beloved butch abby and her soft femme
a/n: yeah, this is a self indulgent as fuck drabble <3 this is heavily inspired by my own relationship so sorry if it gets too niche </3 my fiancé and I just have a running joke about how much they are like abby so it kinda veered off that way. I still think its rly cute regardless
how you meet! <3
-`♡´- beloved butch abby who manages a nice cafe a few streets off of downtown in a big city somewhere on a northern coast. she's stumbling in the front door, grumbling about how the delivery trucks always drop packages out front instead of the back when she sees you.
sure, she's used to tourists, but it's fucking february. hardly anyone is traveling, let alone for anything beyond the major sights, and you're sitting in a booth, sipping on a hot latte with lipstick stains on the mug and clasping your hands like a princess as you look over your scrapbooking supplies. yeah, you're a local.
-`♡´- beloved butch abby who doesn't even bother trying to get your number at first. she's too busy with the cafe, with lev, with crippling debt from her attempt at medical school before her dad passed -- at least, that's what she tells herself and her coworkers who catch her ogling you when you show up more and more.
she notices some pins on your tote bag when you come up one day, listening to you chat to the barista and waving them off each time they ask her a ridiculous question like what syrups do we have, playing stupid so she is forced to interact with you.
-`♡´- beloved butch abby who just can't resist you when you start showing up more and more, so she goes home and listens to chappell fucking roan because she sees a pin on your bag. she hates it, but one day, after a month or so, she adds it to the morning Spotify shuffle, and just turns and smiles and says "me too" when she hears you telling the barista how much you love my kink is karma.
"oh my gosh, really?!"
yeah, everyone knows that's bullshit.
dating! <3
-`♡´- beloved butch abby who surprises you with full on fucking roses every date night, which are often on Wednesdays, because she loves taking you to karaoke nights. no, she doesn't sing, but she'll hold up your mirror for you to check your makeup before you run on stage, singing something adorable like from the start by Laufey.
-`♡´- beloved butch abby who is always so delighted when you swing by midday, dropping off a handmade lunch in a cute little metal bento box, even if she's covered in flour. she'll bring you to her office, give you a little somethinggggg sweet to hold you over, make you a coffee and send you on your way.
-`♡´- beloved butch abby who is so scared to have you meet lev, her fingers are physically shaking when you two are in the same room together for the first time. lev is a little suspicious of you at first, but quickly becomes well-adjusted when you start sending baked goods home with abby for him as well.
-`♡´- beloved butch abby who comes over to your apartment in a black tank top and sweats, hair messy whenever (yep! you guessed it!) the sink is clogged, because city plumbing is terrible and she's fixed them enough times at work to be able to save you from a regular bill each month. plus, the way you thank her is always payment enough
-`♡´- beloved butch abby who nearly fucking cries when you make her a homemade Christmas stocking. lev doesn't celebrate, and without her dad, she hasn't found a reason to do anything like that just for herself. so on Christmas morning, when she carefully shakes out a set of matching heart-shaped carabiners, yeah, she does cry a little bit.
-`♡´- beloved butch abby who shyly comes out of the bathroom one day holding some chest tape, asking if you’ll help her put it on because “for some reason the right side is halfway on but I put it on backwards on accident so I can’t get the plastic off so—“ (obviously you help her)
-`♡´- beloved butch abby who offers to buy you tennis skirts, athleisure dresses, fucking lululemon or whatever it is that will get you to come to the gym with her, even just to sit on her lap when she does hip thrusts. she loves sending you mirror pics after leg day, and yeah, you of course die every time.
-`♡´- beloved butch abby who weaves through crowded downtown like it's nothing with you on her arm and two tote bags of your mail hanging from her arms when you finally get around to sending it out. she insists that she doesn't mind the little canvas bags with their floral prints.
-`♡´- beloved butch abby who wears her beat up brown leather jacket like she's trying to run through the fabric. Lets you help her condition the material and put on patches, and even goes so far as to wrap you up a matching red one for your birthday that year.
as for her other clothes, she's constantly wearing little holes in the elbows and knees that you're more than happy to stitch up for her, and she swears her heart flutters every time she catches a glimpse of the woven embroidery thread in a green tee shirt or wool sweater.
-`♡´- beloved butch abby who goes feral for the type o negative/out of the fire TikTok trend. she doesn't have her own account, but when you show her the videos of girls in their dainty Mary Janes stepping on to leather or work boots, she agrees without batting an eye, much to your surprise.
-`♡´- beloved butch abby who slips a tag with your name on to it next to her other dog tags, keeping it like a secret special token on her necklace.
-`♡´- beloved butch abby who lets you do her hair sometimes, even though she's perfectly fine at it herself. she just adores those sweet late nights in her bedroom where you're rubbing some warm-smelling lotion into her back and weaving her hair back into place.
nsfw! <3
-`♡´- beloved butch abby who is a god damn sucker for praise and worship, both ways. she feels like you two are the only people in the world when she's on her knees, hands inching under your skirt and up your thighs while you purr sweet things in her ear, and she's telling you all the things she wants to do to you.
-`♡´- beloved butch abby who definitely talks you through it, and is constantly astonished by just how into her you are.
"oh, fuck baby -- you're dirty, jesus,"
"she's so needy for me, huh? you gonna let me take care of her, baby?"
"mmpf, thank you, thank you--"
"fuck, i know baby, i know. you can, i know you can. you're taking it so well, let me do it f'you. shit"
-`♡´- beloved butch abby whose hand nearly rips the mattress open the first time you're sat in front of her, leaving little lipstick marks on her strap as you work your mouth around it, making a slobbery and moaning debauched version of your pretty self for her.
-`♡´- beloved butch abby who lets you slip a finger between her legs while you suck her strap, lets you push it inside while your mouth pushes the base of her strap against her clit until she's shaking and stuttering and practically face-fucking you.
yeah, she stays strapped up on dates, too.
-`♡´- beloved butch abby who has a mean 3 finger combo that she'll pull out absolutely anywhere - in the back of her truck, on the kitchen counter, in the bar bathroom, wherever she sees fit.
-`♡´- beloved butch abby who takes mirror selfies while you're riding her, or just in her lap, sucking on her neck or looking shyly back at the mirror. puts her huge ass hand on your ass, squeezing it and saves the photos for her own personal spank bank. the arch of your back drives her crazy.
-`♡´- beloved butch abby who melts so easily under your prettily-painted nails, dragging down her abs while you murmur how handsome she is right into her pussy. her legs twitch, and god, she's trying so hard not to fucking crush you (not that you'd mind), but she about loses it when you ask her to sit on your face.
-`♡´- beloved butch abby who hoists you on to her shoulders against the inside walls of her office, the door locked shut and your hand clamped over your mouth during her lunch break. covers up any stains on her shirt with her apron, acting like she needs to work up another batch of something while you're prancing out breathless and pink in the cheeks.
-`♡´- beloved butch abby who lets you play Jesse Jo Stark when you fuck in the backseat of her truck, hands intertwined and leaving palm prints on the steamy windows while you eat each other out in parking lots, murmuring I love you's while the truck rocks back and forth.
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Chapter 24 of human Bill Cipher being the Mystery Shack's extremely inconvenient prisoner, featuring: the Pines figuring out a way to chase off Bill's ex-girlfriend... who happens to be a giant eyeball with bat wings.
It kinda goes like this.
(A head's up before we get going: this chapter is a bit more mature than prior ones, so I feel like a warning's in order. There's no sex, and nothing here is erotic or sexy (unless you, too, happen to be attracted to eye-bats), BUT there IS some academic speculation on the logistics of alien sex, and some very filthy-sounding dialogue describing acts that, to humans, aren't sexual at all. Plus some dirty humor and toilet humor. And nothing here is what I'd call billford quite yet, considering Ford still very much hates Bill's guts—but like, he's definitely a little too obsessed with the anatomy of triangles for it to be normal. If any of this is too spicy for you, skip this chapter and come back next one. We'll be starting a new "episode" then.)
####
It was past midnight. In his search for the eye-bat repellant recipe, Ford had flipped through every notebook he'd used during his initial interviews of the residents of Gravity Falls, flipped through them a second time, torn apart half his bookshelves looking for any reporter's notebooks he might have accidentally sorted in with his larger binders, and now he was exhausted, frustrated—and, worst of all, bored out of his mind.
Which made it hard to avoid thinking about more interesting topics.
And for the last hour he'd been unwillingly plagued with the question of how an eyeball and a triangle had a "casual physical thing."
If that didn't mean sex—and you never knew with aliens—then it was still something close enough to fill the same social/recreational niche. It certainly meant sex on the eye-bat's side, Ford had fully documented the reproductive cycle of eye-bats, that was sorted out—but triangles?
It had to be something that would work in the second dimension. Ford had visited a two-dimensional universe populated by geometric shapes, he knew roughly how their bodies functioned: a shape's perimeter was its external surface—its "skin"—and its internal organs were inside that perimeter. So if Bill was still configured the way he had been in his home dimension, any external reproductive anatomy would have to be somewhere on his perimeter, right? Maybe at one of his corners? Or camouflaged where the seams of his brick pattern reached his edges?
But then if Bill were a normal two-dimensional person, he'd have his eye on the edge of his body, not right in the center of his "internal organs." So he'd been rearranged to some extent. Who knew how the rest of his body worked now? His top hat contained flesh and a skeletal structure; maybe it was a removable reproductive organ that could be passed to a partner, like some cephalopods' detachable tentacles—
Ford flinched as he realized Bill was staring at him.
To aid in his anatomical speculation, Ford had drawn a diagram of Bill in his journal and labeled various points on the triangle that might be concealing reproductive anatomy. He quickly scratched out the drawing's staring eye and slammed his journal shut.
He'd happily gone thirty years assuming that Bill had no sex life—Bill was an energy being who presented himself as a floating featureless triangle, his hobbies involved cheating at chess and discussing multidimensional transportation, he probably wasn't designed for "physical things," and if he was designed for it then surely he wasn't interested. Ford was not pleased to have his assumptions disputed.
Because the thing was—Ford knew more than any living human about the mating rituals of unicorns, werewolf/mermaid couples, stomach-faced ducks, and tentacled warrior piglets. (Did he ever know about tentacled warrior piglets.) He had the only photos of a gnome mating ball, which he didn't need, because that horrible sight would be forever seared into his long-term memory. He knew the names of twenty obscene acts in siren sign language, and knew how to use his extra fingers to make them extra obscene. This wasn't unfamiliar territory to him. He was curious about how strange, supernatural creatures functioned; and those functions included how the reproductive drive influenced their behaviors; and a living triangle that had escaped from the second dimension was certainly a strange supernatural creature.
But, unfortunately, it was also Bill Cipher. And Ford did not want to think about what Bill did in bed. ... Assuming he used a bed. Really, at this point the only thing Ford knew was that Bill's only admitted partner was capable of flight. Maybe he just hovered while he—
Ford slammed his journal shut again to stop himself from scribbling down more theories, then stuffed the journal in a desk drawer for good measure. Did normal people think like this? He had no idea. He didn't even know who he could ask.
Enough of this. Back to searching for that eye-bat repellant recipe, and this time he wasn't stopping until he found it.
####
Like a vast eye in an upside-down triangle, the circular center of the portal lit up so bright blue it was almost white. The four energy vents glowed in sympathy. A rainbow constellation lit up in twirling patterns around the central light.
Bill watched with bated breath, a second-dimensional shadow waiting for his door to the third dimension to open. The cavern walls shook; the ground quaked and rumbled ominously; Bill didn't care. The portal was stable, the lab was somebody else's problem, and Bill had a party to get to.
The steel beams supporting the cavern rolled like a wave, and Bill's stomach roiled with them. They weren't supposed to be able to move like that. But he knew what he was doing, the portal was stable, he was not here to destroy this world, he'd come here to save it, whether it wanted to be saved or not—
The whole world undulated. Bedrock and steel were not built to undulate. Bill bobbed on the energy wave like a toy boat on a choppy sea; but the steel shattered, rock crumbled, shrapnel and rubble sprayed out. There was a peal of deafening thunder as the world below him cracked apart.
####
Bill woke with a gasp.
Oh. Right. Dreams.
Dream diary. With a groan, he sat up, checked to make sure no humans were coming by in the next few minutes, and pulled his stolen journal out of its hiding place.
The guide on lucid dreaming had recommended writing down his dreams in full, vivid, rich detail—any people or scenes or events, anything he could detect with his five (?) senses, as much as he could recall.
He drew a portal—gray inverted triangle with a center circle, four circles around the triangle, all five circles filled in yellow green—and then a yellow green line trailing out of the portal's side that grew progressively wigglier like a seismogram. He labeled his doodle, "this." He'd remember the rest.
After a moment of thought, he wrote, "Don't remember if I was a human or a shape. My organs were doing things a shape's shouldn't." (He wrote "human" as 人; there was no translation for the word in the language Bill wrote in. The two angled strokes stood out in Bill's rows of Morse-like dots and dashes.) "Being around so many humans who are CONVINCED I'm trying to destroy their world must be getting to me. Sixer pitched another hissy-fit about the portal yesterday. Enduring all that negative talk can't be healthy for me. I know I'm just helping their boring little planet, but maybe their accusations are getting lodged in this stupid brain's subconscious."
Maybe he should meditate a bit—go think positive thoughts, drown out the mortal voices that insisted they knew his plans better than he did. He'd had enough dreaming for one night, anyway.
Beneath the note to himself, Bill added in English: "Everything would have been fine if you'd just let me finish, Fordsy." If the humans ever did find this journal, Bill was determined to get the last word in.
Then he stowed away the stolen journal and shuffled downstairs.
He wondered how much was left of Ford's portal.
####
Old man bladder. Stan dragged himself out of bed. The other guest room bed was empty. Stan hoped Ford was sleeping in his study—he'd mentioned once he kept a cot down there. Better than pulling another all nighter studying alien sorcery or whatever.
He skipped his glasses, groped his way to the downstairs bathroom, and, yawning, lined up with the toilet.
The toilet said, "Pretty forward of you, Stanley."
Stan screamed.
He stumbled backwards out of the bathroom and hit the wall. Bill flipped on the light and leaned out to grin at him. "Careful! You're due for a broken hip any day now."
"BILL! What are DOING!"
"Trying not to get urinated on."
"Jsh—shut up!" It had dawned on Stan that if he could hear Bill without his hearing aids, then half the house probably could too. He hoped no one had overheard that. "Why are you sitting on the toilet in the dark!"
"It's a free country, Stanley Pines."
Stan raised a fist. "GET OUT!"
Bill bolted from the bathroom like a scared rabbit, then caught himself, rolled his eyes, and raised his hands over his head in mock surrender. "You could have asked nicely!"
Pointing at Bill as he retreated, Stan added, "And stop being so darn creepy! Lurking in the dark and sneaking around silently all the time, like a... some kind of—burglar ninja assassin!"
Bill turned to shout back, "What, do you expect me to make a peace cry every time I walk around? Make sure I can't sneak up and stab you in the back?"
Stan had caught about half of that. "YEAH, smart guy! It might help!"
Bill flung his hands out in defeat as he rounded the corner.
Stan finished his business, went back to bed, and glared angrily at the ceiling another ten minutes.
####
It had taken half the night, but at last Ford had disassembled the filing cabinet and found a few notebooks that had gotten stuck behind the bottom drawer, including the one with Old Lady Sprott's eye-bat repellant recipe. Ford copied it down, left a list of ingredients on the gift shop cash register for Soos, and finally dragged himself into the house to sleep.
And paused in the entryway.
Bill was sitting in the kitchen, staring out the window; Ford had seen him like this before. Usually, he could make himself walk by.
But he couldn't tonight. Maybe it was yesterday's conversation still weighing on his mind, the loose ends they hadn't tied up tangling around his throat. "What are you doing up?"
Bill's voice was inappropriately calm: "Dying."
Ford's guard went up. "Do you... Literally or metaphorically?"
"Literally," Bill said. "Hey—how many decades do you think this body's got? Probably not even a century, right?"
Ford's guard went down. Just moping. But it was an interesting question, one he'd put some thought into himself—what age had Bill's body been made at? How had his body been made that age? How long would the body last? Ford had wondered whether studying Bill's freshly-made-but-already-adult body might reveal anything medically useful about how aging affected the human body; but the odds of convincing Bill to participate in any medical studies—much less finding someone to conduct the study who believed their story—were nonexistent.
Ford said, "At a loose guess, I'd put you around... fifty, maybe? A very spry fifty." Bill's hair was a shockingly vivid gold, not a hint of gray, and when he was in a good mood Bill bounced about with an enviable lack of joint pain; but Ford had seen faint, delicate creases around his mouth and eyes that spoke to age. And the look in his eyes... Ford hated the phrase "old soul"—he'd been called that by some of his school teachers, and it only made him feel the distance between himself and his age peers all the more strongly—but with Bill, it was uncannily fitting. His eyes aged his whole face.
"You think this thing looks fifty? Wow." Bill took a deep drink from a cider can. "Shooting Star's best guess was half that. Thanks for shoving me twenty-five years closer to the grave."
Half that? When Ford had been a child, he'd had a harder time guessing adults' ages, and he supposed Mabel might be the same; but it was difficult to mistake a 50-year-old for a 25-year-old. Maybe there was something else going on. He'd have to ask her later. "With exercise, a healthy diet, and a little luck, you could still live another fifty." Ford nodded at the two empty cider cans already sitting on the table. "With your current drinking habits, I'll give you five."
Bill cackled—loudly enough to make Ford tense up, afraid someone would catch them talking. "Cheers!" Bill finished off the can and slammed it down with the others. "Ugh. Finite lifespans. Awful."
"Welcome to being human," Ford said dryly.
"'Welcome to death row,'" Bill said. "Ha! What'm I doing, worrying about decades. Let's be real, I don't even need to worry about the next five years. If I haven't found a way out of this body before then..."
Bill left the thought unfinished. An uneasy weight formed low in Ford's stomach.
"Ah, whatever. Like you'd let me live that long. Right, Sixer?" Bill pushed himself up unsteadily, keeping his balance first with a hand on the back of the chair, and then on Ford's (suddenly very tense) shoulder as he passed him. "I'm going back to sleep before that last can kicks in."
The way Bill was walking, Ford wasn't sure he'd make it up the stairs. "Why don't you sleep on the folding bed in the living room?"
"No window," Bill said. "I've g—" (He stumbled on the stairs.) "I've gotta see the stars."
Of course he did. When Bill said it that way, it was so obvious Ford didn't know why he hadn't realized that himself. Where else could Bill sleep but as close to the sky as possible?
Ford listened as Bill stumbled his way upstairs, creaked across the floorboards, and collapsed onto his makeshift bed.
Ford had thirty years left. Exactly thirty years. Don't have a heart attack, you're not ninety-two yet! Ninety-two was a good, old age. Older than his father had been. But thirty years felt too soon. And yet it felt fitting, somehow, for his life to be divided so neatly in thirds.
If Bill lived another fifty years in this body, and Ford lived thirty, who would stand guard over him? Would he and Stan have to pass that burden on to their gniece and gnephew? Or to Soos and Melody?
Why was he wondering—what made him think they wouldn't find a way to kill Bill before then? What made him think he wouldn't kill Bill before the end of this very summer?
What made him so sure Bill hadn't been lying about when Ford would die? Thirty years felt too soon; but ninety-two felt flatteringly optimistic.
Ford sighed, and picked up the cider cans to recycle.
He wondered whether Bill—hiding from his ex, fretting about death, sleeping on his enemies' floor—regretted how he'd spent his life.
####
Bill's second entry in his dream diary started, "Wet dream about Iris."
He filled most of a page with an extremely graphic summary before he sighed in frustration, stowed the journal away, and stared at the ceiling as dawn crept in. Well. Terrific. He was pretty intimately familiar with how humans coupled, but he didn't have much practice with the solo act. Plus the humans would give him heck if they caught him at it. He'd just have to suffer.
So here he was, all riled up and nowhere to go.
Who else could he make miserable?
####
Stan was startled awake by a heavy pounding on his door.
"Heeey Fisherman!" Somehow, Bill's voice was even more grating at dawn. He rattled the door several more times. "Just passing by! Wanted to let you know! Here I am! Right here!"
Did that demon ever sleep? And, follow up question, could Stan knock him out for a few hours?
Ford—who must have come up after Stan went back to bed—groaned and muttered something.
Ford wasn't nearly as loud as Bill. Stan reluctantly sat up and put a hearing aid in. "What?"
"What the devil is he up to now."
"No idea," Stan lied. "Go yell at him about it, he listens to you."
Ford sighed, but got up and left the room.
A minute later, Stan heard Bill exclaim, "I can't win with you people!"
He smirked.
####
The kitchen reeked that morning. When Stan came in for breakfast, the window was open, a fan in the entryway futilely directed fresh air into the kitchen and a fan on the kitchen table directed the noxious fumes outside, there were bags of groceries on the counter—he noticed hot sauce, peppers, cheap perfume, and an entire bag of raw onions—and Ford was standing at the stove, stirring a pot of vile-smelling brown liquid. The moment he saw Stan, Ford put him to work stirring the pot so Ford could start dicing onions.
While they worked, Ford explained the situation with the eye-bat harassing the tourists and the solution he'd hit on to drive it away. Soos had collected the necessary ingredients this morning, but couldn't help cook because he was busy finding a way to block the bottomless pit—
####
Outside, Soos scooted a trampoline up to the pit, carefully lined it up with the edge—the trampoline and the pit had nearly the same diameter—and shoved it in. It plummeted into the dark. After a short wait, Soos chucked a baseball down the pit. It disappeared, then bounced back up.
Soos pumped his fist triumphantly. "Aced it."
####
—so, Ford was working on the repellant, and in the interest of public safety and the greater good he was drafting Stan into helping too.
Which Stan supposed he couldn't argue with, but considering the smell he would've preferred dicing the onions. "Is all this really necessary for one eye-bat? I usually just swat 'em off with a tennis racket."
"This eye-bat happens to be large enough to carry off a first-grader," Ford said. "And Bill claims it's his ex-girlfriend, so I don't want to risk them meeting."
"Huh." Weird thing to date, but then Stan didn't know what he did expect a triangle demon to date. "Somehow I figured he was tangled up in this."
Ford laughed ruefully.
After a moment of chopping and stirring, Ford said, "Speaking of Bill—he claims that you ordered him to announce his presence? And that you tried to pee on him."
"I did not and he's a dirty liar! He made the whole thing up!" Stan didn't expect Ford to believe him. Stan also didn't expect Ford to believe Bill. Ford knew they were both liars. What Stan expected was for Ford to side with the person he liked best.
"Uh huh." Ford didn't question Stan further. Ha. Pines solidarity.
Even though he'd already won, Stan went on: "All I did was mention how quiet he is! I can never tell where he's lurking. Sometimes I almost forget he's here." In Stan's mind, Bill had been rapidly demoted from "active existential threat" to "annoying houseguest who blends in with the shadows." Watching him help Mabel cut pretty pictures from fashion magazines with plastic safety scissors drained away most of his intimidation factor.
Ford gave Stan a funny look. "Really? I can't forget he's here for a second. Sometimes I swear I can tell where he's been in the house—like a cold spot left by a ghost."
Stan tried to figure out how to ask whether that was a reaction to decades on the run feeling like hunted prey—which Stan knew how to cope with—or a lingering magical side effect of Ford and Bill's alien possession deal—which Stan did not. Then Ford added, "It's probably because I hear him bumping into the furniture all the time."
"Oh. Yeah. That's probably it. You've got better hearing than me." Case closed. Stan turned back to the stove—
A deafening buzz made them both start. Stan splashed boiling brown stink across the stovetop. "What—!"
Standing in the doorway with a kazoo, Bill said, "How's that, Stanley? Do you like that better?!"
"YOU!" Stan flung the stirring spoon to the floor.
Bill bolted from the room with Stan in hot pursuit. "Whoa! Mercy! Truce! You can have the kazoo! It's not even mine, I'm just holding it for a fr— Ow ow OW ow—"
Stan hauled Bill in by the back of the neck and didn't let go until he was in the middle of the kitchen. He pointed at the spoon, then pointed at the pot. "Pick it up. Get stirring." He grabbed another knife and joined Ford chopping onions. Whew, what a relief.
Bill gave Stan a perplexed look, but picked up the spoon, gave the pot an experimental sniff, and got stirring. He didn't even wince at the smell. "Is this the gnome wizz? What is this, punishment for not letting you use me as a urinal?"
"Whatsamatter, I thought you were the one who thinks pee belongs in the kitchen."
"You're both too old for toilet humor," Ford snapped. "Bill, this problem is your fault, the least you can do is help prepare the spray, and you're not getting a knife, so you're on pot stirring duty. Deal with it."
Bill rolled his eyes dramatically. (At the moment, they were both uncovered; but one was already half squinted shut against the morning light.) "Fine, but only because I like hanging out with you."
Ford scoffed.
"And I don't see how this is my fault just because we happened to date. It's not like I invited her over," Bill went on. "If anything, you should be grateful she's my ex, or else I wouldn't be helping you chase her away—"
"Hey, that's what I wanna know about this," Stan said. He gestured toward the window; the ex in question was currently circling above the gift shop entrance, like a vulture waiting for something to die. "Exactly how do you 'date' an eye-bat? Just—how does that work?"
"Well, it depends on the eye-bat, doesn't it," Bill said, a touch patronizing. "They don't all have the same tastes, you know. But she happens to like art films and water parks. Easy date."
"I'm not talking about that! You're telling us you slept with an eyeball with bat wings—right? That's what we're talking about, right?" From the corner of his eye, Stan saw Ford giving him a sharp look, but he didn't tell Stan to stop. Yeah, the nerd was curious, too.
"Yes, Stanley." Bill's condescension was almost more overpowering than the kitchen's stench. "That's what we're talking about. I 'slept' with an eyeball with bat wings." He exaggerated the finger quotes around the euphemism. "Any more prying you want to do into my personal life, or...?"
"You look at that freak out there and think it's appealing?"
Bill stopped stirring and squinted out the window. Flatly, he said, "Yep. She's still drop dead gorgeous. Thanks for asking."
"How do you even know that's a she! How can you tell a girl eye from a boy eye?"
Ford said, "Technically, Stanley, all eye-bats are female." He held up an onion and used his knife tip to gesture at it like it was a model eyeball, "They're parthenogenetic parasites that reproduce by attacking other species' faces and depositing egg-bearing spores on their eyeballs, which swim to the tear ducts to begin incubating. Over the next few weeks, the infected eyeball grows wings and develops its own nervous system while the host slowly goes blind in one eye, until the new eye-bat is mature enough to emerge from the host's socket and seek out her mother's colony—"
Bill let out a strangled scream. "Enough!"
Stan and Ford stared at him.
"Would you stop talking about eye-bat sex?! I'm already riled up! I don't need help making it worse!"
He slammed the stirring spoon down and started pacing. "I'm losing my mind. Do you know what it's like to be randy for something you don't have the right body for?!" He gave them a pleading, slightly crazed look. "I need to feel her pupil contracting against mine. I'd lick her hot, salty tears off her sclera. I'd bite deep enough to taste her retina. I want to look like I've got pinkeye from all the bat spores coating my face. I'd give my right eye just to have one of her wings fingering my eyelid again—but if I cave and go that far I know I'd lose my head and give her the left one too, and then I've screwed up, because STUPID HUMANS BODIES can't regrow their STUPID EYEBALLS—"
He kicked the wall so hard he lost his balance and stumbled back into the stove. "Ow. I'm going insane. I can't take it. I need to kill somebody. I need to set something on fire."
Stan and Ford were petrified. Stan's jaw had dropped.
Bill was panting from the exertion of his outburst, arms trembling, face flushed. His shoulders slumped. The picture of a broken man, he said, "I'd do anything to rim her optic nerve again."
Ford let out a strangled noise.
Bill took several deep breaths. He rubbed his forehead. "Sorry! Wow. That was... I think the fumes are getting to me." He shook his head. "The fumes and the hormones. Human hormones. You know, your species has very insistent..." He gestured vaguely toward the doorway. "I'm—think I should lay down."
Stan and Ford nodded. Bill trudged from the room. A few seconds later, Stan heard springs creak as Bill flopped his full weight on the living room sofa.
Stan and Ford exchanged a look. Stan said, "I shouldn't have asked about..."
"You shouldn't have asked."
"You should have skipped the science lesson."
"I should have."
They lapsed into silence. After a moment, Ford stood up to take over stirring the pot.
Stan resumed chopping onions. "Say, d'you think he staged all that to get out of stirring?"
Ford didn't reply.
"Sixer?" Stan glanced up.
Ford had turned away from the stove, and was staring at nothing with a faraway, troubled look. It was the look he got when he'd just latched on to some mystery that would haunt him until he solved it.
"Ford—?"
Ford slapped down the spoon and stomped into the living room. "But you hate losing your eyeball! So how did you two— I mean—! The spores—?"
"Incompatible biology." Bill's voice sounded muffled. "It's why we never got serious. She wants kids and my tear ducts can't incubate wings."
"Ah! Of course. That makes perfect sense." Ford returned to the stove with a look of triumph.
Stan didn't know how Ford had recovered from that fast enough to ask follow-up questions. Weird nerd. Stan shook his head but said nothing.
####
In Ford's journal, he scratched out most of his speculation about the anatomy of Bill's species, scribbled over the diagram, and added, "I severely underestimated how much his eye is involved."
####
At one point, during Weirdmageddon, when Bill had been torturing Ford for information, Ford had spat in his eye. Bill had licked it off. He'd seemed eerily undisturbed.
Ford would probably wonder how Bill had interpreted that act for the rest of his life.
####
Outside, dressed in a homemade hazmat suit consisting of painter's coveralls and a scuba mask, Soos faced off against the eye-bat, a spray bottle strapped to each hip like a cowboy's revolvers. Dipper and Mabel stood behind him, armed with a rake and a golf club, wearing a bicycle helmet and a football helmet with tree branches taped on. The eye-bat stared them down warily.
Leaning on his elbows over the kitchen table so he could stare out the window, Bill said, "Bet you a hundred bucks she steals Questiony's hat."
Stan snorted. "I'm not taking that bet. You don't have any money."
Bill grunted and turned back to the window, just in time to see the eye-bat dive for Soos's face. Soos whipped out one of the spray bottles, dropped it, ducked down to retrieve it just as she swooped past where his head used to be, and lifted it in time to spray the eye-bat when she circled back to attack him again. She reeled off screeching, eye watering, pupil contracting. Bill winced in sympathy. Poor gal. And she didn't even have an eyelid for protection. But, hey—better for her to suffer than for Bill to risk getting caught in this body. He'd take someone else's pain over his own embarrassment any day.
"It seems to be working the same as it does on any other eye-bat," Ford said. "Good. Once she's gone, Soos and the kids can spray the rest on the roof. That should drive her off while keeping the worst of the scent away from the tourists."
Streaming tears, the eye-bat dove at the kids. They yelled in alarm. Dipper threw his rake at her and missed. Bill flipped up his eyepatch to squint at the battle with both eyes.
"What, do you see something?" Stan asked.
"Just appreciating her sphericality." Bill sighed wistfully. "That spray's gotta be excruciatingly painful—but, I've never seen her that wet before. Sure, we've fooled around with a little hot sauce a few times, but even then—"
"I'm sorry I asked."
Outside, Soos shouted, "Hey! My hat! Give that back!"
Bill wordlessly held a hand out toward Stan.
Stan smacked it away. "Nyeh."
As the eye-bat retreated toward the forest, Ford sighed in relief. "She's gone. It worked."
"You sound surprised," Bill said.
"Frankly, I can't believe that you gave us accurate information on how to get rid of her."
"What! You wound me! Why would I lie about that?"
"To trick us into doing something that strengthens her? To arrange an opportunity to meet her?" Ford suggested. "After all, as one of your Henchmaniacs, she could have helped you escape."
Bill's blood ran cold.
She could have helped him escape. SHE COULD HAVE HELPED HIM ESCAPE! He'd been so worried about not looking stupid or losing his eyes, when all this time—! He could have signaled Iris from the window, and—and the bottomless pit was right there, she could have carried a message to the gang—at the very least, she could probably open doors for him—and instead he just—when he could have—
He watched in despair as Iris's pretty little optic nerve vanished behind the trees.
No, Bill decided—no, getting her help was a terrible plan. If it was a good plan, he would have done it; so it was terrible. He had a better plan. What was his better plan?
"Come on, you think I need her? I've got all the pals I need right here—whether you're ready to admit it or not." He elbowed Ford. Bill had decided he'd wheedle Ford back over to his side, and he would. His survival depended on it. Now more than ever. "I've got a way out, don't worry about that—it's only a matter of time—and she's not part of the plan."
Ford scoffed. "Really. Last night you were moaning about being on death row."
"Wh—Hey! That was..." Not fair. He scrambled to revise his story.
"You're lying about something," Ford said. "If it wasn't how to get rid of her, then it was why you wanted to get rid of her. For all we know, maybe she wants you dead as much as we do."
"Yeah," Stan said, "the 'girlfriend' story sounds crazy enough to be true, but you seem like the kind of guy who has a string of exes who'd love to kill you." (He did, as it happened, but it wasn't his fault he kept falling for petty jealous psychos who hated seeing him thrive.)
Ford said, "If she hadn't been a danger to the tourists, perhaps I should have invited her in to talk."
Unbelievable. Even when Bill did exactly what he was supposed to, he was still the bad guy. "Fine, she was a notorious black widow and you saved my life, happy? Do you like that story better? I made it up just for you." He jabbed a finger in Ford's shoulder. "You know what your problem is? You're too paranoid. You can't trust anything anybody says. You'll only hurt yourself like that—"
Ford shoved Bill's hand away and stepped out of poking range. "I spent years unlearning the paranoia you gave me. And when I finished, do you know what I figured out, Bill? All along, there was only one person I shouldn't have trusted: you."
It stung, but only in a distant, impersonal way; like a hard slap on a numb cheek. Bill turned to give Ford a sour look. "At the lengths you take it to, I could tell you the sky is blue and you'd have to check."
Ford's gaze automatically flickered toward the window.
"Ha!" Bill angrily shoved the table against the wall as he stood up. "Thanks for taking care of my pest problem, boys." He stormed upstairs, flipping his hood up as he went. Ingrates.
####
The view out the attic window was more interesting than usual, mainly because there were three humans traipsing around on the roof spraying eye-bat repellant. From time to time Mabel came by to make funny faces at Bill through the glass; he did his best to one-up them. Once, Soos nearly fell off the roof and died; Bill hadn't laughed that hard since he was murdered.
Their return indoors was heralded by Mabel shouting, "Dibs on the shower!" and Dipper replying, "I take shorter showers, let me go first!" They pounded up the stairs. Mabel tried to take them two at a time, tripped near the top, and by the time she recovered Dipper was already in the bathroom. She groaned. "Augh! Not fair! I don't want to smell like onions and gnome pee!"
"Neither do I! I need it more, I haven't showered in two weeks!"
Bill wondered why Dipper got to go so long between showers without getting dumped in a cold tub in his sleep. (He knew why.)
Bill whistled to catch Mabel's attention. "Consolation prize." He waved a cheap perfume bottle toward Mabel. "We had leftovers after mixing the repellant. It smells like strawberry candy."
"You're my hero." Mabel took the bottle and sprayed it all over herself, in her hair, and under her sweater. "You need a shower too, you know."
"Sure, but until Dolores fumigates the kitchen I'll just blend into the background stink. I can put it off til tomorrow without anyone complaining."
"You're grossss." Mabel emphasized the hiss by poking Bill's arm. "Once I'm clean, I'm not talking to you until you've showered too."
"I'll be devastated."
"Those are my terms!" She kicked aside Bill's cushion-bed so she could sit under the window without stinking the cushions up, and settled back to wait for the bathroom. After a (very short) companionable silence, Mabel said, "It's too bad we had to chase off your ex. I can see why you like her."
Bill gave her a surprised look. "Can you?"
"Iris was so graceful!" Mabel said. "And murderous, but mostly graceful. Like an evil swan."
Bill laughed. "Yeah! Yeah, she is. Floats like a dream. If you think she's graceful in the air, you oughta see her in the pool. She's the only person I know who can make a cannonball look elegant."
Mabel gave him a sly grin.
"What?"
"Look at you. Yooou still like heeer." Mabel propped her elbows on the edge of the window seat and balanced her chin in her hands. "How did you meet Iris?"
For the last couple of days, almost everyone in the house had talked about Bill's ex like she was some kind of malevolent creature, rather than a person. He was used to outsiders talking about his friends that way—heck, most of his friends were malevolent creatures—but it grated all the same. (He missed home.) Just hearing Mabel call Iris by her name was a breath of fresh air. No one else had even asked if she had a name.
"I met her at a party," Bill said. "I'd just gotten a piano and was showing off, and she came by to ask about Earth music. She wasn't in my crew then—but the party was open invite, and everyone in that corner of the Nightmare Realm knew that if you wanted info on Earth, you came to Bill Cipher. So, we talked about waltzes and tarantellas, I played a little Beethoven, we hit things off..."
They talked until the bathroom was free and Mabel went to shower. Sweet kid. Hopeless romantic, though.
When Bill got out of this place, he was gonna find the first boy who would break her heart and kill him before they could meet. It was the least he could do for her.
####
The third entry in Bill's dream diary: "Shooting Star's cartoon is getting to me. I dreamed about the wolf and the cat arguing over who had to host someone's birthday party. The wolf refused to let guests into his enormous mansion, but the cat's house was burning down. They asked me how to resolve this. I told them the cat should execute the wolf as punishment for his inhospitality, take over his mansion, and wear his skin as the party host. The animals were so in awe of my wisdom that I was deified as god of the jungle."
That was not what he'd dreamed. The animals were so horrified at his suggestion that they'd tied him to a stake and forced him to watch as they threw the cat into the flames of her own house. He couldn't remember whether he'd dreamed that he was a triangle or a human.
He preferred his version. Once he'd regained control over his dreams, he could replay this one and make it end properly.
He'd get the hang of this in no time.
####
(You're legally required to tell me if you had a reaction to this one. Even if it's horror. Especially if it's horror.)
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Hi! I literally devoured your Vampire Series, it's awesome!
I was thinking since it's summer why don't our vampires go to the sea? Something like Daemon and Rhaenyra want to see the baby girl in a swimsuit and they're specially prepared for that. But the girl is shy because vampires look just divine and she has quite a few scars and marks left on her. And in the end they calm her down.
um! yes! 100x yes! This one is a blurb I AM INCAPABLE OF WRITING THEM. ENJOY THIS 1K+ baby mind you :) So have fun spending a day at Summerhall.
Vampire!Daemon x reader x Vampire!Rhaenyra
masterlist | series masterlist | Vampire AU
warnings: compulsion, oral (F), mentions of blood. a very teeny tiny allusion to self harm (if you squint)
a/n: also Netflix exists in Modern!Westeros :) also reader is kinda toxic but hey this is a dark series so eh. Also other than Marvel, lemme know what odd niche thing you think exists in Modern!Westeros (Teslas? Harry Styles? Cupcake Remixs? EUPHORIA?!) Also, Summerhall is built on one of the StepStones island and reader lived in Storm’s End
Rhaenyra had been worried, you weren’t yourself the past few days. Having merely shown them a glimpse of the sunshine you were for a week, you became quiet again. Obediently offering up a wrist or lifting your skirt for Daemon when asked, pulling up your hair and dropping to your knees on Rhaenyra’s command. Then returning to shield yourself within the pink walls of your rooms. Binging some medical surgery show and smiling along at its romance.
They had your things shipped from your old apartments up at Storm Street, even your little cactus on your coffee table was returned to you safely. Daemon bought you a much larger one, thinking it would have made you happy. You admired the gesture, but it was big and just a little bit ugly. You spent a few hours scrolling through your laptop and phone that was also returned to you, you wouldn’t run, they knew you wouldn’t. Your mind so tightly in their grasp, you no longer looked at the main gates around the island.
Today you laid curled in the theatre room, a melting bowl of strawberry ice cream on your lap as you hummed along to another concert documentry, you missed going out— the fun behind getting ready with friends, the drunk unrelenting laughter and feeling damn sexy by choosing to dress slutty once every month. Now all you saw was scars, yellows, blues and purples. They would have taken longer to heal if Mrs Stone hadn’t brought you a steaming cup of tea with two drops of either Daemon or Rhaenyra’s blood.
You would never see them on the days you healed, away from the island for their business, and you were happier for it. Finding the scarring rather displeasing to look at and relief that you could frolic around this giant property in your PJ’s and messed hair. Sometimes when you truly felt lonely, you would put on your headphones, blaring against your ears as you danced down the hallway. All of whom in witness were the many paintings of Old Valyrian nobility and Targaryen royalty. The first day you did it, merely mumbling along the lyrics but by the end of the month you were sure Mrs Stone could hear you screaming the songs from the kitchen.
The same over and over again for four days at a time, you grew a little worried over your mother—her silence was agonizing to this day. She didn’t have much to say, you wanted to tell her, you were lonely and even alone you might have been addicted to the gentle heaviness in your heart every time you woke up in bed alone after an exhaustive night of being fed on. Yet everytime you heard their car doors thud close, you’d run down the grand stairs to greet them barefooted and in a pretty dress. Throwing yourself at whoever walked through the doors first.
Today in particular, you stood in your giant closet, finally feeling comfortable to partake in all that it was stocked with. While you were happy that your older clothes found a home within the white trim dressers. The gowns, the little girl in you screaming as you put one on, you couldn’t lace it through though, all poofy and tulle. Underneath you had on a lingerie set, throughly pretending to be one of those catalogue models.
You took to the east wing hallways again, waving at the portrait of Baelon Targaryen. Waving around your skirts to a up tempo song and the cool stone underneath your feet. You came to stop at a glass enclosing, Rhaenyra’s coronation gown and her crown laying on a velvet red pillow. Your reflection covering the silhouette of the dress, you imagined yourself in it. You were sure the seams of the dress were made of gold threads.
You were pulled out of your thoughts at the sound of the main gates opening Daemon’s car waiting behind it.
Fuck. They were home early.
You hiked the skirt of your gown and ran down the hall to your bedroom, struggling hard to be rid of your dress and gazillion straps on your lingerie and changing into a more modest sundress to cover your bandaging. You knew you wouldn’t make it down the stairs in time so you sat down on the arm chair by the fireplace with a book. Trying hard to calm your thudding heart. Just as you expected a knock rang down your door before it opened just a little.
Rhaenyra poured in, dressed in a long red dress. Her arms wide as she came to engulf you, snuggling her chin on top of your head.
“I thought you would return the day after?” You asked, smiling up at her.
“Hmm, the Bravosi deal cracked a lot easier than we had hoped and Daemon found a fine meal last night. So we thought we’d return to our darling sooner.” She explained, lifting you up to sit in your spot and pull you down on her lap. “Unless, you didn’t want us to.”
You shook you head, resting it against her temple before reaching lower with your lips to kiss her. “Where’s Daemon?” you looked back to the open door.
“At the docks getting the yacht out.” she said, tucking your hair behind your ear and rubbing her nose against your neck.
“The yacht?” you were sure they even had nuclear weapons under this palace and Daemon could have been Iron Man because why not? You just wonder why.
“Well the weather is just too perfect to waste it so,” she looked towards the window “and I thought you loved swimming, what better way to spend today?”
Rhaenyra could hear Daemon grumbling down at the beach, scolding yet another house keeper for some odd detail they might have missed. She shook her head “I’m going to go check on Daemon before he rips the head of another worker. Get changed.” She pecked your lips before leaving to find Daemon.
You padded back into the closet, this time putting away the gown you were messing around in neatly. Probably costs an eyeball, you dig around for while to find your older swimsuit, a cute green one piece with paisleys on them, perfectly worn in. Then it hit you when you looked around your closet for a moment. Greens right… you loved that one and now it was probably burned along with other green clothing that you were now noticing missing.
You groan when you can’t find it, instead find a sea of newer one and two pieces. You nearly bang your head twice against the drawer before pulling out a white one. Just as you change the dread fills you, they’ve never seen you like this. Not so bruised, usually all that’s left by the time they lay with you again are small puncture scars that they yet again poke through new. Finding no reason to find a new favourite spot to drink from.
You grimace at the odd colouring of your scars clashing with the white, damn it, stretch marks would have been one thing. It was bearable to you but these scars were ugly. You hastily peeled a patch bandage and sticking them on your inner thighs, the left backside of your shoulder (not and easy accomplishment) and neck. Then you prayed to the gods of makeup gurus and tried to hide the yellowing with concealer. It didn’t work very well but it was better than before, instead of pulling on a cover up you pulled an cardigan with longer shorts. Groaning in your hands before leaving to find them.
You stood at the gates, you couldn’t leave them. Tapping your foot, wondering if they forgot about your little predicament. “I’m stuck here!” you chided out loud, knowing they could hear your from the beaches lower.
Daemon was quick to the gates, you hugged your torso, hoping none of the scars where viable as he gave you a once over. He was sizing you, eyes squinted as he leaned on one hip. He approached you, letting his palm curl around you cheek as he kissed you, commanding—almost a threat.
“You can go through gates,” you mind went blank as his eyes dilated.
“I can go through the gates.”
Your eyes cleared and you looked to gates, Home..? No, no. You stay here now.
Daemon was still watching closely, taking note of the way your heart jumped for a moment. He wanted to trust you, not that you could run far from the bridge across to the mainland forest. He thought maybe you were pliant enough that he wouldn’t have to. Yet your heartbeat jumped once more.
“You will not run.” His eyes dilated once more, clutching your jaw harder.
“I won’t run.”
You shook your head once more and the butterflies faded entirely. “Head down the steps on the left. Nyra is waiting for you on the dock.”
You nodded before skipping down the gates, not a second glance was offered to the mainland bridge. You ran down the long dock to Rhaenyra waiting in the boat your thudding ballet flats warning her much before. She helped you onto the boat, before swiftly twirling you into her arms. Her fingers feeling under the fabric of your cardigan and smiling at the feeling of your bathing suit.
The sun had its glare set upon the open warm sea, the cool winds however making the weather bearable to your skin. In the one hour you had been on the boat, you had been hen mother scolded by Rhaenyra twice. First because you forgot to bring a pair of sunglasses. Second, you only had a bowl of strawberry ice cream for breakfast. You had sheepishly smiled at her as Daemon smirked at his wife. He didn’t mind you being spoilt, anything to keep you here willingly—he didn’t enjoy compelling you. The consequences of compulsion would rain down far worse on you than them.
There were already a few signs, odd blurring of your memories of your older life. You had entirely forgotten which middle school you went to until the reminded you uncomfortably in a conversation. Luckily the many photos albums and stashes of Polaroids you had at your apartment were more than enough grout to fill the gaps in your memory. Then there was spurts of blank, one moment you could be speaking or whimpering in their arms to just blank—robotic like the colour drains from your eyes.
“I wonder what other spoilt things you are up to in the day,” Rhaenyra huffed as she pulled your other leg onto her lap to rub sunscreen on. She knew, both her and Daemon very much knew about the dance parties with their ancestors in attendance. From all the cameras around the house that they checked upon every night away from you.
“Does talking to Aenys Targaryen count?” you giggled, making Daemon’s eyebrows perk up. “He seemed like a good listener, very pretty.”
“Very weak.” Daemon coughed. “What else?”
“Uh… watched a documentary on whales actually. Fascinating.” you mused before looking out to the sea “I’d like to see one some day.”
“Now, why don’t we go for a dip huh?” Rhaenyra pawed at your pink cardigan, the gentle pull gave her glimpse of the white bandage. “Are you still bleeding?” Her eyes scrunched.
“Did you not take the tea?” Daemon questioned, immediately wondering if Mrs Stone would soon be lunch.
“No— I did.” You shook your head, completely forgetful of the anxiety bubbling within you an hour ago. Rhaenyra tilted her head, confused at the rise in your thudding heart. Daemon too pushing down his sunglasses to look at your with a frown upon your face. Your mouth opened and then closed.
“Well?” he questioned with his palm out.
“You’ve never seen me on healing days, it— it’s not pretty,” you stuttered “so I thought I’d cover up.”
Both Rhaenyra and Daemon visually relaxed, both contemplating worse than what was bothering you.
Rhaenyra said nothing, just hooked her fingers around the buttons of your cardigan before pulling it off, Daemon watched Nyra and you, but mostly listening to the music that was your heart. He hadn’t heard something so reactive, accustomed to the rapid increase in his feed’s heart, the crescendo of fear and the sloshing of blood as he controlled its flow from the carotid artery.
You winced a little as Rhaenyra peeled apart the bandage on your shoulder, peppering little kisses on the bruise “not ugly.” She figured if they had stained such delicate skin, they could kiss it better too. She nodded her head to Daemon, demanding he follow along.
Daemon shook his head Nyra, his sweet wife perfectly cunstruck by a human, so was he—maybe, big maybe. He kneeled infront of you, shimming your shorts up to peel away at the bandaging on your inner thigh. His cock twitched at the sight of the healing bruises and the distinctive puncture marks of his fangs.
His pink tongue poked out as he suckled on the spot—keep it fucking marked he thought. You hissed out loud at that, making Rhaenyra kick Daemon in the thigh as a warning glare. He sneered at her before obliging and peppering kisses up your thigh. You wiggled on the spot as his kisses trailed upwards.
“Needy slut.” He muttered under his breath, he could smell your pooling cunt already as Rhaenyra peeled through the bandage on your chest.
Daemon hooked his fingers around your cotton shorts and pulled them down. His nose rubbing up at your clothed mound, Nyra knew exactly what he wanted to do as she shuffled backwards, letting your upper body rest against her chest. She pulled your white bathing suit to one side, letting Daemon groan and flatten his tongue against your warm folds.
He used his thumb to gently push at the hidden pearl, using his tongue to pry open your folds. He was about to open his palm and lay a smack on your mound, he couldn’t help but crave the sound of your yelps and cries. Rhaenyra was faster though, knowing her husband far too well as she reached over to catch his wrist.
“If you’re going to be a dick, we can switch. You like my tongue better anyways, don’t you sweetie.” she teased her husband, this was a fight you refused to get in between as you looked between the pair.
“You didn’t think I was a dick last night with my tongue in your cunt, riñītsos.” He countered, it was never more apparent that they indeed were a married couple.
You couldn’t help stop the cackle that tore through you next, you pursed your lips to stop another from pouring through but instead choked on a yelp as Rhaenyra slapped your cunt. You bit your tongue from smiling as you gave her your sweetest eyes as an apology.
“Don’t be a brat,” she scolded, still giving Daemon a warning glare to be be nice to you “and you keep licking.”
You curled to your side with a moan as the tip of Daemon’d tongue pushed against your hood before suckling it in mouth.
“Daddy.” You mewled, your hands reaching down to grab hold of his silver hair. The ardent feel of his tongue pushing you masterfully to a longing completion.
“Is he making you feel good, honey?” Rhaenyra pulled your chin up to meet your eyes, you nodded breathlessly. “What do you say?”
“Thank you, daddy.” your toes curled around his shoulder as his tongue rapidly flicked against your reddened bud.
Daemon has a voracious need to feel you gushing onto his tongue as he poked into your clenching hole, Rhaenyra reached down to play with you clit but he slapped her hand away— his turn, he knew you liked his tongue the most. He replaced her fingers with his, rolling the bundle of nerves between his fingers. He spat onto your pussy, admiring your scrunched up face as he rubbed tight circles onto your bud.
“Now, whose tongue is your favourite again?” He asked “gotta answer if you want to come today, pet.”
The vehement predicament he had just pushed you into was cruel, just too cruel for your poor heart as you eyes welled up, your bottom lip pouted out. Looking conflicted between Rhaenyra and Daemon as they bottom looked at your expecting an answer. You mouth opened and then closed as your deeply gulped, he couldn’t hold his serious face together for longer. The sweet battle in your mind, he knew your answer would come along with a major punishment at the hands of the other.
He shook his head once more chuckling, making Rhaenyra giggle and press a kiss to your temple.
“Go on, come on daddy’s face.” Rhaenyra whispered in your ear as she let your hair.
You on command, shrieked, relaxing and letting the dam break through as your thighs shuddered along with your body. You hands tightly clutching onto Rhaenyra
“There we go, what a good pet.” Daemon coaxed you through your high as he kept his rubbing going until your orgasm turned to over-sensitized whimpers. Rhaenyra let go of your bathing suit, still stroking your arms as you recovered.
“Thank you.” you huffed once more at Daemon who returned to nursing in his scotch.
“Now go swim.” Rhaenyra patted your thigh as she pushed you up, gesturing at the very calm open waters. You looked to her once, still dazed before looking at the Sunset Sea. You smiled as you climbed down the ladder to the lower deck. Stopping for a moment to drop you cardigan in the floor, before running to the water.
Tucking your legs in a canonball as you squealed before splashing into the water.
Daemon then turned to his wife “you’re getting bossy these days Nyra, don’t make me spank it away.” He warned her as she pulled of her red kaftan to reveal her maroon bathing suit. He laid a quick swat on her milky pale ass as she followed behind you, sitting on the lower deck with her painted feet dipped in the water as she watched you swim.
“She still likes my tongue better Daemon.”
ahhh you guys, this was so much fun to write hehe. I had this scene of Daemyra bickering like a married couple for a long time and I’m so glad I could use it for this AU.
Also, reader was totally screaming The Weeknd songs and Taylor Swift songs to all the Targaryen portraits.
And yes. There will be a chapter where Rhaenyra dresses reader in 120AC attire for roleplay :)
Ps. I’m trying to piece through a Vampire lore like pros cons and might do a backstory of their turning :)
taglist (thank youuuu!! ♥️♥️)
@fan-goddess @funnybunnyxxx @avalyaaa @evattude @you-youuuu
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