#china man's hat | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kingofthe-egirls · 9 months

Text

ARCTIC: LAW x Y/N

brothel au

(cw: sw, brothel, reader is a new prostitute, sex, fingering, stripping, daddy kink, princess pet name)

(a/n: i've never written anything for law! sooo i'm curious to see how this one will turn out lol)

Songs: "Glances" by Fırat Durak

words: 1.9k

"So, are you new here?" The snow leopard of a man sits across from you, idly stirring his tea. Long fingers decorated with black-ink tattoos hold the silver spoon delicately. You nod your head.

"Just s-started," you admit, knotting your hands in your lap. You two are seated inside one of the brothel's VIP booths: lined with silver wallpaper that glitters with pink-rose lamps. There's a low, lacquered table in between you and the captain of the Heart Pirates.

You smooth the kimono's silk fabric over your lap, adjusting in your seat. The long sleeves get in your way, sort of, as you reach forward to pour yourself a cup of tea. The china teapot rattles a little, in your hands. Trafalgar Law raises an eyebrow. His eyes are so chilling.

"Show me what you can do," he suggests, leaning forward with a leering grin. His grey eyes sparkle, just slightly, but you've yet to be warmed by them. You twist your lips.

"I-I can play the shamisen," you start, stirring cream into your own porcelain teacup. Flowers decorate the inner rim. "I've also learned fan dances, literature, poetry readings, if you'd like," you list your skills off on your fingers. He watches you, his lithe body still. He's draped over his seat, long arms extending across the back of the plush, velvet banquette. You perk up, "Oh! I also do flower arrangements," you smile. The warlord tilts his head.

"Is that it?"

Your cheeks flush, your bottom lip burning a little on the too-hot tea. Steam fills your senses, and you cough. He laughs, and you hurriedly set the teacup down. "N-no, that's not all! I've been trained like any geisha," you flick your hair over your shoulder, the locks brushing against embroidered silk. "In all manner of entertainment," you lift your chin haughtily. You drum your fingers against the side of the teacup, waiting for it to cool down. Law leans forward, hands steepled with his elbows resting on pointed knees.

"Is that so?"

****

Now, you brush aside the warlord's dark hair from his face. You're sitting on his lap, now, still enclosed in the private booth. A heavy velvet curtains hides you from the rest of the brothel: dampening the sounds of music and dancing from outside. His hat is next to him on the seat. You wonder if it's soft to touch.

He scratches his jaw against your face. "What would you like me to call you, ah?" He smiles a bit, crooked and devilish. Although, now that your legs are straddling his thighs, and the denim presses up sharp and scratchy into your heat, he's starting to look a little bit warmer now. A faint blush tinges his cheeks as you spread your hands across his chest. His button down shirt is open halfway to his navel, and you slide your fingertips along the muscles planes of his chest. You trace the tattoo with your index finger. His blush deepens.

"Y/N."

He twitches an eyebrow, "Very pretty, Y/N. Mind if I call you princess, too?" His hand wraps slowly around your hip, oh so slightly bringing you closer to him. You feel warmth pool between your legs. You hope he can feel it, as you grin. You lace your hands around the back of his neck, greedily drinking in the lustful haze you see forming in his slate grey eyes. They flutter shut as you scratch through the soft hairs at the base of his neck, long lashes brushing his cheeks. You lean down to place a gentle kiss on one, and then the other. He lets out a shaky sigh, and you giggle (you can't help it, temptress that you are).

"Princess works for me, Doctor."

He gleams bright red at that, and you laugh outright. He shifts, sliding his gaze away as his hands tighten around your waist. You soften the glow of embarrassment, leaning in to trace soft kisses along his jaw and down his neck. His facial hair scritches against your skin, and you nuzzle into him a bit. "I can kiss ya for free, y'know."

He huffs at your teasing, and fishes into his back pocket for his wallet. You squeal a little, getting shifted on his lap as he adjusts to holding you with one, lithe arm. You lean into the strength of him, letting your weight relax against his hold. His long hands curl into the fabric knotted at your waist. He tugs a little, at the strings.

"Can I take this off?" His breath is warm, and fuzzy on your cheeks. You graze your lips against his, feeling his breath flutter beneath you. Quietly, you nod. You nip at his earlobe, naming your prices for the services you offer. He hums, nodding along.

After he pays you, you stand up. You sit back on the coffee table in front of him, just barely far away enough for him to get a look at all of you. You tease him, playing with the collar of your kimono. Slowly, you strip for him. He gazes at you silently, assessing your form with clinical accuracy as you undress. His hand goes to palm his cock through his jeans. You smirk, kicking a foot as you lean back to play with your tits. You roll a nipple between your finger and thumb, and Law groans. He crooks two fingers at you, rasping the command: "Come."

You slide over to straddle him again, retaking your rightful place on the throne. "Gladly," you whisper, kissing his neck. He traces his steady fingers up the expanse of your back, now fully bare for him.

"You're gorgeous," he moans, rocking his hips up into you, gently. You smile, blush dusting your own cheeks, now. He swipes a thumb across your bottom lip. He presses into your mouth, and you gladly take him. You suck his thumb, twirling the tip of your tongue around his finger pad. He groans, appreciatively. "Good girl."

"Hah," you shudder, pressing down into his hardness faster. He's rocking you back and forth on his clothed cock, both hands gripping the fat of your hips. You bite your lip. "I like that, Doctor."

He grins.

"Good girl," he repeats, "Now take this cock for me, hm?" He raises an eyebrow at you, and you nod. He reaches between you to unzip his jeans, and you pull back far enough to let him get undressed. His toned, tanned figure is revealed to you in its fullness: lit up with ambers and pinks beneath the banquette's lights.

You marvel at the tattoos snaking around his muscled forearms, stretching around languid hands as he leans back. He loosely fists his cock: something hard and strong and unbelievably breathtaking. You lower yourself back onto his lap, letting his tip poke at your entrance.

"Mm," you whine, sensitive, "S'big."

Law groans, and sinks you down further onto his aching cock. He bucks up once, twice. You whimper, stretched out, and try to take it best you can. "S-Slower," you whine, fluttering your hands around his neck. He coos, shushing you softly.

"Sorry, love," he licks his own fingers, before reaching down to spiral softly at your clit. You moan, furrow between your eyebrows disappearing at the pleasure. "How's that? All better now?"

You nod, eyes squeezed shut. He lets you take the rest of him at your own pace, muttering encouragements and praises while he fingers your clit. Butterflies have started to trail down your spine by now, and heat is shaking your upper thighs. "Mmph, feels good, daddy."

He chuckles at the nickname, and strokes his fingers down your back lovingly. He lets his hands rest warm on your lower back, sinking down in his seat so he can help you fuck yourself down onto his cock. He meets your rolling hips with steady, shallow thrusts of his own.

"Say my name, princess," he shushes you as you whimper and whine on his throbbing cock. (His length is...well. You've never felt this stretched out before.)

"Law," you whisper fondly, making eye contact as you cup his cheek in your palm. You thumb at his bottom lip, before leaning in to claim it in another kiss. Your lips brush softly, as he starts to speed up. Your breath hitches in your throat, and mumbled praises start to fall out, all "good, daddy, fuck darling, it feels so good, Law--," and on and on as he fucks you.

He shoots sparks straight into your abdomen, and you curse. "Shit, Law--," you bite your bottom lip, hands raking through his hair wildly, "M'gonna cum--,"

And your back bows forward, forehead pressed to his shoulder as he rocks you through an orgasm. It shimmers down your spine and through your toes, and you gasp in a lungful of air. He smells like sea salt and spearmint. You mouth at his jawline. "Please don't stop," you beg. He grunts in response, face heated and sweaty as you press kisses into his hairline. His mouth goes straight to your tits, licking and sucking all around your sensitive nipples. His hands are gripping you tightly, now wound around your back as he pummels into your from below. His jaw clenches tight, and he groans.

"Fucking shit, princess," he moans, squeezing his eyes shut as he ruts and ruts endlessly into your core. Another orgasm builds behind your navel, and you squirm. He feels you clench around him, and something wicked flashes behind his eyes. "Cum for me, slut," he gives you a harsh grin, squeezing at your nipple. He rolls it between finger and thumb, and you gasp. "Daddy wants to feel you cum."

"Fuck!" You squeal, rushing forward to wrap both arms around his neck. You bury your face in his hair, and breathe in. He smells like pine. "Harder, just like that, yeah--!"

Your eyes squeeze shut as your mouth opens in an "O" with the silent weight of your release. Law grunts, speeding his hips to a jackhammer pace, and follows you into bliss seconds after.

"Shit, princess," he groans, emptying himself so deliciously inside you. His spend and your slick slide down between you, leaking onto his lap and the couch beneath you. Oh well, you think, I'll clean that up later.

Law strokes your hair, letting your head rest on his chest. You hum, eyes closed as you enjoy the afterglow. He had been a sweet lover, surprisingly. Not so frozen after all, you think, smiling to yourself.

"All good?" He asks, leaning down to catch your eyes. You stare up at him, hazy, and nod. He takes your face in one hand, leading you back up to kiss his swollen lips. You make a happy, sing-song noise in the back of your throat. He twitches a smile against your lips.

"All good," you affirm, pulling yourself off him for now. He groans at the loss of contact, and you grin. You turn to the coffee table behind you, slowly bending down to pick up your kimono. You shrug it over your shoulders loosely, letting it fall open around you. You eye him, with a grin. You pick up his forgotten teacup, and hand it to him.

"Seconds, Doctor Law?"

His fingers brush over yours as he takes the teacup from your hand. He arches an eyebrow as he takes a long, loud sip.

"If you insist."

****

#dumpster dive #my writing #one piece fanfic #law fanfic #law smut #law x y/n #brothel au #law x reader #law x you #trafalgar law smut #one piece smut

328 notes · View notes

humanpurposes · 8 months

Text

Sweet Dream

The Sandman AU

Her father means to summon and capture Death, but ends up with the wrong sibling. She becomes fascinated with their prisoner // Main Masterlist

Dream!Aemond x unnamed female character

Warnings: 18+, spells n shit, mild gore, death, lowkey Lima syndrome, smut

Words: 8000

A/n: For my fellow Morpheus and Aemond lovers. Also available to read on AO3.

Roderick Burgess had always been a terrifying man. In grief he has only become more irritable and less predictable.

The telegram came in the early days of July. She delivered the news to Roderick herself, while he was in his study. Her father did not like to be disturbed and he might have beaten her to remind her of the fact, until those fateful words slipped from her mouth. “Randall’s dead.” Shot down by a German machine gun at the Somme. In the end he had been one of thousands, his body buried in a neat line of tombstones somewhere in France, his name engraved on a plaque in the church at Wych Cross, ultimately unremarkable and indistinguishable from the other men and boys who had lost their lives.

But it was not so for Roderick. He let out a sudden groan and clutched his chest as though his pain was tangible and terrible. He shed no tears– of course he didn’t, but he gritted his teeth, crying out in fury as he dashed his hands over his desk, sending papers, books, fountain pens and empty whisky glasses tumbling to the floor.

She stood frozen, waiting for his hand to descend on her for being the one to tell him, but it didn’t.

When they held a memorial service for him, Roderick handed her a piece of paper, to read before the crowd of faces she didn’t recognise.

“Randall was our family’s happiness. He was the bravest, the wisest, and kindest older brother I could possibly dream of having.” Her hands and voice trembled as she read because she knew it was all a lie. In truth, Randall was like their father. They had the same short temper, the same stubbornness and the same cruelty.

But Randall being dead meant she could reinvent him.

Lately, she dreams of happier memories and looks back on them fondly, knowing they can never be contradicted or disproved.

While her father has dreamt of Death ever since.

It’s a brisk afternoon in October when a man in a suit, bow tie and bowler hat arrives at Fawny Rig. He clutches a leather briefcase in front of him and introduces himself as Dr John Hathaway, a curator from the Royal Museum, travelled all the way from London to this quiet corner of East Sussex. She leads him through the panelled halls of the manor, to her father’s study.

Roderick barges in behind them, in a shirt and waistcoat, already smelling faintly of whisky and waving his cane in her general direction. “Tea for our guest,” he orders.

She has the pot ready and strains the dark, reddish liquid into two delicate china cups while her father and Dr Hathaway settle on opposing leather sofas in the centre of the room.

“I take it you have reconsidered?” Roderick says.

“After our meeting at the museum… I know what I said, but–” Dr Hathaway takes an unsure breath. “I received a telegram this morning. My son, Edmund, his destroyer was sunk last week off Jutland.”

It’s a loss Roderick can share, even if he doesn’t really understand how other than a few quick words of condolence. “I lost my son, Randall last year. He was my greatest joy.”

She pauses as she reaches for the sugar bowl. She has never been under the illusion that her own existence has given her father any joy, but then what sort of person would she have to be to earn his respect? She places the sugar on a tray, along with the small jug of milk and the cups, and brings them to the small table between the sofas. The pair don’t spare her a word of thanks or even a brief glance.

Dr Hathaway’s hand lingers on the clasp of his case. “If I give you this, could you truly do it? Could you really–”

“Capture the angel of Death?” Roderick says. “I believe I could.”

She shudders unexpectedly. The old groundskeeper used to say a sudden chill meant someone was walking over your grave.

Dr Hathaway clicks open the clasp and takes out an aged, leather bound book. It has no title on the cover, just gold markings in square, geometric patterns.

“The Magdalene Grimoire,” her father mutters, his eyes wide in an ominous sort of wonder. “With the spells recorded in the book, we will see our sons returned to us.”

The next night is a full moon. She stands by the door with Sykes, welcoming men and women dressed in midnight blue robes to the manor and directing them towards the door that leads to the cellar. They’re all part of Roderick’s ‘Order of Ancient Mysteries’ which as far as she can tell is a cult of fanatics who still believe in witchcraft. They come to Fawny Rig once a month, to listen to her father read from so-called ‘spell books’ as though he is a preacher.

The fanatics pull hoods over their heads and descend the narrow stone steps into the cellar with lit candles grasped in their hands. Roderick leads the way, the book Dr Hathaway gave him tucked under his arm.

She shoots Sykes a concerned frown but he just shrugs. He’s paid to organise the household and guard Burgess’ collection of relics, not to ask questions. Questions are a dangerous game with Roderick.

She trails after them and shuts the iron lock on the door behind her.

The cellar is more like a crypt, an expansive room sprawling under the house, held up by pillars and arches. In the low candlelight she makes out a set of markings on the floor in the heart of the room and this is where the Order of Ancient Mysteries gathers.

The shapes and symbols are unfamiliar to her, painted onto the flagstones, twisting and curling over each other to form a circle. Roderick stands at the very edge of it by a brass lectern.

She watches, half hidden behind a pillar as they stand around the circle and Roderick opens the book, his desired page already marked and studied in the hours since it has been in his possession.

“Tonight,” her father says to his congregation, “we will achieve what no one before us has attempted. We will summon and imprison Death.”

His eyes meet hers through the shadowy space, heavy and sunken with age, grief and months worth of sleepless nights. They glisten slightly too.

He holds his hands out and looks down at the markings on the floor. “Here, in the darkness.”

The others echo his words, softly and melodically at first. Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness.

And so the ritual begins.

“I give you a coin made from a stone,” Roderick says, presenting the object to the ceiling as though the eyes of God are looking down from the heavens, through the house and the earth, and drops it to the floor, inside the circle of markings.

“I give you a knife from under the hills.” He holds up a thin blade and lifts his other arm so the sleeve of his robe drops to his elbow. “I give you the blood from out of my vein.”

She winces but does not look away as he draws the knife along the skin of his forearm, until dark droplets begin to fall and stain the markings.

“I give you a song I stole from the dirt and I give you a feather,” he says, raising a white feather that almost seems to glow through the gloom, “pulled from an angel’s wing.”

And all the while the voices persist. Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness.

He drops the feather and it drifts gently down, landing in the very heart of the circle.

The room is still and she holds her breath.

The feather starts to move. It twists in a circle and floats up, lurching and turning as though it’s being blown about by a breeze she cannot feel or hear.

The voices raise to an urgent chant. Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness.

She clenches her fingertips against the stone of the pillar. She tries to meet her father’s eye again but he is fixated on the feather flying above their heads.

He calls over the chanting, “I summon you with poison,” and the moment he does the feather flickers like the striking of a match. “I summon you with pain! I open the way! I open the gates! I summon you in the name of the old Lords, we summon you together! Come!”

A noise, like a cracking whip splits her ears. The feather bursts into white and golden flames like the flash of a camera. The heat of it rushes over her face and burns her eyes.

And from the flames a body falls to the floor.

It thuds as it hits the ground, silencing the voices save for a few gasps and murmurs. She feels the flagstones rumble under her feet, sees the edges of a black cloak spilling across the floor and a head of long silver hair trailing from its head.

This isn’t an illusion. Roderick Burgess has brought forth a tangible entity, plucked from God-knows-where, lying motionless on the floor. For a moment she wonders if he is dead, until she sees a slight movement in his chest, but even then she fears she could be imagining it.

She takes a few unsure steps to where Roderick stands and the man– he is a man as far as she can tell– is further revealed to her. She can see his face now, his pale skin, the angles of his jaw and cheeks, the curve of his lips, but beyond that she finds herself unable to look away from the jewel that sits where his left eye should be. It is a bright, deep shade of blue and dotted with silver specs, like the vast expanse of twilight when the stars are out but the sky is not quite black. The eye is framed by twisted, red flesh and a scar, slicing from his brow to his cheek. It takes her a moment to realise his other eye, closer to the ground, is closed.

The only other parts of him she can see are the tips of his fingers, clasped around a small pouch.

“Is this… Death?” she utters.

“That remains to be seen,” Roderick says. He points to the pouch. “Get that for me.”

She stares back at her father. How he can speak so flippantly when a man has been conjured, seemingly from thin air, is beyond her. But he glares back, his dark expression only more formidable with his aged frown.

So she steps forward and begins to lower herself beside the man.

“Careful, girl!” Roderick barks, “don’t break the binding circle.”

She stops and looks down, where her skirt is inches from brushing over the markings on the floor. She shuffles back and, with trembling fingers, reaches for the pouch. It’s not hard to take, the man hardly resists, twitching his fingers to keep it in his grasp. It feels wrong, stealing from someone too weak to hold onto what is his.

She looks into the jewel-like eye. Can he see through it? Perhaps it has something to do with the scar? Did he place it there himself, or was he simply made this way?

Someone snatches the pouch from her. She looks up at her father as he undoes the strings and peers inside. “Sand,” he mutters, and stows it away inside his robes.

“And the jewel,” he says to her.

She means to protest, but finds she cannot.

She avoids the markings as she leans forwards. She presses her fingertips beside the man’s eye. His skin is cold and firm.

She swallows her guilt and the nauseous feeling in her throat, nudging her fingertips into the socket. It takes her a few attempts, but she pries the jewel free, wincing when she feels it come loose. If he feels any pain he hardly shows it. His brow furrows but his other eye remains closed, and he makes no sound.

She stands and offers the jewel to her father.

Roderick holds it to the light of one of the candles, giving a curious hum before he pockets that too.

“Move,” he mutters to her, pushing her out of his way as he stands over the man. He tugs on the black cloak and it falls into fragments that fade away, like dust on a breeze. The man’s body is bare, pale skin running over details of muscle and bone. He shivers and twitches like he has a fever, but still he does not speak, or even let out a breath.

“We’ll let our guest recover,” Roderick says, “and then we shall make our demands.

They leave him there for days. He does not move, or ask for food or water.

She doesn’t dream in the nights since they captured their ‘guest’. In fact she hardly sleeps at all. Each morning she wakes, already exhausted, having felt like she’s only closed her eyes for a few brief moments.

Then come the stories in the newspapers. They call it ‘the sleeping sickness’. People all over the country, and in fact the world, have been plagued, either to not sleep at all or never wake up.

On a cold, drizzly morning, a stranger appears at the door to the manor.

She listens and watches from the top of the stairs, crouching by the bannister to stay out of sight as a man with choppy silver hair and pale skin strides into the entrance hall, with Roderick following closely behind.

“Do I know you?” her father asks, furiously.

“No.” The stranger’s voice is low and almost seductive. “But I know all about you, Roderick Burgess, and the being trapped in your basement.”

“You mean to intimidate me?”

She sees a flash of a grin and a pair of pale purple eyes through the wooden balusters.

“I am here to help you,” the stranger says. “There are benefits to keeping one of the Targaryens in your confinement.”

“Targaryens?” her father echoes.

“Did you think Death was the only one of her kind? Death has family. Destiny, Despair, Desire…”

“And who have I got?”

“Dream,” the stranger says with a smile that bares his teeth.

A shiver runs over her shoulders. She keeps her jaw tight to stop herself from reacting to it.

Roderick scoffs. “What good is a God who governs dreams?”

The stranger's voice darkens. “There was a saying in the ancient times of humanity, that said the Targaryens are closer to Gods than men. But they are not Gods. They are more than Gods. They are Endless.”

He tells Roderick of Dream’s vestments, the pouch of sand and his sapphire, both of which he says Roderick may manipulate for his own influences. He says the binding circle will not be enough to contain their prisoner, that they must construct a sphere of glass within the circle.

Most crucially of all, he says no one must be allowed to fall asleep in Dream’s presence.

“Why are you helping me?” Roderick finally asks.

The stranger runs his tongue over his teeth and smiles to himself. “Little family dispute, I shan’t bore you with the details. But for your sake, and for mine, he must not escape.”

He offers his hand to Roderick, who returns the gesture after a moment of hesitation.

Before he heads for the door, the stranger’s eyes trail up to where she hides. Her heart leaps with a sense of dread, like she’s seen something she wasn’t meant to.

She doesn’t trust him, not by the look or sound of him, but her father does. He follows the stranger’s instructions, ordering the construction of the glass sphere, to be welded around their prisoner as it is made. Finally, he arranges a rota of guards to keep watch over him, under strict orders to never fall asleep, lest their prisoner escape into their dreams.

The details of his face are etched into her memory, even after months, the angle of his jaw, the curve of his upper lip, the silver falling over his shoulders. If she could dream, she is sure she would dream of him. Instead she holds onto the flashes of images that appear before her waking eyes, the pale skin of his bare body against the floor, the stars in his sapphire eye, now kept locked away in her father’s study.

She knows Roderick has tried to bargain with him, and each time he returns from the cellar more furious than when he entered it. “He will not speak a word!” his voice bellows through the quiet halls of the manor. “He will not even look at me!”

When she dares to ask questions, Roderick glares at her and tightens the grip on his cane.

The stranger with silver hair was right about something, wealth and admiration have come to Roderick Burgess in droves since he acquired the Lord of Dreams. It’s something about the sapphire, or the sand, something she doesn’t understand, but their family comes across good fortunes, which is almost entirely spent on lavish parties to entertain Roderick’s ever expanding crowd of admirers.

She wakes with the sunrise, from a void and dreamless sleep. The manor is littered with empty bottles, full ashtrays, plates of half-eaten food, odd shoes and playing cards. Her father must still be asleep, which is odd. He is usually an early riser, even after a night of drinking.

A rumbling in her stomach has her heading through the entrance hall towards the kitchen, but she stops when she sees two men waiting by the door to the cellar– two of the guards her father has hired to watch the prisoner, dressed in smart suits with service revolvers just poking out of their jackets. They look restless, peering their heads round corners, shifting their weight on their legs, not wanting to step too far from the door.

“We can’t just leave,” one mutters to the other.

“I’m not staying down there with that… thing one second longer than I have to–”

“Good morning,” she calls.

They look at her in unison, and frown.

“Have you seen Noel and Mauirce?” one of the men asks. “They’re nearly half an hour late.”

The rotation of the guards. They take eight hour shifts in pairs.

Her eyes glance to the cellar door, opened only a fraction. “I could watch him until they get here,” she says, “if you want to leave.”

It doesn’t take them long to agree.

They leave through the front door. When she hears it shut, she finally lets herself reach for the handle to the cellar door. The handle is cold, untouched for hours at a time, and a little stiff. She pushes on it slowly, carefully, making as little noise as possible.

With the cellar door closed, she shuts out the light and warmth of the morning. A silent, icy draft drifts through the narrow stairway. She follows it down, all the way to the dull, eerie light of the main chamber.

The sight takes her breath away, the glass sphere, suspended above the ground, still within the circle of markings that keep his power contained.

He sits in the centre, still bare, his knees tucked into his chest and his hair falling around his face like a veil.

As far she knows, no food or water ever passes the threshold to the cellar, and the cage is never opened. How does he breathe? How does he eat? How does he not wither away? He just sits there, stoic, his face frozen in time like a statue, like the image of a god cut from marble, to be preserved and admired.

A man like that cannot be real, and yet there he is.

“Hello,” she says.

He does not react to her voice or the sound of her footsteps as she walks further into the chamber.

If he can even hear her. She wonders how thick the glass is, if sound can permeate it, or does he just hear the sound of his own breath echoed back to him, endlessly.

She comes to lean against one of the pillars, tracing her fingertips down the cold, rough surface of the stone.

“Are you really the Lord of dreams?” she says.

His gaze lifts and turns to her, just enough that she can see his chin, his nose, and a single violet eye. It is not like the stranger’s, it is far more vibrate, burning with with a silent fury that makes her heart flutter and her skin feel tight.

“I have not dreamt since that night.”

She knows it isn’t just her. It’s the sleeping sickness, the war, the cloud of darkness looming over the rest of the world.

“The groundskeeper has a son, he’s only ten years old. He’s been asleep for months now. He can’t even eat. If he doesn’t wake up, he’ll die.”

He does not react, but his eye follows her as she takes a single step away from the pillar, towards the sphere.

“This is my father’s– our doing, yes?”

Her eyes dip to his chest, to the movement of his lungs underneath skin and muscle, a steady rise and fall with a deep, patient breath.

“My father is a reasonable man, if you could give him something, anything, I am sure he would let you out.”

He tilts his head, until she can just see the point of his scar on his cheek and the edge of his empty eye socket.

He is simultaneously the most terrifying and most beautiful thing she has ever laid eyes upon. The low light only accentuates the harsh angles in his face, the ridges and lines in the muscles and tendons of his neck, torso, arms and legs.

She takes another step closer. “I would let you out, if I could,” she says quietly, like a secret.

He blinks softly, and when her eyes flicker to his lips she sees them curled into something almost like a smile, but not quite.

“Oh you would, would you?”

Her blood runs cold at the sound of her father’s voice. She whips her head around just in time to see Roderick marching towards her with his hand reaching out. His fist grips at her hair, and when she yelps in pain he hisses at her to be quiet. He drags her back up the steps, away from the cold cellar, to the warmth and the light, to the world without dreams.

She bathes before dinner, wincing as she runs her hands over the fresh bruises that mark her skin. Most of them are red, others are set deep and already turning a greyish purple.

Her father’s fury still rings in her ears. “Stupid girl! If he escapes he will slaughter us all!”

Leaning on her back is especially painful, it’s where her body took the brunt of his cane. She brings her knees into her chest, hunching over herself.

She hasn’t cried over her father’s cruelty in years, not since she was a small child. He’d always call her weak for it. Randall never cried when he was disciplined, because he knew, deep down, it was good for him. Perhaps she is simply not as strong as Randall was.

Her tears are hot and stinging in her eyes. She blinks and lets them fall onto her knees, to become the dew that lingers on her skin.

“Do you want to die, girl? Because it can be easily remedied!”

She doesn’t wear anything special, a white satin dress, with long, billowy sleeves, and applies some rouge to her cheeks, to make her seem more awake, more alive.

She reaches the bottom of the staircase as the clock in the entrance hall starts to chime. Five times. Marking the start of another shift rotation.

Two men appear from the hall that leads from the cellar, vaguely nodding as they pass her.

She can see into the dining room from the stairs, an enormous table set with silver cutlery and china plates, for just two of them.

The door to her father’s study is closed, obstructing the voices within. He’s arguing with someone.

Before she can stop herself, she’s walking towards the cellar. She tries the handle to find it unlocked. With one final look to the door to the study, she descends back into the darkness.

Two guards sit on wooden chairs by the entrance from the stairway, and immediately stand to attention as she walks into the chamber.

“Miss,” one of them calls, “you cannot be here.”

And she seems to have caught his attention too. He looks up from where he sits in the sphere, his forearm resting on his knee. His hair is pushed from his face, and his violet eye is wide, curious.

“This is my father’s house, I will go where I please,” she says, shakily, continuing until she comes face to face with the glass.

He stares at her, somewhat furious, but in a way she knows it is not meant for her.

The men behind her are muttering to each other, she doesn’t hear their words, but she hears their panic.

“It isn’t right for him to keep you here,” she says. “It isn’t right for him to think he can play with mortality. And I am as bad as he is for letting this happen.”

The tendons of his hand flex as he clenches his fist, his fingers restless as he stares at her, intently.

“If I let you out,” she whispers, “would you harm me?”

His face softens as his eye moves over her face.

He’s studying her, she realises. She imagines him noting the curves of her cheeks and chin, the shape of her mouth, perhaps the faint teartracks and the dark circles under her eyes.

What does he make of her, the daughter of his captor, the one who pried the sapphire from his eye? Roderick could be right, he might slaughter her the moment he is free from his cage.

“I would like to believe that you wouldn’t,” she says.

His expression gives nothing away.

Suddenly he shifts. His muscles tense as he comes to his feet and uncurls his spine to stand before her. Something about his movements are distinctly inhuman.

The guards behind her are shouting now, telling her to step away, calling for Mr Burgess. Their voices are inconsequential to her, muffled as though spoken behind a closed door. Her heart pounds in her ears. All she sees is him, the intense gaze of his eye, a wide palm reaching out and pressing against the glass.

She reaches up slowly, his eye growing wider with every inch she comes closer to touching the glass that separates them, but not quite meeting it.

His brow furrows as if to question her. Why are you hesitating? What are you afraid of?

She won’t be dragged upstairs again. She won’t be thrown to the floor with nowhere else to go. She will not suffer at the hands of Roderick Burgess any longer.

So she presses her hand to the glass.

Her skin is feverishly cold, her arms weightless. She can almost feel the shape of his palm through the glass, but not quite, like she is reaching for something she will never touch, clawing to the memory of a dream.

She can feel herself slipping into numbness, her eyes and her limbs becoming heavy. She presses her fingernails against the glass, silently pleading though she doesn’t know what for. An escape? An end? Anything.

His face is strangely gentle as he pouts his lips, hushing her, lulling her panic. She can feel her breathing and her heartbeat slowing, but it does not frighten her.

The glass shatters, her knees give way. She is awake enough to know she is falling, but too far gone to stop herself.

But she does not need to.

The world around her is silent– no, a gentle breeze drifts over her skin and whispers in her ear. Sunlight beams onto one side of her face and the other rests against bare skin. She feels a weight around her waist, something propping her body upright.

She tries to steady herself but the ground shifts beneath her. The arms around her only tighten their grip when she stumbles.

Finally she lets her eyes flutter open. They are in a desert, a vast expanse of dry sand, reaching as far as the eye can see.

Her head is moving with his breath, against his chest.

She tilts her gaze up, close enough that her lips barely brush over the base of his throat.

His eye is already fixed on her, holding her firmly in his arms, pulling her into him.

Wordlessly, he releases one arm from her waist, and reaches down, keeping his eye on her face. When he brings himself back up, she looks at his closed fist, where sand slips from between his fingers.

Her confusion must be visible on her face because he smiles softly at her, letting out a low “hmm” as he does.

She means to blink, but when she opens her eyes the world has changed again.

She lies face down against the ground of the cellar, dust and dirt pressing into her cheek, broken glass littering the floor around her.

She blinks again through the haze of sleep still clouding her vision. She makes out a figure in a long black coat with silver hair falling down his back. He stands over two bodies, lying lifeless on the ground, and stalks towards another.

Roderick is at the base of the stairs. He raises his cane and cries out as the prisoner reaches into his coat.

Her father’s voice fades into a spluttering, retching sound. Then he is silent. His body slumps to the floor with a gut-wrenching thud. When the stranger walks away, she sees her father sprawled out on the floor, blood spurting from his throat, seeping into his shirt, pooling on the floor around him.

She pushes herself up, leaning on her hands as her vision is blocked once again by a black coat. He stands over her, blood dripping from a knife he holds in his hand, his eye a brighter shade of violet than it was before.

He kneels beside her, taking her chin in his fingertips.

“Are you hurt?” he says. His voice is a hypnotic blend of soft and harsh, low and light, chilling in a way that sends a wave of warmth through her stomach.

She looks past his shoulder, where Roderick’s skin is turning from white to grey. “What did you do to my father?” she utters.

He jerks her head back to him. His expression is dark, lips upturned into a sneer.

Does he expect her to be grateful?

“My tools,” he says.

“You’re… what?”

“My tools. The sapphire and the pouch.”

The items that were stolen from him, that her father has now paid for with blood.

“Are you going to kill me too?” she says, digging her fingertips into the stone and the shards of glass beneath her.

He tilts his head and his lips twitch in a flicker of movement. His voice is barely above a whisper. “Tell me where they are. I will not harm you.”

Three men lay dead mere feet from them, and yet she finds herself wanting to trust him.

He offers her his arm as she stands, gripping at the thick, leather sleeve. Her palms are covered in small cuts from the glass, droplets of bright red blood pearling at the edges. He takes her wrists in his hands to have a look and tuts to himself.

“Quickly,” he says, moving towards the steps, leading her along with him, past the bodies of the guards, and the body of her father.

She brings him to the study, her hands shaking, bloody and outstretched before her. The door is wide open, a stack of papers thrown carelessly to the floor.

Roderick’s safe sits in a black cabinet in the corner of the room. She uses her fingertips to open it, wincing at the pieces of glass still stuck in her skin, but she swallows down the pain.

She guesses the combination on the first try. 1895– Randall’s birth year.

There, in the centre shelf, above the Grimoire, below a stack of banknotes, is the pouch of sand and the sapphire.

He reaches for the gem first. She turns away as he fixes it back into his socket, remembering the weight of it in her palm when she took it from him. She sees him reach forward again, but not for the pouch. He takes a hold of her wrists.

With no magic words or spells, he waves a hand over her palms. For a moment she sees a glow in his sapphire eye. The pain vanishes, so does the blood, the glass and the dirt.

She blinks a few effortless tears from her eyes. Tears for her father, tears of relief, she cannot place a cause.

Cold fingertips meet her skin once more, as the Lord of Dreams wipes her tears away, bringing her gaze to meet his.

He leans in closer, until his forehead meets hers. “Sleep,” he whispers.

She falls into him, to find herself wide awake, clinging onto him as she had done in the desert.

But they are somewhere else entirely. The sky above them is a pale yellow, like daybreak, painted with swirling grey clouds. The land here is… dead. Dead trees, barren mountains and hills, and in the distance, beyond a dried lake, is a castle of red brick, decrepit, falling into ruin.

“You see the damage that has been done to my realm?” he says. With her ear pressed against his chest, his voice is cavernous and she feels everything, the way his words drag through his throat. She feels his pain at being confined, the loss of his home and his creations.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“I do not forgive easily, that is why Roderick Burgess had to die. But you…” he pulls away from her so he might look at her properly, cupping the sides of her face and swiping his thumbs over her cheeks. “I do not need an apology from you. We are free of him now.”

“Is that what you think I wanted?”

He hums with tight lips. “I have seen your dreams, as I see the dreams of every mortal. I see them as clearly as you perceive the waking world. It just so happened that our dreams coincided.”

She had never dreamt of her father’s death and she had certainly never imagined that she might have played a part in it. But she cannot deny the weight now lifted from her shoulders. She will never have to earn his approval, she will never have to endure him again. She is free of him.

“Go now,” he says, “I am sure you have your own business to resolve.”

He releases his hold of her and brings his hands behind his back. As he walks towards the castle the world around her starts to fade. She can smell the musk of the manor, the lingering smoke of her father’s cigars, the distinct scent of a winter evening.

“Wait!” she calls.

The ends of his coat swish around his legs as he turns back to face her. “Yes?” he says, the corners of his mouth curling up into a small smile.

“I want to know your name.”

“I have had many names,” he says.

“And how would you have me know you?”

“Aemond,” he says.

She echoes his name, letting her mouth linger on the final syllable. “Will I see you again?”

He draws the tip of his tongue between his lips. “Perhaps,” he says.

When she wakes she is laid out on one of the leather sofas of her father’s study. She looks down at her hands, traces her fingertips down her face, now free of the dirt and dust.

She wonders if she might have dreamt all of it, the beautiful man in the sphere, the glass breaking, her father’s blood on the floor…

Her life is never the same after that. With her father dead, his estate passes to her. For the first time, her life is hers to do with as she pleases.

And yet she feels an absence, a hollow longing in her chest.

Her dreams come back to her since she set him free, and each night she dreams of him.

He only appears in brief moments, like lighting, bright and brilliant, but gone in a heartbeat, before she can truly see him. She sees the movement of a leather coat, flashes of silver, violet and sapphire blue. Sometimes she is met with darkness as a pair of lips ghosts over her neck with a contented sigh and a warm breath.

She cannot bear it.

As she lies in the empty manor house, she traces her fingers over her body, her lips, down her neck and her chest, underneath her cotton nightgown, to her navel and the pool of wanting wetness between her legs, trying to imagine they are his.

She pictures the way his hair fell around his face, the coldness of his skin, the curve of his lips. She imagines them parting in a small sigh, the sound of his breath, the way his chest hummed as she circles over her bundle of nerves. Pleasure sparks at first but it keeps slipping from her grasp.

She circles faster, harder, searching for a spot that will finally give her the release she craves.

She feels heat and a sheen of sweat settling on the surface of her skin, her breathing hitches, her hips twitch under her touches. The pleasure heightens, then fades.

With her eyes tightly shut, she spurs herself on with thoughts of him, breathlessly chanting his name into the empty space and cold air of her bedroom.

“Aemond… Aemond…”

Something changes.

The mattress shifts beneath her and a weight presses against her body, her legs, her stomach, her chest.

A hand clasps around hers, ceasing her movements, and bringing it to rest by her side.

She laments the loss of the friction against her bud, her pleasure pulled away from her, but in its place anticipation blooms within her.

When she opens her eyes he is above her, against her, hovering his face over hers so that all she sees are his eyes, one violet, one sapphire.

“You have my attention,” he says in a soft but unsettling voice.

A thrill ripples through her body.

She whispers his name on an exhale of breath, running her fingertips over his arms, tense and toned as his props himself over her.

But she is somewhat dazed, her senses numbed by fatigue and the echo of the pleasure she had been chasing.

“Is this real?” she utters.

Aemond leans further into her. She feels a weight between her hips and an unmistakable hardness prodding at her centre as he brings his lips to her neck, pressing a slow, teasing kiss against a sensitive spot of skin that has her body tensing and her fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Does if feel real?” he whispers against her skin.

How much has he truly seen of her dreams, her desires, she wonders? Perhaps she should feel some kind of shame, but she cannot, not when she is on the precipice of something bright, beautiful and damning. She can hardly stand being on the edge of it, having him so close but not close enough.

She wraps her arms around his neck as he teases her with his lips, crosses her legs around his hips, meeting his movements as he torturously grinds his hardening cock against her cunt, dripping with arousal, twitching and clenching around nothing at the anticipation.

“Needy little thing,” he mutters, dragging his nose along her neck as he comes to kiss the hollow of her throat.

His voice sends a shockwave through her body. Her hips buck against his, determined for relief as her fingers thread through the soft strands of his hair, and tug.

He lets out a quiet growl against her skin. A hand rests upon her thigh and trails up, bunching the hem of her nightgown to her waist and adjusting the other side.

He sits back, watching her with the same darkness and intensity as when he was trapped inside the cage, intrigued at the least, fascinated if she is presumptive.

The irony of being laid half bare before him and at his mercy does not escape her.

“I’ve heard you crying out for me, little mortal,” he says.

“You said you can see my dreams,” she says, “how?”

“Your dreams exist in my realm,” he says, “in The Dreaming. I see your dreams as I see the dreams of every other being. I feel them, as clearly as you perceive the waking world. But you…” he muses, settling his hands on either side of her waist. “You are incessant.”

She shivers and writhes under his touch, a pulsing heat settling within her.

She traces her hands over his, where they grip at her waist, along his smooth skin, the tendons and veins. His fingers are long and lithe. She knows they would feel so perfect, wrapped around her throat, stroking over her skin, pushing inside of her wet heat to coax her pleasure.

Aemond smiles to himself as though he can hear her thoughts.

He grips harder into her flesh and pulls his hips back, only to let his cock slide over her slick folds with teasingly gentle thrusts.

Every stroke pushes her closer and closer to the edge, but not enough to find release. She feels the frustrating want pulsing through her body, the coil getting tighter and tighter, her cunt clenching over nothing.

“Aemond…” she says with a breathless mewl, “please…”

“You really want it, don’t you?” Aemond growls, resting his forehead against hers. “Just feel how wet that empty little cunt is for me.”

Her eyes trail along the angles of his face, the line of his scar, the night sky in his eyes as he stares down at her, the gentle curve of his lips and how they settle into a soft expression.

Her gaze slips further down, over his throat, his collar, his pale, bare chest, the ridges of the muscles on his abdomen, the slight dip in his waist, the trail of silver hair to his cock, long, hard and flushed with need, transfixed by the way it moves against her.

She holds her breath each time he withdraws, stifling her whines into his mouth when he only keeps teasing her.

“I want it,” she groans, “I want you. I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you.”

He lets out a contented hum as he leans down to kiss her. The movements of his mouth are slow and consuming, claiming her with lips, tongue and teeth, wetness and warmth.

She holds him close by the sides of his face. In his violet eye she sees his hunger, his rage, his lust. In his sapphire, she sees oblivion.

And finally, he eases himself into her.

He fucks her delicately, dragging his cock through her gently, slowly, deeply. His lips ghost over her skin, her temple, her cheek, back to her mouth with light kisses and strained but soft breaths.

With a few deft circles over her bud she feels herself come undone around him. Her climax burns through her and she holds him closer for purchase, digging her fingertips into his skin as her resolve melts and her legs tremble around his hips.

Aemond doesn’t stop. He holds her against the mattress with a determined grip, fucking her through her peak until her pleasure settles and simmers once more.

Being kissed by him, held by him, fucked by him feels light a dream, that weightless, numb feeling of being between consciousness and sleep coursing through her limbs. It feels good, it feels deep, it feels perfect.

She cannot be sure how many climaxes he draws from her, she just feels him, his heat, his hands and his skin as he repositions her legs, guides her onto her front, brings her up to her knees, pushes her back down again, until she is a blissful, mindless mess.

He meets his own end when he has her face down on the bed, her face turned to the side against the pillow, his mouth on the underside of her jaw as he pounds into her.

“You’re doing so well,” she hears him rasp, “you’ve been so good to me… fuck, I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.”

Her mind is beyond words and coherent thoughts. She utters the only thing she feels, the only thing she can think of, “Aemond… Aemond… Aemond…”

He stills his hips against her rear with a guttural moan, pressing his face against hers, squeezing her waist under his hands. He allows himself a few more shallow thrusts until he is spent. She feels his cock pulse within her, a warmth pooling, his spend dripping from her cunt once he has pulled away.

The weight dissipates from her back and for a moment she lies there, basking in the afterglow, feeling her chest rise and fall against the bed, the softness of her sheets under her fingertips.

She wakes to a gentle breeze running over her skin and slipping down her spine.

She allows her eyes to flutter open and recoils at the pale sunlight beaming through the spaces in the curtains.

She holds her breath.

She hears no sound or sign of life other than her own pulse.

She twists herself to sit up, noting that her bedsheets are neat and the hem of her nightgown is where it should be.

Is it possible that she dreamed it? She remembers it so vividly, but the mind has a way of playing tricks. Perhaps it was only a dream.

“Your dreams exist in my realm,” he had said. “I feel them, as clearly as you perceive the waking world.”

How do we determine what is real? she wonders as she pulls on a robe and goes to open the curtains. The morning floods her bedroom. It brings no warmth, but it brings light and life back into the room.

To dream is to live beyond ourselves, why should that be any less true than the world around me?

She seats herself before her vanity, reaching for the drawer for her hairbrush.

But something catches her eye, a glint of colour against mahogany wood, a small gem catching the sunlight.

She takes it between her thumb and index finger and brings it before her eyes; a sapphire, the size of a pearl, a deep and vibrant blue. Its edges are uneven and dull, uncut, as though plucked straight from the earth.

She turns it about between her fingers. It could be a trick of the light, but there is depth to it, a vastness within. The sapphire seems to capture the night sky, dotted with glimmering stars.

His was the same.

As the dazed state of sleep wears off, she feels the satisfied ache between her legs, the spots on her skin marked by him. She smiles to herself and holds the gem in her palm, this precious gift, this reminder, this promise from the Lord of Dreams.

Tags (comment to be added)

Sweet Dream taglist: @solisarium @sirenangelroyal @sabrinasstar @shygardengalaxy @aemondsfavouritebastard @wintrr13 @thedamewithabook @lexwolfhale @rainyforest777

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria

381 notes · View notes

cinewhore · 9 months

Text

The Duchess of London

Pairing: Thomas “Tommy” Shelby x fem!reader

Word Count: 3.8k

Warnings: angst, mentions of drinking, drugs, blood, gore, sexual assault (not detailed), fighting, guns, smut (penetration, creampie, wrap it up lads!), fluff.

A/N: The PB bug bit me and it bit me hard! Had to get this out. Takes place in season 2. Reminder that this is a bit dark given the contents of the show so if something rubs you the wrong way, don’t read it! You also don’t need to provide an explanation as to why you won’t read it, just keep scrolling. No beta cause I said so. Enjoy! Credits to the gif artist.

Birmingham smelled like shit.

London smelled worse.

You thank your bodyguard as he helps you out of the car, careful not to drag your dress along the mud, it was brand new and you didn’t have the best relationship with the new seamstress that replaced your old one.

It was a strange thing, being back home. Your old stomping grounds. You remember the days fondly, racing up and down the roads, dashing through the traffic of folks who populated the area. You always found yourself somewhere you shouldn’t be, getting scolded by your aunt when you arrived home well past dark. There’s a slight twinge in your chest as you reminisce, desperately wishing you could go back.

Luckily, your old house wasn’t far from your lodgings, Rich spooked by the rumors of how lawless this part of town was. You couldn’t blame him, Birmingham had long been abandoned by any sense of law and order. The police only came when it benefited them, so the local organized crime had taken over.

“Rich, I’ll only be a few minutes. Keep the car running.” you instruct. The burly man nods in respect.

“Yes ma’am.” He tips his hat at you, heading back to the car.

It was a choice, coming back here. There were nothing but terrible memories you worked too hard to forget but you felt like you owed it to yourself and your aunt to come back. The house was exactly how you remembered it, sparse furnishings but warm with spirit.

Now it was half empty and lonely.

You were fast in your approach to gather anything you deemed important, the house was likely going to be cleaned and left up for rent. Photographs, scraps of clothing, broken china were all stuffed into a bag you brought with you. These were the broken fragments of your old life you weren’t ready to part ways with just yet.

After muttering a quick prayer for your aunt and hoping that the devil caught your uncle, you say goodbye to the Brimingham girl you used to be.

You needed a fucking drink.

You swagger into the Garrison, amused at the drunken men shouting across each other. You’re well aware of the stares you were receiving, knowing that a woman of your stature and style could only mean two things: you were a well off prostitute or the lavish wife of a man no one wanted to fuck with.

You took pride in being neither.

A man with a kind face smiles at you from behind the bar, throwing a white towel across his shoulder.

“What can I get you, love?”

“Whiskey. Neat.”

“What kind?”

You pretend to think about it. “Surprise me.”

The kind man chuckles to himself before hustling to get your drink. You dig around in your purse, pulling out a few bills that were much more than your drink likely cost. A hand covers your own as you slide the bills across the bar and you gaze up into a familiar face.

“I heard whispers about a very rich looking person coming into town, you wouldn’t have happened to see anything, have you?”

You couldn’t forget those piercing blue eyes even if you tried.

Suppressing a smile, you take the glass set in front of you and drain it quickly before gesturing for a refill. Tommy waves his hand at the barkeep.

“Get a bottle and bring it in the room.” he instructs, ushering you into the private area where he conducts business.

You follow behind him, silently thanking him as he pulls out a seat for you.

The two of you don’t say a word as he pours you another drink, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

“Thomas fucking Shelby.” you finally murmur, overcome with nostalgia. “How long has it been?”

Tommy gives a half shrug. “More than ten years, I’d say.”

“This yours?” you finally take a second to gaze about, impressed with the architecture. It felt like too beautiful of a place to be in Birmingham.

“More or less. It was a gift to Arthur.”

You grin. “A gift you didn’t buy.”

“A gift, nonetheless.” he takes a long drag of the cigarette, cautious as he blows the smoke out of his nose and in a direction that wasn’t facing you. “Heard about your uncle.”

You nod, posture stiffening. “May his soul rot.”

Tommy raises his eyebrows and his glass, downing his drink. “Cheers.”

“So,” you lean back in your seat. “What has Thomas Shelby been up to all these years?”

Tommy mimics your actions, scratching at his face. “Making business happen. Staying out of trouble.”

“You’re trying to be legal?” your curiosity piqued.

“Something like that.” He holds his arms out wide. “We’re expanding.”

“Into London. Fucking with the status quo there, I heard.”

Something in Tommy’s face hardens and he regards you with contempt. “Is that so?”

“It’s kind of my business to know. You are stepping into my turf. I don’t give a shit either way, this feud you have with the Italians is kind of good for business.”

“How?”

You take out a cigarette of your own, a long black cigarette holder accompanying it. Thomas doesn’t take his eyes off of you as he strikes a match, watching your mouth closely as you take a few drags. “People are far too concerned if there’s war coming to worry about women and their petty activities. Makes it easier to get into their pockets.”

“Did someone send you here?” He asks slowly, a tiny gun appearing on the table.

You chuckle, shaking your head. “No. As I have mentioned, I’m not interested in whatever dick measuring contest you have going on with Sabini. I’m just a girl who came to dance on her dead uncle’s grave.”

Tommy can tell that you’re being honest. It was refreshing but strange, he wasn’t one to openly trust people. You were the one person who didn’t care about what he was doing in a sea of people who questioned his every move.

“Dick measuring contest, eh?”

You had been fucked well before, sometimes from other women but nothing compared to how well Thomas Shelby was fucking you now.

His home was modest, clean cut and devoid of character. You were currently bent over on his bed being hastily taken from behind. It was as if he had just returned home from the war, eager and hungry for a woman’s touch. He couldn’t get enough.

Tommy staggers backwards, tapping your ass to get your attention.

“Fucking come here.” he rasps out and you giggle as he moves papers off a desk in the corner, hauling you on top of it. You spread your legs so he could slot himself in between them, entering you again with no hesitation.

“Don’t step on my dress.” you moan out, crossing your legs along his back.

“That, shit, all you care about now?” Tommy hisses, placing a hand on your hip to keep you still.

You nod furiously, leaning your head back against the wall and closing your eyes. You had already come undone twice and felt the third emerging soon.

“Fuck,” Tommy pants, taking his other hand and wrapping it around your throat. You loved the feeling of being choked and worked hard to memorize the touch of his fingers squeezing your skin. “I’ll buy you another dress. I’ll buy the fucking dress factory. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, fuck yes, Tommy.” You tighten around his cock as you come again, causing him to groan and weaken his stamina. “I want you to give me everything I ask for.”

“What do you want, hm?” He questions, making sure to maintain eye contact with you. It was difficult to keep your eyes open but you’d be damned if you didn’t try.

“I want your cum, all of it. I want you to empty your balls,” you reach a hand down for added effect. “Into my cunt.”

And just like that, Tommy thrusts into you forcefully twice more before coming to completion. You both groan at the sensation, the trickling of his seed oozing out of you and down your thigh. He rests his head against your shoulder, breathing heavily. You allow your legs to go slack, wincing at how stiff they had gotten.

After a moment of rest, Tommy helps you into bed where the two of you take the time to decompress.

“You’re marked.” Thomas comments, trailing a finger down the scar on the back of your left shoulder. It was in the shape of the number four, a reminder of what - who - you belonged to.

Joining the Forty Elephants was an honest mistake. When you arrived and couldn’t secure a place on your own, you resorted to petty theft just like any other low class person in your position. It had been the wrong place at the wrong time. You slipped inside of a clothing store, hoping to pick up a few nice shirts so you could find a steady job that wasn’t walking the streets at night. Turns out the Forty Elephants were at the height of a heist and you barged right into the middle of it.

You were caught and arrested with three other women. You begged and pleaded with the police, urging them to believe you when you said you were acting out on your own. You were all jailed together and you spent the night getting the living daylights kicked out of you. The next morning, the four of you were released and you were handed off to the leader of the up and coming gang.

“Some fucking runt you are.” She spat, sizing you up. You were interrogated relentlessly, the boss lady, Mary, assuming you were sent in by a rival gang to screw them up on purpose. When you justified your case, she nodded. You were brought in, taken care of and most importantly, you were protected.

You made nice with the other girls and became a skilled pickpocket, lock picker and seductress. The nickname “duchess” came after you managed to lift a hefty sum, including a car, from a duke. It was then you elevated your style and sense of purpose. You began to educate yourself, investing in legal companies and stockpiling your wealth for a rainy day.

You knew that life with the Elephants wouldn’t last forever and you needed a way out when the time came.

“It was my initiation.” You tell Tommy, breath catching slightly as his touch made you shiver.

He hums, pressing a small kiss to it. “I saw you that night.”

You frown, flipping over on your side to face him. He invites you to lay closer and you gingerly accept his invitation, perching yourself on his chest. “What do you mean?”

Tommy takes another puff from his cigarette before answering. “When you left Birmingham. It was at night. I was taking a walk with my brothers, and saw you scrambling to get out of the house. You ran like a bat out of hell. Never looked back once.”

“Oh.” You look down at your fingers, absentmindedly stroking the tattoo on his chest. You take a second to formulate a response, unsure of how to answer after years of not speaking about it. Tommy doesn’t push, waiting patiently for an answer that may never come.

After a moment of silence, you give him one. “He said I reminded him of her. Before she died, he was cold and distant. Afterwards, it was as if I had taken her place. It wasn’t the first time it happened. I remember crying a lot after. But that night, for whatever reason, I was determined to make it the last.”

You swallow thickly, brows furrowed as you replay the scene in your head. “I waited on him. Nearly fell asleep but like clockwork, he came creeping in the wee hours of the morning. I managed to stab him five times before I got away.”

Maneuvering yourself out of Tommy’s arms, you straddle him instead, pinpointing all the places you cut your uncle.

“Twice here.” You tap at his right peck with your finger. “Once in the stomach, once in the arm and once on his shoulder. He was a big guy and it was as if it didn’t faze him. Killing him didn’t matter at that point, I just wanted to be gone. So, I ran. Everyday for years, I kept looking over my shoulder, sure that he was going to show up and try to take me home. I hated myself. He got to live out his life and I suffered because of him.”

The tears surprised you as they dripped down your cheeks, hot and constant. Tommy is bemused as he wipes them away, his face never changing. You always pondered on who Tommy really was and what went on underneath the mask he was wearing. Then again, perhaps there was no mask to begin with.

“It’s stupid, I know.” you continue, hurriedly swiping at your eyes.

“It’s not. You did what you needed to do, what you thought was right. No one can ever blame you for that.”

“Funny, coming from a Peaky Blinder.” you chide with a small grin.

“Even funnier, coming from an Elephant.” he retorts without wasting a breath.

You sigh, placing your hands against his broad chest. “Cut from the same cloth, are we?”

Tommy nods, setting the now stub of a cigarette out in the ashtray placed on the nightstand. He turns his attention back to you, mind racing as he studies your features. How he let you slip away, how he went years without seeking you out plagued him from time to time. You were elusive, a mirage of a seemingly perfect woman he shouldn't taint with his touch. You’ve grown into your features, personality blossoming. You weren’t subservient like many of the other women he had encountered, all who would bat their eyelashes at him in hopes that they would get picked to be with a real gangster.

“Stay. I have an opening in my office, we could use the help. You’d straighten out Arthur, no doubt.”

You scoff, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to be a guard dog or a bloody receptionist, Tommy. Besides, I’m expected back in London tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“Family business.”

Tommy lights another cigarette at that.

“You could come with me. I wouldn’t force you to stay but maybe just to take your mind off of things?”

“Can’t. Family business.”

You laugh quietly, shrugging your shoulders. “What we wouldn’t do for those we love.”

The walk home from Tommy’s is uneventful, both basking in each other’s silence. It was comfortable and intimate, the only thing interrupting it was the sound of children out playing far too late and drunken men hurling commentary out at anyone that walked by them.

The folks of Brimingham were familiar with the Shelby’s but they aren't familiar with you which is how you became a prime target for unwanted advances. The man had to have been well beyond plastered, for any woman seen with Tommy was assumed to be his.

You couldn’t even understand half of what the agitated bloke was saying, just that he was making weird gestures with hands, pretending to jerk himself off. Others had attempted to warn him and even Tommy moved in for the kill but you stopped him.

“No, no. I want to hear what this lad has to say. What’s this then? You wanna have a go with me? Is this how you approach all the women you like?”

You feign boredom, sticking both hands in the pockets of your coat. You rummage around in your right pocket, discreetly slipping your fingers into the holes of a brass knuckle.

“Yeah, it is. Now, when you’re done with this half starved looking bastard, how about you come home with a real man who can fuck you until-”

Your movements were swift and graceful, as if you had done this a hundred times before. The knuckles smash into the poor man’s face, instantly cracking and breaking his nose. Tumbling onto the ground, you crouch over the drunkard and wail on him until splatters of blood dot your face like a painting.

Tommy watches as you all but kill this man with your bare hands and does absolutely nothing. His overwhelming glare warned the others to back off while you continued, the bystanders knowing what their fate could look like should they interfere.

Panting, you back off the guy, using your free hand to wipe at your face. You spit, step across the moaning body and proceed towards your lodgings as if nothing occurred. Tommy falls in step with you, offering a handkerchief which you accept. While the Forty Elephants appeared to be harmless with crimes of shoplifting and bribery, you had a more rampageous approach to it all. The streets of London had toughened you, like it or not.

At the end of the day, you needed to make sure that you could take care of yourself and if it meant taking another person’s life, so be it.

Tommy had never wanted you more. But nothing good could come out of the two of you being together, you both knew that. It would be similar to chaining two wild dogs together and expecting them not to bite each other's necks off when there’s only enough food for one.

You had the Elephants and London. He had Brimingham and the Blinders. Somewhere, you would meet in the middle but there wasn’t room for overlap. Tommy was sure that being wed to an Elephant meant more turf and control but he wouldn’t dare do that to you. He couldn’t do it to himself. He would come to you whenever he wanted and you’d do the same to him.

Rich straightens up upon seeing your silhouette, clasping his hands together in front of him obediently. He takes one look at your face and reaches inside his coat to grab his gun when you raise a hand out.

“S’alright. Just had a little accident. You know Tommy.”

Rich gives Tommy a once over before relaxing.

“Shall I see you inside, then?”

You gesture at Rich to go on ahead of you, planting yourself firmly in front of Thomas. “No, I think it’s better if we say our goodbyes out here.”

Tommy smiles briefly, lighting yet another cigarette. “You don’t trust me?”

“I don’t trust that I’ll make it back to London tomorrow if you do come up.”

He takes a small step towards you, jawline rigid as he exhales through his nose. “I could leave early, before you wake up.”

“I wouldn’t allow you to.” Plucking the flaming stick out his mouth, you press a wistful kiss to his lips, melting into his embrace as he deepens it.

Hesitant to pull away, you ease back reluctantly. Your hands smooth his across his coat, reaching upwards to tug at his beloved hat.

“When you’re in London, I expect a call.”

Thomas rests his forehead against yours, licking at his dried lips. “I’ll always make sure to pay the Duchess a visit.”

You peck his lips one last time before returning the cigarette. Tommy watches as you disappear inside the hotel, satisfied knowing that you were safe and back in your room. Doubling back to the Garrison, now in full swing for the night, he gets welcomed with a drink from John and a pat on the back from Arthur.

“Tell me brother, what’s it like to be with royalty, eh? Is her pussy made out of gold?” Arthur cracks himself up, thoroughly entertained by his own quip.

“Fuck off, Arthur.” Tommy says dryly, taking a swig of whiskey.

“Did you tell her?”

Tommy raises an eyebrow at John. “Tell her what?”

“About her fuckin’ uncle?”

Tommy doesn’t answer and the two brothers give each other a glance.

“Bloody hell, Tommy-” Arthur starts. Tommy raises a hand and waves him off.

“Of course I didn’t fucking tell her. All that matters is that he’s in the ground, eh? Now get me another bottle and stop whining in my fucking ear.”

Arthur is slow as he departs from his sibling, a lopsided smirk plaguing his face.

Tommy thinks to himself that maybe he should’ve mentioned how your uncle actually died. You were told that he had a nasty fall after a night out of heavy drinking. In reality, it was the Peaky Blinders doing. Not only was your uncle a piece of shit, he also had a gambling problem. He got mixed in with the wrong folks and unknowingly stole money from the Blinders to help pay off a gambling debt. He was sloppy in execution which caught the attention of Tommy.

Upon finding out who actually took his money, Tommy made it a personal mission to seek him out. The man, Ronald, folded like a chair when Tommy and the boys appeared on his doorstep. He cried and begged for mercy, which they showed him none. Especially not after he confessed what he had done to you.

Ronald knew you made it to London and had fallen into some money, so whenever he got into debt he just told people that you were wealthy and would deliver money for his payments. Even after you cut ties with him and tried to kill him, he proceeded to use you.

Tommy wouldn’t have it.

“Oi! Tommy!” Arthur returns with the bottle in hand. “You got any spare cash on ya? I wanna set up a quick date with Beatrice.”

Tommy looks at his brother with slight disdain and rolls his eyes. “I’m not your accountant.”

“Yeah, yeah. I left my wad back at the office. Just cough it up, would ya?”

“If it means I won’t have to look at your face anymore, fine.”

Tommy reaches inside his pants pocket where he normally keeps an emergency stack and finds it empty. Scowling, Tommy pats himself down extensively before the light bulb goes off.

He laughs.

Not a cheeky snicker or a lame jest. Thomas Shelby actually laughs.

Confused but willing to follow his brother anywhere, Arthur begins to laugh as well until they’re both hanging onto each other, gasping for air.

At the hotel, you answer the door to your room, thanking the bellboy for bringing up your dinner. Tucking a hand in your bra, a wad of cash spills out. You grab a handful of it and place it into the hand of the blushing young man. He stammers out a thank you, hightailing it back to the lobby.

You get comfortable in bed, eager to dive into the captivating spread laid out in front of you. Closing your eyes, you fold your hands in front of you in mock prayer.

“Thank you dear lord for this appetizing food and for the Peaky fucking Blinders. Amen.”

#Thomas Shelby x female reader #Thomas Shelby x fem!reader #Tommy Shelby x fem reader #Tommy Shelby x fem!reader #fic: the Duchess of London #Tommy shelby x you #Tommy Shelby x reader

251 notes · View notes

distantvoices · 1 year

Text

He Cong by Leslie Zhang for Marie Claire China April 2023. Inspired by Rene Magritte’s Man in a Bowler Hat.

354 notes · View notes

charlietheepicwriter7 · 4 months

Text

A very merry Christmas to you, @2-depressed-4-u . It is I, your secret santa from @mlsecretsanta . I have had a wonderful time talking to you this year (even if I wasn't supposed to, oops), and hope you have a wonderful holiday.

And now, without further ado, your present.

I Don't Need Sleep, I Need Answers

If his father could see his room at that moment, Adrien was sure the man would faint with shock. Fortunately, Gabriel Agreste was needed in China to investigate one of his companies’ main manufacturers, so Adrien was in the clear… for now.

His room looked like his couch was almost pushed up against one wall, but he’d left a foot of space between it and the wall so he had full access to his masterpiece. Along the north-facing wall was a chaotic conspiracy board, with red string threading from picture to picture. Some of his pieces of evidence were printed out from his computer, like the article about Marinette designing for Jagged Stone or the picture of Ladybug kissing him from back during the Oblivo incident. Others were hand drawn to the best of his ability if he couldn’t find an appropriate image online.

But in the end, all the pictures led back to a center image: his limited edition poster of Ladybug.

Plagg hovered near one of the most important pieces of evidence, the feathered bolo hat Marinette had made. “Hey, kid… when’s the last time you got any sleep?” he asked, his eyes flickering between Adrien and his evidence wall.

“I don’t need any sleep,” Adrien spat, climbing over and onto the back of the couch so he could connect some string between a picture of Marinette and badly-drawn recreation of Multimouse. On the hand drawn page, he wrote no earrings????, with multiple question marks going off the page and onto the wall. “I need answers.”

“I thought you’d decided that you weren’t going to look for Ladybug’s identity anymore?”

The boy scoffed. “I thought so too, but you didn’t see what I saw! During that last akuma battle, Ladybug left, and then… Marinette was there! She always hides during akuma battles, she wouldn’t just run around during one, unless…” He pinned another picture to the wall, wrinkling the paper with his force. “She was Ladybug.”

Plagg sighed. “Or she was trapped in the area and took it as her chance to run. Or she was hiding but someone was in danger, so she rushed out to help. Or some other reason why she’d risk her life. Why don’t you just ask her, kid?”

“Because if she’s Ladybug, she’d just lie!” Adrien explained. “I know how this works, Plagg; we’re not supposed to know each other’s identities. Ladybug sticks to that rule better than me… and no matter how good of a person she is, or how much Marinette hates liars, she’d still be willing to lie to protect herself.”

“If she’s lying to protect herself, then wouldn’t she be safer if you didn’t discover who she is? If you stopped your investigation now, before someone gets hurt?”

Adrien shook his head, picking up another picture of Ladybug. “You don’t understand, Plagg. She shouldn’t have to look out for herself. I should be the one to do it for her.”

I Don't Need Sleep, I Need Answers

Adrien’s plan started the next day at school.

Keeping an eye on Marinette proved impossible when she sat directly behind him, but he kept a keen ear on her and Alya’s conversation. While he didn’t think his Lady would be so blasé to discuss her superheroine life where anyone could hear her, he was expecting at least some reference. Alya was her best friend after all; he’d certainly let things slip to Nino throughout his months as Chat Noir.

But no. There was nothing. When not distracted by classwork, all they talked about was the Ladyblog, and Marinette’s new commissions for Kitty Selection. So, it was onto plan B.

When Plagg was trying to talk him out of this—and really, wasn’t that evidence unto itself, that Plagg was trying to talk him out of investigating—he’d said that Adrien reminded him of Alya. Reminded him that Alya had once done the same thing to Chloe, and gotten akumatized for it. But Adrien wouldn’t get akumatized! For one thing, Marinette was in no way like Chloe. For another, Adrien, and Alya back then, had direct evidence that Chloe wasn’t Ladybug, since Chloe was often seen with or around Ladybug.

Outside of the Multimouse incident, had Adrien ever seen Ladybug save or even talk to Marinette?

No.

But Plagg’s words had reminded him that he wasn’t the only person who’d ever searched for Ladybug’s identity. And his best ally sat behind him and to the left.

Adrien pulled Alya to the side during lunch, with Marinette watching curiously and Nino shaking his head in amusement before engaging Marinette in a conversation. Adrien knew he could count on him. And when he found an abandoned classroom to talk to Alya, he swallowed and began to explain.

She’d looked nervous, when he began, but as he kept explaining all his evidence as to why Marinette could be Ladybug, a thoughtful expression bloomed on her face. But that didn’t mean she automatically believed him. And then she asked a damnable question. “What about Lila?”

Ah. He’d forgotten about Lila.

He preferred to forget about her rather than think about—

Alya continued. “Because she and Ladybug are best friends, you know? But I’m pretty sure Marinette hates Lila. Not that she’d ever say she hates Lila, but she refuses to go to girl’s day when Lila is invited, and she leaves sleep-overs early when she’s there, but Lila has no idea why—”

Oh, Adrien had a good idea why. And it was the same reason why Adrien had convinced his father to only allow single or boys-only shoots for him this spring, that it was more fashionable that way.

“Maybe it’s a ruse?” He offered instead. “Maybe Marinette’s only pretending to dislike Lila so she doesn’t find out her identity? It’s not like Lila has ever said she knew Ladybug’s identity.”

“Well, she did imply it once…” When did that happen!? Adrien might be mostly ignoring Lila at this point, but how did he miss that? “But she backtracked when I asked some more questions, so I think she only suspects she knows who Ladybug is. But if Marinette is Ladybug, then we could talk to her and she doesn’t have to pretend to hate Lila anymore!”

Alya gave a blinding smile. Adrien didn’t have the heart to tell her that Marinette definitely would not change her opinion of Lila if they discovered her identity.

In fact, she might yell at them both.

I Don't Need Sleep, I Need Answers

With Alya on board to stalk Marinette for all the wrong reasons, Adrien had started to feel a little more secure in his plan to discover Ladybug’s identity. For the rest of lunch and the remainder of class, Alya used some leading questions on Marinette to try and get any information, but she was like a steel wall. Alya had even thought up a cool audience participation event where Ladyblog would post everyone’s fan heroes that sounded really interesting.

(Marinette said she’d want to be a black cat hero! She was so cute—)

But there was nothing that pointed towards Marinette being Ladybug. After school, once Alya had begged off girl squad duties and Adrien had lied about an extra long fencing meeting, the two met up to stalk Marinette.

First, she spent a few hours at Eiffel Tower, designing. Then, she spent an hour in a fabric store, picking out a few yards of champagne fabric, all of which looked the same to Adrien’s discerning eye, but were clearly different to her. And finally, she met her parents at a local Italian bistro for dinner. And despite spending their entire afternoon stalking her, they’d learned nothing.

Nothing except the fact that Marinette had an adorable habit of talking to herself when she was alone, but that wasn’t strictly evidence.

Alya sat back on the bench, pulling her disguise hat down to cover her eyes. Marinette and her family were clearly visible from the restaurant window. “Maybe she isn’t Ladybug?” Alya asked. “I mean, Ladybug usually patrols in the afternoon, and she hasn’t left our sight all day!”

That was more because Adrien had offered to talk Ladybug’s afternoon patrol that day, but Alya didn’t need to know that. He hiked the newspaper with holes cut out for eyes higher onto his face. “She could be having an off day?”

“No. Adrien, what was your real reason for—”

Suddenly, the ground shook and people screamed as an akuma, eye-screaming pink and cackling at the top of his lungs, whipped past. They shot to their feet. Alya begged off to chase after the akuma and Adrien let her, his eyes glued to the window. Her family was still there, but Marinette was gone. Was she in the restroom? Or…

“Adrien, what are you doing?”

“I’m just going to check,” he told his kwami, running to the backside of the bistro. If Marinette was Ladybug, she’d have to escape out the back, right?

“There’s an akuma! Come on, you have to—”

“I just need to check!” He scolded. He was almost there!”

“Damn it, kid!” Adrien froze. Was Plagg… mad at him? Plagg was never mad at him! “This has gone on long enough! Is your love life really worth other people’s lives!?”

No. No it wasn’t. And Ladybug would hate him if he even considered for a second skipping out on a battle just to look for her identity.

Really, there was only one choice left.

“Plagg, claws out.”

“Finally!”

He’d have to try again another day. Think of a new plan of attack. But for now, he was Chat Noir. And Chat Noir had a fight to win.

I Don't Need Sleep, I Need Answers

The next day, Plagg immediately wriggled his way into Marinette’s purse, where Tikki sat, contently eating a chocolate-chip cookie.

“Sugar Cube, you’ve got to make sure your user is more careful,” he said, rubbing his head with his paws. “Adrien almost found out her identity!”

“What!?”

#miraculous ladybug #ml secret santa #lila salt #adrienette #ladrien #c: adrien agreste #c: marinette dupain-cheng #c: alya cesaire #c: lila rossi #c: nino laffiate #c: plagg #ml salt #merry christmas!!

57 notes · View notes