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wil-acid · 17 days ago

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Growing Pains

AN: Hi hello I know and apologize for this being so short. I honestly just wanted to get it out otherwise I'd rewrite it a million times over. I also wanted to gauge whether this was something anyone actually wanted more off as well. I’m new to writing so if you enjoyed this and would like to see it continued pls do let me know via comments! I also apologize for any spelling or grammatical errors. Thank you <3

Word count: 2k

Content warnings: uh depiction of death, canon typical violence, moonknight is kinda cooky guy, inaccurate depictions of DID.

Moonknight x Spidersona!reader

Introduction w possibility of more chapters

The buildings stacked upwards, tall, old, and crumbling. They told stories that the larger parts of New York had long forgotten about. History. The air felt thick and ominous with something still untold. Trash and broken furniture hugged the walls, pushing you down the center in an uneven walkway. To say it was claustrophobic felt less like an understatement and more like a down right joke.

These parts of the city were often left to disarray. Nobody wanted to take accountability or acknowledge that the people here, struggling silently in poverty, were continuously pushed down by the system. In fact it was easier for the media to contribute the sudden surge in deaths around this neighborhood to drug overdoses then to a sickness seeping through the city. Your nose turned up at the sudden scent that caught in the wind. It was sickly sweet. Rotting. Another one. Even as your stomach tied and untied itself in unnatural knots you steadied yourself, eyes surveying for anything out of the ordinary. The nip that once bit at your skin through the thin suit seemed to still.

Unfortunate innocents were popping up throughout the city dead, yet police seemed to ignore them. There wasn’t any immediate sign of foul play and to ring alarm bells for people higher ups would rather ignore seemed like a sure way to lose funding. A stray reporter brought it up at a press conference just last April. Officials stated that to waste resources on a non-existence issue would be useless and the subject was dropped soon after. Sharp and keen eyes and nose continued to survey, attempting to narrow in on the distinct smell. There. Garbage bags piled up oddly. They were stacked higher than most. A hand limply hanging out amongst a few broken wood boards. Your heart found itself lodged somewhere deep in your throat as you stepped closer. You reached out for those calloused and cold fingers, bile threatening to burn and bubble up through your throat.

Whoever had done this hadn’t even given them the dignity of fully hiding them. Even with the blatant signs of death your fingers made their way to the cold wrist, a ridiculous hope for a pulse. You weren’t entirely sure what you expected but it stung none the less finding nothing but cold skin.

You gently pulled them by the wrist, freeing them from everything piled on top. An older man, wrinkles prominent on the pale blueish skin. You had to keep your breathing steady as you searched through the pockets of the man for any form of identification. Your day to day usually consisted of preventing deaths and robberies. You were well over your head and the new abundance of deaths you’d witnessed in the week alone left tears welling at the corners of your eyes, quickly getting absorbed into the fabric covering your face.

In his inner coat pocket there was a state ID with the label veteran proudly displayed as well as a few crumpled single bills. This caught your attention. Most of the prior bodies were left with no form of identification. Your alternative to putting a name to the face was crudely photographing the body and surroundings. You’d opted to ultimately stop using the damned device unless necessary as a result. Those faces. They were haunting. The hair on the back of your neck prickled. Something or somebody was watching. Spinning around on your heel you locked eyes with a looming figure, high up on fire escapes, peering. They pivoted to run but you were quick to pursue. Thick webs propelled yourself forward. A small doubt gnawed away at the inner most corners of your mind. Chasing after strangers was useless, especially strangers you had no real proof of being related to.

Maybe it had been weeks without any real lead. Just people disappearing and reappearing dead. The stress and lack of sleep. The nights you had to search through every corner of the internet for even a hint of who these people were. Spend days outside of work and college lectures begging people off the street if they knew those faces. A larger part of you seemed to scream the obvious answer. Maybe it was the fact that masked figures don’t watch crime scenes quietly. They most certainly don't hide or run when caught either.

The sheer force whipped cold air at you. A loud clang rattled out in the night as you gribbed onto the fire escape, swinging yourself up and over onto the roof. The figure, already atop, backed away, boots crunching against the gravel as they assessed your behavior.

The proximity allowed you to fully take in who you were dealing with. The most striking feature was the intricate white mask. It was elongated, almost bird-like if it weren’t for the flatness of it. Deep eye sockets, meshed out, concealed the stranger hiding beneath. Aside from the mask there wasn’t anything out of place about them. Just an androgynous sweatshirt and joggers. The mask was no less unsettling however.

“I’m not trying to fight tonight. I just need you to help me understand what’s going on.” Your hands raised into the air, a useless attempt at peace. The wind whipped loose fabric around harshly, interrupting the otherwise fruitless silence. Suddenly without warning they moved towards the edge of the building.

You were quick to follow, hot on their tail. Within a moment the stranger was flinging themselves off the 20 story building. Your stomach sank like it had leapt with them. Your hands stretched out before your mind could catch up, sticky webbing just barely coating the side of their wrist as you peered down at the expanse below you. A deep and relieved exhale released through your nose, puffing smoke into the chilly air.

“Normally it’s advised not to revisit the scene of your crime.” Your voice seemed to cut through the still night air with an unexpected bite. It took even yourself by surprise. You sounded bitter and tired. “I want to know why. What’s so important you’d risk your life to protect.” You pulled the figure over, your hand finding their wrist only to flip them onto their back. A soft wheeze escaped them as the air from their lungs pushed its way out.

They lied there, regaining their composure before trying to get back up. Just as quickly as they attempted to get up, was their hand now stuck to the gravel with sticky mesh. Even in the clear disadvantage there was silence. No move for explanation. This charade was tiring and the night was stretching on with nothing to show for it.

You straightened up to further interrogate them when they’re posture went rigid. With sudden labored breaths this stranger was now attempting to scramble backwards. They were no longer looking at you but instead past you. Your eyes narrowed before following their line of sight. Off in the opposite direction, the neighboring apartment building, a white shape peered back.

How many more visitors were you gonna get tonight? As you glanced back towards your oddly silent companion you were met with a now slumped body. The light casted down from the moon reflected on the small metallic item embedded into the skull of your would be suspect. Now they’re lifeless and offer no more than what you’d started the night off with.

The sound of footsteps on gravel behind made you spin on your heel. Basked in starlight, the brooding and lean man seemed on edge. He wasn’t a stranger but he was far from an acquaintance either. Distant sirens and nightlife filled the silence. He watched you tense and untense, trying to figure out just what to say.

Even through the mask his jaw ticked, frustration laced in his voice.

“Stay out of my way. You’re meddling in things above your understanding.” There wasn’t room for discussion in his comment.

Your brows furrowed in response. “I’m not trying to step on your toes. I want the same as you do.” Your voice was softer than it was a few moments ago. You could feel his gaze burn into your back as you turned to search the limp body. Anything would help really. Your fingers slipped below the mask, pulling upwards on the heavy ceramic craft to reveal a young woman, at worst in her early 30’s. A further investigation through her belongings would bring nothing of value however.

“Wasted enough of our time yet? They don’t carry identification if that’s what you're looking for. Wiped clean from media.” His voice cut through, gruff and startling. You were about to grumble when your head whipped towards the man. What a peculiar thing to state.

“They? Are we talking about multiple?” Your legs screamed as you stood from the previous squatting position. He took a deep breath in, as if steadying himself before he decided to ultimately toss you off the building.

“We aren’t talking about anything.” He moved past you abruptly, shoulder bouncing off of your own. With a swift movement the small metallic item was now returned to his hand, revealing a crescent shape. It would be pretty if it weren't for the unsightly substance on it. With that he began to walk away

“Y’know you're not any better. You aren’t some godly hero. You kill people that happen to be criminals. I don’t know you, I'm not asking to have a sleepover after school, I'm asking for a little help so I can do the one thing I know how too.” Your voice was firm as you began to trail behind. His methods were far from agreeable. Where was the line drawn between what did and didn’t deserve brutality. How could you tell one man not to kill in the name of moral, ethics, or goals, and condone another.

Even so, through all the bitterness you didn’t hate the man. Didn’t even dislike him. At the end of the day, he did what the justice system couldn’t. He kept rapists and killers off the streets for good. You’d seen the good he’s done and provided to the city. Your methods were just drastically different.

His movement paused, as if contemplating something. You almost walked straight into his back at the abruptness. “Shut up.” His voice wasn’t hard, more annoyed, as if swatting at a fly.

Your eyes narrowed. “Are you ser-” You were quickly cut off from your would be ramble.

“I’m not talking to you.” His response was short with no explanation offered. He only grumbled shortly after, as if having a one sided conversation with the air. You were left dumbfounded. How could someone blatantly lie to your face? It was childish. He was supposed to be this put together savior. Sure you couldn't even begin to recall his name but this was far from what you expected from someone so confident in their talents. “Fine.”

“Oh is that one for me this time? Or were you talking to the moon?” Your voice was light despite the sarcastic comment. He peered over his broad shoulder, and you could feel the sudden uncomfortable gaze as he stared daggers at you. He clearly didn’t find your comment amusing.

“I have to finish patrolling. Come back early tomorrow night. Eleven.” His response was met with a resume in his walk.

“So you’re gonna help me?” Electricity shot through your body with excitement. Doing this alone was getting you nowhere but maybe more than one set of eyes and ears around the city could finally allow a peek into just how deep this sickness had run.

“I’m considering it.” With that he left no room for conversation as he was already leaping off the roof top. There was now nothing but the body on the roof and distant sirens to keep you company.

It wasn’t long before you found yourself opening the door to your flat, exhaustion setting in. The lights in the small home were off aside from the dim TV illuminating the middle aged woman nestled into the couch. You couldn’t suppress the soft smile that found its way on your face. You reached for the blanket that fell onto the floor before pulling it back over her and shutting the TV off. You yourself needed rest, tonight was long, and tomorrow would be longer.

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wil-acid · 2 months ago

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Take a Chance on Me (Chance x Transmasc reader fluff/smut)

Summary: Trans male reader DMs for Chance, including a villain that tends to flirt and intimidate at the same time. Things get a bit too steamy for Chance, leaving the reader/player wondering what went wrong. Little do they know-It wasn't that anything was bad, but rather that they did too good of a job...

I haven't posted a lot on this account, but I'm very proud of this fanfic I wrote! It was posted to AO3 with positive reception, so I figured I should share it here? Also I'm taking requests/collecting ideas for those interested--especially for more transmasc readers. Hope you enjoy! First time writing fanfic in 8 years, first time properly writing smut ever.

Featuring some narration from my actual D&D campaign Fully a self insert, as a trans DM who absolutely fell for Chance (despite being a BLeeM supremacy guy (I like Parker too don't worry)) Reader is post-top surgery, no bottom surgery (or dysphoria), and several years on HRT Words used for genitals: sex, cunt, dick, slit

Title & opening are from Take a Chance on Me by ABBA

So much that I wanna do, when I dream I'm alone with you; It's magic

“The woods are quiet this night, and the air grows chill. Your fire supporters as a low mist gathers around the edges of your camp, growing closer as the night wears on. By morning, the fog hangs thick in the air, turning the trees around you into grey ghosts. Then you notice these aren’t the same trees that surrounded you the night before.”

You’ve been GMing for several years at this point. Many players have come and gone, a revolving door of storytelling. It is, however, an interesting scenario you find yourself in–GMing for your own D20. Despite this, you’re not concerned about not rising to his expectations. Why? Well… You glance up from behind your GM screen. Chance sits a couple feet away, enraptured. His eyes are wide behind his glasses, and focused entirely on you. It’s hard to hold your flush back when he looks at you like that. Like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. You clear your throat and continue.

“The moss has disappeared from beneath your feet, replaced with rough gravel. As you look around in fear and awe, the fog seeps through our vision, whisking us away from this scene. We follow a raven’s flight, a literal birds-eye view of the path below. Passing over the hamlet that lies on the road ahead of you, through a town farther down, over a large treeline with branches reaching up like grasping hands. Suddenly, it is ripped from its flight path.”

A gasp makes you look up from your writing, and you see Chance slap a hand over his mouth. When he sees you looking, he lets it fall, moving his other hand to scratch at his neck. He gives you an apologetic smile.

“Sorry! Sorry, I’m really excited.”

You chuckle. “It’s ok. I appreciate the enthusiasm,” you say, sending him a grin back. Then you begin to narrate once more. “The raven falls into the dark, unforgiving forest, no trace remaining. In its place, a large bat continues on its path, its shadow looming across the ground as it screams past. It makes its way past the foliage, revealing a giant, imposing, gothic castle, large peaks piercing the horizon. The bat makes its way to one of the top windows of this castle, tapping on the window with an oversized claw. A pale hand, fingernails like claws, undoes the window and the bat hops inside. As it does so, we cut back to you–troubadour Theobald Goodsong. The mists are closing in on you, brushing against your heels. What would you like to do?”

“Hmmm…” Chance intones. “You said there was a road in front of you, leading to civilization?” You nod. “Let’s go there, then!” He grins expectantly at you. Gods, it’s infectious. It’s quite hard to stay stoic and in character when that 20 megawatt smile is shone directly at you.

“The gravel road leads to a small hamlet, its tall houses dark as tombstones. Nestled among these solemn dwellings are a handful of closed-up shops. There is, however, a tavern. The lights are dim and flickering within the dust-ridden windows, but they are there.” Chance nods thoughtfully.

“Any other signs of life in the hamlet?” He asks. You hesitate, looking at your notes.

“Perception check. DC 13.” He nods. As he shakes his dice to roll, he sticks his tongue out, an adorable quirk that you’ve begun to notice more and more. In fact, you’ve started to notice more about Chance’s mouth in general. But that line of thinking should be shut down before you say or do something stupid.

“Ah, 11.” You shake your head.

“Not gonna cut it, sorry.”

“Damn. Well, I’ll head inside the tavern then.”

“Entering, you can hear the crackling of a fireplace before you see it. The warm light fills most of the wooden building, but the shadows in the unlit corners are long and cold. A large man stands as barkeep. He cleans glasses, one after the other. He has tanned skin, a large build, and sepia-toned clothes. He pays you no mind as you walk in. There are many tables and chairs littered around the room, but no bodies to inhabit them. The hearth warms your bones, but you still feel shivers.”

Chance narrows his eyes, rubbing his chin with hand. “I’d like to call out to the barkeep from the doorstep, not moving closer to him. ‘Hail, sir!’”

You grin, and lower your voice a half octave as you speak in the barkeep’s voice. “‘Hello, traveler,’ he replies, not taking his eyes off of the class he’s cleaning. ‘To who do I owe the pleasure of serving?’”

Your player’s eyes narrow further. “‘Not attempting some fae trickery, are we?’ Theo asks.” You can’t hold back the small burst of laughter at Chance’s caution. Is it misplaced? No, but it’s entertaining nonetheless.

“‘No, no. Just want to know the fine man who’s drinks I’ll be serving tonight.’ You watch as the bartender’s eyes lids fall half open, his sweet words clearly meant with certain intent.” As opposed to the character you’re narrating, Chance’s eyes are wide.

“Oh! Um.” He clears his throat. “Goodsong walks over to the bar, taking a seat. ‘A charmer, eh?’”

“‘I do my best.’” You smirk.

“‘Well, you’ll have to do better than that if you want a proper tip.’” Despite the confident words, Chance looks quite flustered. He may be in character, but he’s clearly not unaffected. You pause and look to him.

“You okay? Sorry, didn’t mean to spring that on you.” You smile weakly at him. “I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable, and I don’t know how you feel about this kind of thing. Sorry, should’ve checked in with you beforehand.” He looks startled at that, waving his hands in front of him.

“Nonono, it’s fine!” That bright grin is back, though it doesn’t hide the flush across his cheeks. “I just wasn’t expecting it from a random bartender, I suppose? But yes, it’s okay!” You smile.

“Ok, good. Continuing on, the bartender smirks at you. ‘A proper tip? My dear traveler, I believe it will be you who would like that. Do not think you hold the power at this time.’”

“I-uh, ‘A beer, please!’” Then, softer, under his breath, “...Holy crit.” The flush on Chance’s face has spread to his ears at this point. You’d like to see how far down it goes. Shit, no, no, no. You’re flirting as this character, you’re not flirting with him. You don’t know if he likes you like that. You only met him a couple days ago, for gods’ sake. One good G&G game with some light flirting doesn’t mean you can just jump his bones. Wait, does he have bones? You shut that line of thinking down, not wanting to get into the biology and ethics of the weird ass situation you’ve been in since those dateviators got dropped off at your house. Back in character.

“‘Of course, traveler.’ He pours you a drink and stirs it behind the bar.” An obvious hook towards a poisoning, but he’d been hoping that Cha-Theo would be too flustered to notice. In character. Stay in character.

“Can I make a perception check to know if he put something in my drink?” Chance asks, dice already in hand. You nod.

“Actually, insight check. DC is 10.” Oh dear gods, the tongue is back.

“Gods dammit! 4.” Chance looks so disappointed, and you smile sympathetically at him. When he catches your smile, he beams back. Good, you were worried for a sec.

“You’re not entirely sure. The drinks here could need to be mixed due to sitting for so long, or it could be something dropped in. The barkeep plops down the mug in front of you. The drink smells warm and heady, a thick dark liquid.” Chance nods thoughtfully.

“Okay. Theo will slowly sip it. Does something taste off?” You tilt your head for a second, thinking.

“Perception or medicine check, your choice. No in-game difference, just mechanical. DC is 15.”

Chance rolls, then whoops, his hands in the air. “YES! 17!” You laugh and clap.

“Huzzah! Yes, you taste something off, something darker and more… venomous in the drink than a usual dark stout would have.” The D20 nods, a sly grin on his face. He looks akin to a cat that caught the canary.

“Theo carefully puts the mug down, drumming his fingers on the wooden bar–casual and nonchalant.” You stifle a giggle at that. “‘My good sir, did you happen to… put something in my drink?’ Theo asks.” You cough a little and straighten your back, getting back into character.

“‘Now, why would I do that?’ The barkeep smirks.” The corner of Chance’s mouth twitches. (Gods, you have to stop looking at his mouth!)

“‘I’m not sure. After all, I don’t even know your name.’”

“‘Nor I, yours. We are on equal footing traveler.’ He says with a mock innocence.”

“‘Who are you, really? A barkeep with no patrons to tend to? Why are you here? What are you cleaning from your glasses but cobwebs and dust?’”

“At that, the barkeep’s smirk twists with disdain, if only for a second. Then it’s right back to an amused facade. It is only now that you realize that the barkeep has been sitting on a small stool this whole time. You realize this, of course, when he begins to stand up. His shoulders, which were at the same height as yours before, begin to tower over your. His shadow envelops you and he leans over the counter, his hands settling on the wooden bar. You cannot help but feel almost trapped by his presence.” A small gasp emerges from Chance. You can’t help a small smile creeping onto your face as you look back at your notes.

“‘My dear traveler.’” The endearment rolls off your tongue. And although it’s meant to be patronizing and make your player feel small, you cannot help the dark warmth it exudes. “‘Do not think that a pretty face will save you from my temper.’ He reaches out and hooks a finger under your chin, tiling your face up to stare directly at him.” As you describe it, you act it out–albeit not on Chance’s actual face, but the air in front of you. Nonetheless, you do not miss the way that his head twitches upwards, as if in response. You do, however, miss the shaky exhale that releases a shudder through the man in front of you. “‘I am not one to be trifled with, charlatan.’”

“Theo grits his teeth, but doesn’t pull away from the hand. ‘Who are you?’”

“‘My name is not important, jester. Address me as ‘Sir’. I believe that should meet your needs, hm?’ He grips your chin at this point, hands more tender than his rough voice. You can feel his callouses, hands rough but gentle.” After a couple seconds of silence, you look up from your notes. Chance’s face is flushed pink, and he’s fiddling with the dice on his bracelets. When he meets your gaze, he gives you a small smile, turning more red than you thought possible.

“I-I’m ok,” he reassures. You relax a little at that. “Just need a second to collect my thoughts.” You cock you head at that, a little confused–he’s usually so quick to respond. Hell, sometimes it throws you off your game as you struggle to put together a response in-character. Nevertheless, after a couple seconds of waiting, he takes a long breath in and responds as troubadour Goodsong once more.

“‘I beg to differ.’”

“The large man’s grin is sharp, cutting.‘Then beg, bard. I shall make you sing for me, one way or another.’”

“‘If you would like me to perform a song, all you had to do was ask.’”

“‘Oh, I think you misunderstand me.’ His grip on your face turns rough, fingers clenching upon your chin. ‘I do not intend for you to read notes on a page.’”

“‘A-Ah, I can improv if you’d like?’” Chance’s voice is breathless. You wonder if you can ask him to teach you how to do a voice like that for a different character, it seems like it’d come in handy.

“‘Do not play coy, little songbird.’ He leans close enough to where you can feel his warm breath on your face. ‘I think I’d like to see if I can make you scream until you can’t make any noises besides singing my praises.’”

“IHAVETOGOTHISWASGREATOKBYE!!” You startle, looking up just in time to see Chance scrambling to leave the room. Your heart sinks into your stomach. Shit, did you push it too far? You should’ve checked in with him more. It’s your job as a GM to make sure your players are comfortable. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You look down wearily towards your supplies. You start cleaning up, trying to brainstorm how you can alter this character to make him less flirty with his evilness. All you can think about, however, is Chance’s beet-red face. Fuck, you thought he was just flustered by it. Was he uncomfortable? Shit. You sigh. You should check in with him tomorrow.

–

You didn’t sleep very well. It wasn’t because Nightmare visited you–no, that would’ve at least been confirmation of some sort of rest. You tossed and turned, unable to sleep, replaying the session with Chance over and over in your mind.

There were so many feelings that kept swelling as you skimmed through it in your mind. Guilt was the first, the most powerful. You should’ve checked in with him more. You should’ve asked beforehand. Given a consent sheet, gods–why didn’t you give him a consent sheet?! Perhaps it was because whenever you played characters like this with others, they would laugh it off. You’re not sure why he didn’t, but perhaps it’s because he’s the actual dice? You don’t know. There’s so many things it could be. But that didn’t excuse your behavior. Fuck. You really should’ve checked in with him more.

The second feeling that keeps popping up was a weird sense of pride. There’s always a weird sort of power complex that comes with being a DM, or just a storyteller in general. Knowing that you can alter how your players actually emotionally react is sometimes a high. To be able to affect Chance, a storyteller himself, that much felt like an accomplishment. Of course, after thinking about this pride for longer than 2 seconds, you immediately went back to guilt.

The last feeling is a bit more complicated. You can’t help but imagine the scenario going differently. Not as your characters, but as you. And more importantly, as Chance. You imagine yourself towering over him, holding his chin in that same firm way. And then you remember that he’s a good 4 inches taller than you, and the scene switches. For you to look down upon him, he’d have to be on his knees. And now you’re thinking about him on his knees. Fuck.

That final feeling, as much as you hate to put a name to it, is 100% lust. Gods, what you wouldn’t give to see him there. Kneeling in front of you, hair a mess, that same shocked expression as before… Eyes wide, pupils dilated, staring directly at you. You, as the object of his affections. You would run a hand through his hair, call him a good boy, he’d call you sir… Shit. You really need to stop thinking about this.

You end up taking a cold shower after that particular train of thought, and end up checking in with Johnny Splash afterwards.

“Hoo, mama! What’s got you hot and bothered?” You raise an eyebrow.

“I’m sorry?” He flushes and looks away.

“I mean, the water was practically evaporating into steam! Is there a certain someone who’s on your mind? Is he keeping you warm?” Your other eyebrow joins the already raised one at the top of your forehead.

“He?”

Johnny yelps. “I’ve said too much! Gotta go clean the grout!”

You frown. The hell was that? Oh well. Might as well check in with some others before… Are you stalling? Yep, you’re stalling for sure. Acknowledged it, still gonna do it anyways. Besides, it doesn’t hurt to maybe get some advice from others. Hm. Who should you talk to?

Abel always has good ideas, and he’s always checking in on different parts of the house. Besides, it’s always nice to check in on him. It’s not like he’ll check on himself, after all.

You pull on the dateviators, and head upstairs. While technically nowhere in the house is exactly empty, the bedroom always feels like it has a sense of privacy. You awaken the bedside table, smiling as the large cowboy appears.

“Well, howdy there. How’re ya doing?” You smile at his warm voice. Always a comfort.

“I’m doing good. How about yourself?”

“Quite alright, just dandy. What can I help ya with?” You pause, pursing your lips. Before you can speak, Abel chuckles. “Oh, boy troubles?” You frown.

“How do you know?”

“You always make that face when you wanna talk to me about a cute new buddy you found. Whosit this time?” Abel smiles sympathetically at your responding sigh.

“Well, no one new. I think I may have messed things up with Chance yesterday.” The table raises an eyebrow at you expectantly. “We were playing some G&G and I was roleplaying as this villainous character who kind of threatens in a flirty way, and I think I made him uncomfortable. Halfway through the session he kinda just… ran off. I feel really bad about it.” You look up at Abel. His expression mixes both amusement and sympathy, and he pats you with a strong hand on the back.

“Oh bud. You’ve just solved a mystery for me.”

Huh? “Huh?”

“Well, yesterday I was just sitting in the foyer. Having myself a nice, relaxing sunset. Chatting it up with Stella and Dorian. Then suddenly, Chance comes bursting through the office door. He’s red as a poppyfield, and we’re all wondering if he’s okay. Dorian’s worried for him, asks him what’s wrong in that ‘I’ll kill whoever did this to you’ voice he does.” You nod. You know that voice. “Chance can’t properly form a sentence, just splutters something out about needing some ‘alone time’. Dorian asks if he should grab you, cause you tend to help us out whenever something’s botherin’ us.” You smile, and Abel grins back at you.

“Aww, that’s sweet of you guys.”

“Shucks, bud, you’ve done so much for us. ‘Course we’d assume you’d wanna help us anyway you could–not to mention, we all know how much you love G&G. Anyways, Dorian asks if he wants you, and–kid you not–Chance goes even more red! Didn’t think it was possible, full honeycrisp apple red at this point. Doesn’t even finish his thought, just goes runnin’ off again.” Your stomach sinks.

“Dammit. I was hoping he just didn’t feel good or something. I hate that it was me who made him feel bad.” Abel blinks at you.

“Are ya serious?”

“...What?”

“He wasn’t uncomfortable with it. At least, from what I saw, it looked like the opposite!”

“What do you mean?” Abel grins at you, nudging your side with his elbow.

“I mean, he seemed rather enchanted with you.” You feel lightheaded, dizzy.

“You can’t be serious, Abel.”

“Why would I lie to ya ‘bout this?” You don’t have a proper response to that. “Look, if you’re not gonna take my word for it, why don’t ya ask someone who was in the room with you? Someone who saw from the outside? Or if ya don’t wanna do that, you can always ask Dorian.”

“That’s smart. I’ll ask Dasha.” You watch with a smirk as Abel flushes at the mention of the office desk.

“Y-you do that!”

With a laugh, you head into the office, as you do, you check and see that your D20 is nowhere to be found. You frown. Even after Abel’s… idea, you can’t help but feel guilt and anxiety in the pit of your stomach. Sighing, you awaken your desk.

“I can see why you didn’t want me to join your session last night,” Dasha snarks at you. You roll your eyes, failing to suppress a smile.

“Hi, Dasha.”

“Quite steamy, дa?” She grins. You sigh.

“I don’t know. I don’t think Chance was comfortable with it, and I feel real bad about it.”

“Ah, I would not worry about that, my friend.”

“Why’s that?”

“Let’s just say… There was not a dagger in his pocket.”

“...Huh?”

“Like the saying. ‘Is there something in your pocket, or are you-”

“HUH?”

“Yes, not a dagger in his pocket. Not a pencil either. Definitely his pe-”

“OK THAT’S ENOUGH OF THAT!”

“Don’t believe me, just ask Hector. He told me he had to watch the aftermath, after Chance ran away to jerk o-”

“BYE DASHA SEE YOU LATER!”

“Go get him! Remember what I taught you!”

“YEP OK BYE!”

You are flushed bright red when you finally open your eyes again. Ok. So. There are two possibilities here.

The first is that everyone is pranking you, and Chance just feels embarrassed. That would suck ass, and you’d never put on the dateviators again.

The second possibility though…

Fuck it. You groan. Time to talk to Chance.

–

When you find your D20, you see it’s rolled on top of your bedside table. It seems like it’s probably been rolling around the whole day, considering it wasn’t here when you awakened Abel earlier. You take a deep breath. Then you awaken Chance.

“H-hi! Salutations! How are you?” He’s got his hood up, not meeting your eyes. He stands a couple feet away, leaning slightly on the table you awakened him from.

“Hey Chance. I’m okay, how are you?”

“Oh, I’m good! I’m good, yep! How are you? Nope, already asked that. Haha! Ha…” He laughs nervously. Your heart twinges.

“Look, I’m sorry about yesterday.” Chance sucks in a breath. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I should’ve checked in with you more, or… something. But yeah. I’m sorry.” You sigh, closing your eyes for a second. When you open them again, you see him holding his hood, slowly bringing it down, the sparse dying rays of sunset hitting his face.

“Oh. I… Crit, I’m sorry.” You blink.

“Whatever for?” He gives you an apologetic smile, eyes not quite meeting yours.

“I wasn’t uncomfortable. I’m sorry you thought it was your fault, I promise it wasn’t.”

“But you…”

“I, um. Look, I…” Chance meets your eyes at this point, the brown of his iris tinted extra red with both the sun and his glasses. He hesitantly gets closer to you. Step by step, like trying not to spook a stray cat. You let him, can’t help but yearn for anything he’ll give you. “I wasn’t uncomfortable. You didn’t make me feel uncomfortable. I was, um…” His face is flushed red, and you can tell it’s not just the lighting. He slowly reaches a hand out, tenderly touching yours, waiting to gauge your reaction. After you don’t move away, he takes your hand in his, clasping it warmly. Then, ever so slowly, he leans down and softly places a kiss on your knuckles. Your mouth falls open and you gape at him. He flushes even more, but still holds your gaze. “I want to court you properly. Not… in a game, not just a oneshot. A campaign with no end.” He coughs, dropping your hand. “I left because I was worried I’d do something I’d regret if I kept hearing you say such… salacious things.” Chance looks to you, those eyes wide and hopeful.

“Uh.” His face falls. “I uh.”

“It’s ok if you don’t wa-”

“I want that too.” There it is again, that 20 megawatt smile. Only for you. Forever, if you both want.

“Oh, Crit, really? Oh this is wonderful! I’m so happy!” He laughs, taking your hands in his once more. You smile at him. “Can I…?” You nod and lean towards him, taking one of your hands back to cup his neck. When your lips meet, it’s soft. Warm and tender. When you pull apart, Chance’s face is bright red. “Crit charisma check on me. Oh my stars.”

“You’re such a dork,” you tease. His grin doesn’t cease.

“Yeah, but I’m your dork.” You chuckle.

“That you are.”

–

After a couple days of enjoying your newfound love for one another, you find Chance on your bedside table late in the evening. When he appears, he’s sitting on the bedside table, a shaky smile on his face.

“Hi,” you greet.

“Hey. I, um.” He turns his face to the side, breaking your eye contact.

“What’s up?” Though you can’t see his face much anymore, you can see when the pink tint flushes over his ears.

“Remember that game you were GMing?” You nod. “Could we um… continue the scene?” After a second of recalling, you chuckle.

“Oh, I see. Yes, of course, Chance. Do you want me to call you Theo?” He shakes his head.

“I liked, um… the other names in the scene.”

“Oh? What names are those?” You know what they are, you just want to hear him say them. Chance looks up at you, frowning.

“Did you not write them down, or–oh.” He stops when he sees the smirk on your face at his confusion. “Ah.”

“Why don’t you remind me, hm?”

“Um, uh… traveler was the first one.”

“Do you want me to call you that?”

“...Not really?”

“Hm. Which ones do you want me to call you, then? No need to name the ones we won’t use, after all.”

“I, um, uh… songbirdanddearwerereallygood”

“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that?” You tease.

“Songbird and dear were really good!!”

“There it is. Well, if those are what you want me to call you. But in exchange…” You watch the bob of his adams apple as he swallows, hard. “You should call me what your character did, yes? It’s only fair.”

“Ok, barkeep.” You laugh as the jab catches you off guard. He grins at you, that cat-eat-canary face back once more.

“Alright, well you know that’s not what I meant.”

“Yeah, yeah. Ok, sir.” Just like that, the teasing vibe in the room is gone. The honorific is drawn out more than intended, weighty and low. You wet your lips, and watch as his eyes follow the movement. You step forward, following Chance as he steps back, until the backs of his thighs hit the bedside table. “Should, um–” Chance’s mouth shutters closed as you lean over, placing a hand on the table, boxing him in. You nudge his knees apart with one of your own, settling it between his. Finally able to make it a reality, your other hand cradles his strong chin. You smile sweetly at him.

“Is this alright, dear?” He gulps and nods rapidly. You move your hand from his chin to his cheek. “What’s your safeword?”

“T-Tiamat.” You chuckle.

“Fuckin’ nerd.” He pulls up a hand and pokes your stomach. “Hey!”

“Pot-kettle, since you knew who that is.” You both share a warm smile. “Ok, I’m ready.” You nod, then move your hand back to his chin to grasp it once more. When you speak, you lower your voice back to that register that the barkeep spoke in.

“Songbird.” The gasp that Chance lets past his lips is music to you. You grind your thigh into his, savoring every little exhale and choke he lets out. You press your lips to his, as if trying to swallow every sound he produces. After a minute or two, he jerks back. You look to him, concerned, but he just shakes his head and looks away, flushed bright red. It’s then that you realize that he’s been absolutely rock hard this whole time.

“I, um. Crit. If you keep going I’ll fail my Con save.” Gods, what a dork. It’s surprisingly hot. You move back, enjoying the way that the D20 tries to follow you.

“I’m going to get onto the bed, dear. You stay on the floor. Take off your shoes and anything that could break.” He nods rapidly. As you move to sit on the bed, you begin to take off your socks (no shoes in the house). By the time you’re properly sat, Chance’s glasses, bracelets, and hoodie/vest/cloak(?) are set safely to the side. He looks at you with large eyes. You smile at him. “Good boy.” The effect is instant. His face goes bright red as he rubs his legs together. “Kneel.” Near-instantly, he’s at your feet. It’s almost just as you pictured, but now it’s solid. Real. It’s so much better than whatever your imagination could have conjured up. You take a second to shimmy out of your pants, the man watching you, enraptured, the whole time. He looks at you like each patch of skin is another portion of a battle map, each containing something special, crafted for pleasure. When they’re finally off, you run a hand through his hair, enjoying as he leans into the touch. “You’ve been a good boy.” He shudders in your hand. “What would you like to do, songbird?” He shifts his head to move his lips to your palm, kissing the skin with reverence.

“Can I taste you?” He looks back up to you and your breath catches as your gaze catches on his. He looks debauched, and you want nothing more. “Sir?” You bite back a groan at that. You’ve never really wanted bottom surgery, but right now you want nothing more than to be able to fuck this man raw. However, he did ask, and he shall receive. You nod.

“Of course, dear.” He smiles, standing up slightly to put his hands on your waist.

“Can I…” He hesitates as one of his hands slip under your shirt. You nod, then gasp as his warm hands touch the skin on your stomach. Gods, they’re soft. And large. Shit, each finger would… Pay attention! He carefully pulls your shirt over your head, stepping back to fold it carefully. The tender care he puts into it makes your heart ache. When he comes back, he rakes his eyes over your form. You’re not very self conscious–at least, not since HRT started doing its job–but that doesn’t mean you don’t want him to like how you look. He places his hands ever-so-softly onto your stomach, sliding up little by little until he reaches your chest, gently tracing your top scars. He smiles at them, saccharine sweet, before placing a tender kiss on each line of sewn flesh. “They’re beautiful.” Your heart catches in your throat. Then the moment is over and he’s tracing his hands down toward your navel, following the smatterings of hair to your boxers. “Crit. Please?” He looks to you, pleading.

“Yes, yes please.” You breathe.

His hands pull them down and off of your legs, taking the same care as before to set them aside. When Chance comes back, he sharply inhales, just looking at you. “Oh Gods. Oh Crit. Okay.” You place a hand on his cheek.

“You doing okay, songbird?” He nods, smiling.

“Yes, just wanted this for a long while.” Lust, strong and heady, spins in your mind. And that’s before he’s kneeling again, strong hands on each of your upper legs. He leans and begins to press kisses into the insides of your thighs. Slow and closer to your knees at first. Each touch of his lips to your skin feels pious, each shift in the grip of his fingers on your body a psalm. By the time he finally reaches your sex, you’re practically dripping wet. Before diving in, he looks to you.

“A-ah, please, Chance…” At the sound of you moaning his name, he moves his mouth to your cunt. You gasp as his tongue presses against your dick, stimulating the bundle of nerves that have been overcharged from testosterone. The D20 teases you there for a bit, seemingly content to watch you writhe, until he moves to finally penetrate your slit with his tongue, muscle pressing against muscle. You whine as he pushes inside, moving to cover your mouth with the hand that isn’t tangled in the man’s dark hair. But his passive perception must be better than you thought, because he effortlessly moves one of his hands from your thigh to grab your moving arm. He emerges from your sex, mouth shiny and eyes dilated so far they look black. He’s panting a bit. Before he speaks, Chance licks his lips, swallowing down any of your slick remaining there. Shit, it’s almost like he’s trying to kill you.

“I wanna hear you,” he speaks, almost a whisper–a prayer. “Please?” Holy shit he for sure is trying to kill you. You nod, pulling your tangled fingers through his hair. It catches on a knot, tugging, and Chance moans into your pelvis. Fucking hell. When he returns to his task, it is with the urgency of a dying man. He laps at your cunt like it is the eucharist, his hands mapping your body by touch as if to memorize its peaks and valleys, as if it will graph like Faerûn. Once you’re sure he could recreate your body by touch alone, he moves back to catch his breath, only to replace his tongue with his fingers. You gasp as one slowly enters your body, so damn thick, so warm. After you acclimate, he begins to move, as if attempting to use somatic components to cast a spell inside you. Then he presses on something, and you gasp, your back arching. When you stop seeing stars, you glance down to see Chance staring up at you, a smug grin on his face.

“Sleight of hand crit, yeah?” In revenge, you tug on his hair again and he groans.

“Shit… Chance,” you pant. “Do… that again?” He smiles and nods, before leaning back down.

With his full attention, it’s not difficult to find yourself falling apart quickly. First the finger goes back in, then swiftly joined by a second one. Almost like manipulating the Weave, the D20 finds that spot once more, softly rubbing and jabbing at it, pulling you apart piece by piece. When a third of those thick fingers joins, you groan out. “F-fuck. Not gonna last.” It’s then, of course, near your peak, that his sneak attack comes. While pumping three fingers in and out, Chance leans in and begins to lap at your clit. You gasp, quivering, until you finally reach your peak, moaning his name.

After a couple minutes, you begin to recover. You’re fully in the bed now, covers pulled up as Chance is walking towards you, disposing of a tissue in a nearby trash can. He smiles softly at you. As you motion for him to lie next to you, he speaks.

“So… Successful charisma check?” You chuckle.

“Yeah, I’d say so.” Then you pause, thinking for a second. “Do you need me to…” As you look to his pants, you notice that he’s in just his boxers (which are patterned with different types of dice– d4s to d20s. Cute.), which have a mostly-dried but still noticeable stain in the front. He clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck.

“Yes, I, um.”

“Failed that Con save after all, huh?”

#date everything #chance date everything #fanfic #x reader #transgender reader #transmasc reader #reader insert #trans reader #date everything game #date everything chance #date everything fanfic #reader x character #reader x canon

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