally turning to land on the prince. “That’s my father. Try again, please.” Damien turned away, stuffing his pillows under the sheets. He dug underneath the heap, pulling out the rope he had fashioned earlier.

After a deep breath, there was a second attempt. “M-my Lord?”

Damien’s nose crinkled and he scoffed, turning around with the bundle in his arms. “Do you have anything better?”

Blonde hair fell into the officer’s eyes and Damien realized as he watched the man think that he wasn’t a man at all. Behind a helmet, all of the guard looked the same to the prince, but this one couldn’t have been much older than he was. When he shook his head, Damien sighed, dropping the rope close to the window. “Just call me Prince Damien or something, please? I hate all this politicking garbage.”

“I… shall try, prince Damien.”

“And your name, then, sir—“

The officer stood a bit taller, his chin pointed forward. Damien arched an eyebrow at the show. “I am Knight Topp, second commanding officer for the Haas Royal Guard. I am the second son in my family and the first to be an officer.”

Damien pulled his overcoat off of his chair, adjusting the collar. “Grand, grand. Listen, forget what my father said. Your task from the guard is to watch me and keep me safe, yeah?” He looked up at Knight Topp, who nodded dully as his eyebrows knit together in thought. Damien stepped in front of his mirror to observe himself. He had gotten away with skipping the barber that day with a bruised lip that mysteriously went away when he licked his lips. He took in his jacket, dark blue velvet lined with intricate silver stitching. He turned the collar up and moved to examine his profile, smiling at the reflection in the mirror. “So you’re going to help me escape the castle tonight, Sir Knight.” He stepped closer before clapping both hands onto Knight Topp’s chainmail. “Your family will be so proud of the officer you’ve become.”

Knight Topp stood still as Damien slid his pack onto his shoulder. “Y-you can’t be serious, your Highness,” he whispered.

“Unfortunately for you, I must insist that I am gravely serious about my escape.” He flashed his most princely grin, moving to unlatch the window. Knight Topp was there almost instantly, blocking his way. He hadn’t anticipated that. He certainly was less official than the other guards who were assigned to Damien when he was young. He wasn’t expecting resistance. “Please don’t make this more difficult than it has to be, Sir Knight. And stop calling me that. Both of those were orders, by the way.”

“I cannot let you leave, my prince.” Damien attempted to slip around him, but Knight Topp stood tall, his chin pointing back out again. “I have been assigned to keep you safe and I have strict orders from the King.”

Damien was pushing the Knight’s shoulders now. He was so sure it was going to go off without a hitch and this stammering muscle monkey was going to keep him from his own city. “I order you to move!”

Knight Topp, obviously torn, closed his eyes tightly. “If you leave the palace looking like that, you’re sure to be found out instantly!”

This gave the prince immediate pause. He hadn’t even thought about what people outside in the city would wear. “Is this too formal, you think?” He stepped back in front of the mirror again. He glanced at the paling knight in the reflection. “Theoretically, of course.”

The knight gave a heavy exhale. “Theoretically, if I were a civilian and saw the royal colors, I would pay quite a bit more attention.”

Damien glanced at himself again. He looked awesome, but certainly too… royal. He could see Knight Topp’s point. He pulled the coat back off in one fluid motion, ducked under his bag, and saw his opportunity to approach the window. “Thanks for the information. You’re not so bad, Sir Knight. I’ll give my father a good recommendation.” Not wanting to miss his moment, Damien ducked under the Knight’s arm and flicked the window open, pushing himself through and onto the roof.

He could hear Knight Topp murmuring to himself as he shimmied his way to the edge of the roof. Right as he was about to toss the rope, Knight Topp’s blonde mop of hair appeared. “My prince, if I may present a counter offer to throwing yourself off the roof?” Damien turned back towards him and waited. “Might I suggest we exit through the wine cellar under the kitchen?”

Damien rolled his eyes. “If there was a secret way out of the castle, I insist that I would know about—“ And then, in a flash of a memory, he remembered the door that was always blocked off behind casks of wine. He had always figured it was a storage cellar. Shimmying his shoulders so he was standing just a bit taller, Damien bowed his head. “Thank you for the suggestion, Sir Knight.”

He managed to land on his feet as he retreated back into his chambers. Happy to drop the heavy rope of sheets and blankets, the prince sighed with relief. When he turned to leave, he noticed Knight Topp slipping a rolled piece of parchment under the comforter of his trap. “What are you doing?” He asked.

Knight Topp faced the prince, his cheeks a soft pink and his eyes wide. “Well, I’m sure I… won’t be a commanding officer for much longer after tonight.” He glanced away. “You should leave before the King returns, my prince.”

Damien smiled for half a second before darting for the door. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought about an alternative way out of the castle. He closed the door to his chambers behind him as he entered the hallway, listening hard for any approaching footsteps. Hearing a clatter behind his own door, he took off down the first set of stairs before Knight Topp could catch up.

Damien only passed a few attendants on his way to the kitchen, all of whom dipped their heads and cast their eyes to the floor. Damien wondered if they would notice if he changed his hair color or if they’d notice if he was bloody and bruised. He wasn’t quite sure.

He slipped into the kitchen and closed the heavy door behind him. He could hear clinking footsteps from in the hallway so he hurriedly moved the barrels away from a smaller door. All of the barrels were empty, he realized as they all toppled together in the corner. Damien made a small disapproving noise, remembering the way the cooking staff would always tell him to be careful when he was a child. “If those casks fall on you, Your Highness, you’ll be grape jam,” he could still hear one of the cooks telling him.

Right as Damien was retching the door of the crawlspace open, the door of the kitchen flew open, banging into the bench nestled behind it. “Your Highness,” Knight Topp gasped. “I thought this was all theoretical.”

“All theories require experimentation. Have you not ever met an alchemist?” Damien rolled his eyes as he dipped into the small area, feet crushing dirt as he turned to the young man. “Didn’t I give you a strict order, Sir Knight, not to call me by my father’s title?”

Knight Topp stood up straight, his chin pointing forward and his blue eyes bore into Damien’s own. He couldn’t remember the last time someone outside of the family had looked him in the eyes. “It is my duty, my prince, to keep you protected and safe. Your father told me to bring you to your chambers and—“

“And you can do that once my adventure is done.” Damien waved a dismissive hand in the knight’s direction before turning away again. “I admire your promise of duty, even if it is misplaced.”

Before the prince could close the door behind him, a gloved hand stopped it. Knight Topp, not fully looking in the prince’s direction, was handing him a dirty, brown, torn piece of canvas. “For your disguise, Sire,” the guard said in a defeated voice.

Damien held it up, his face crinkled in confusion. “A potato sack?”

Knight Topp gave him a look as if he were unimpressed, one of his eyebrows raising. “You expect to sneak into the city without a disguise?”

“Ah, I see.” Damien awkwardly placed the sack over his head, holding up his arms like he suddenly had no idea how his body could function while wearing something that wasn’t etched from silk or velvet. When the guard gave him an approving nod, Damien nearly smiled. “You aren’t going to try to stop me?” He asked.

“Have you already forgotten? I already tried. “

Under the hood of the sack, Damien’s eyebrows were pressed into the crease of his forehead, rising so high they threatened to leap from his head. “So you’ve given up, then?”

Knight Topp clacked his boots together before saluting the prince. “I will not try to stop you, my prince.”

With this approval, Damien broke into a wide, wolf like grin before he pulled the crawl space door closed and darted down the muddy tunnel.

#smosh fic #damien haas fic #damien haas #shayne topp #smosh #mine #fic #smosh au #damien haas au #prince!damien au #IT'S HERE #[yeets self into oblivion]#glon

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