Unique Burdens.
Enver Gortash x F Reader.
Warnings: Dark themes™, unhealthy relationships, implied kidnapping and major power imbalances.
Word count: 1k.
Where there are sparks, there can be fire.
Concentrate. Hone your thoughts. Refine them, sifting through any impurities. Ichor is woven into your flesh like threads through a hallowed loom. These threads contain arcane energy that some spend lifetimes pursuing, their noses buried in esoteric tomes.
For you are a scion of a being most high — the Lady of Love’s darling daughter.
Sune’s always had a soft spot for you, fickle as her favor may be. Whispers carried by the wind offered encouragement at the beauty your artistry brought into the world. Your mother may be distant, but so is the sun, both of which provide satisfactory warmth regardless. This distance never bothered you. So long as you were free to wield a quill, lyre, or rapier, you were content.
Indeed, her distance never bothered you, until you realized that just like the sun, celestial bodies must give way to the night.
Focus, focus, focus.
The faintest hum of the Weave resonates within. It reaches out to you, incorporeal hands longing to touch. This is it. Your chance. Your spark. It’s tentative at first, a shy reunion—
—And then it’s gone. Silenced.
Extinguished.
Your shoulders droop as yet another failure joins your ever-growing resume.
Your shoulders droop as yet another failure is jotted down.
“I never took you for a masochist,” tyranny incarnate muses from behind. “That must be it. Why else would you torture yourself so?”
“I’m no more a masochist than you are a worthy ruler.”
You try to keep your tone steady and indifferent. Regrettably, of all your artistic talents, acting is not among them. The bitterness seeps out like blood through thin gauze. He must’ve sensed a fluctuation in the ‘connection’ you share. You thought yourself subtle with your tampering, but your sentimentality betrayed you.
“Ah. That’s where you’re mistaken. There are no ‘worthy rulers,’ only rulers who make their reign worthwhile.”
“That’s your intention?”
“That’s my intention,” he mimics your cadence.
Unwilling to withstand further provocation, you whirl around, ready to slink off. Your abrupt motion proves to be a mistake. The world loses its sharpness, the outline of every object smearing together as your balance falters. A wicked throb blasts through your skull — your reward for this little rebellion. The black fabric fastened around your throat greedily swallows the meal you just offered.
Its creator steadies your body as if he isn’t the source of your malaise. His hands, covered in golden gauntlets, slither around your bicep. You’re vaguely aware of the short journey to an outdoor table set. Water rushes from the garden’s ivory fountain, the sound crescendoing into something unbearable. The evening sun feels too hot, the summer air, too humid; and the deceptively delicate-looking choker around your neck too tight.
Gortash barks out orders toward the maids here to serve ‘you.’ They scurry about, their hurried gait like that of a discovered rat colony. You sit at his behest. Commanding others is second nature to him, he enunciates every syllable with the confidence of a man who knows he won’t be challenged. No good comes from fighting it. You panic, you struggle, and then finally, you sink, succumbing to a riptide you never had a chance against.
He holds a crystal vial to your lips, which you part without prompting. It’s syrupy on your tongue, an artificial sweetness intended to make the tonic more tolerable, owing to your many complaints. Whether he adjusted the formula for your sake or his, you can’t say.
The viscous liquid stubbornly sticks to your esophagus. Eventually, you force it down.
Gortash’s elixir circulates throughout your body and soothes the tempest you incited. There’s little you know about the magic that siphons your divinity, but you do know it’s volatile. The insidious inventor sat aside his pride to explain that much. He foresaw that you wouldn’t sit pretty while he sapped your celestial power. An accurate estimate, considering your current predicament.
He recognizes your lucidity returning before you do.
“Foolish girl,” Gortash sneers. He takes your chin in his hand, forcing eye contact. The bags beneath his eyes appear darker than when you first met. You suppose you’re to blame for that. “Are you so eager to undermine that you’ll put yourself at risk?”
“What does it matter,” you reply, your glare communicating what your weary voice cannot. “Pain is all I know around you.”
Gortash releases you as if your skin scalded him.
“Pain? This? You know nothing of pain, aasimar. The word is lost on you.”
Righteous fury churns your stomach in on itself.
“Then show me!” You demand. “Show me, if that’s what it takes for you to stop flaunting your godsforsaken ‘benevolence.’ A benevolent warden! Can those two roles coexist? Or are you the one ignorant of words and their meanings?”
You fight for each breath. It’s been some time since you’ve snapped at him like this. For good reason, you think, noting the murky abyss in his eyes. Lord Enver Gortash isn’t to be spoken to in such a discourteous manner. People have had lips sewn shut and fingers unnaturally contorted for less. His cruelty isn’t random, there’s a methodology behind each stitch and snap.
Yet here you sit. Physically unharmed, adorned in fine garments, aureate bracelets, onyx earrings, and his favorite shade of rouge upon your lips. You don’t know what to make of this, you didn’t want to know for the longest time either. Should he confirm what you dread, well… at least you’ll have clarity amidst the revulsion.
He studies you like he would a defective construct he’s one adjustment away to fixing. You loathe how vulnerable you feel beneath his scrutinizing stare, that he has the means to take you apart and piece you back together.
An eternity passes before Gortash speaks again.
“... You’re frightened,” he surmises. “Frightened over what it means to be the subject of my affection.”
Your pulse quickens as the cool metal of his gauntlets brush against your hand.
“You want my wrath. The sting of a riding crop, the indignation from the welt it forms.”
The gauntlet’s tips dig into your flesh. It almost hurts, until he lessens the intensity of his grip. He’s mastered applying just the right amount of pressure to leave indents behind without breaking skin. He could break you, but he wants you whole, as proof he could conquer you at your best.
“Keep wanting, you won’t ever receive it. No,” Gortash smiles, the skin beneath his eyes crinkling from mirth. “Endure what it means to have earned my affection instead.”
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Welcome, Redditors! Important things to know about Tumblr:
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It should be Xanthe Zhou. Everyone here loves Xanthe. You need to go read the Spirit World comics right now.
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after reading the one hundred and one millionth inane quote about how Loki is such a pRiViLeGeD pRiNcE while Sylvie is just a poor baby who had no real childhood and had to learn to fend for herself from a young age, I feel the need to point out that even the ONE thing we know about Sylvie's past, the thing that's supposed to be her mAjOr tRaUmA and set her apart from him somehow, was literally stolen from Loki.
this is how Tom described Loki's experience post-suicide attempt back in the day while doing press for Avengers:
“I think he went, like with everything else, to a sort of… it was just like, the worst place imaginable. I think he went to all of the darkest recesses of the universe. I’m sure he had a brush with—several brushes with death. I think he ran into the shadiest characters you can find in the Nine Realms. I think he had to rely on his wits to protect himself. It was really, really, really unpleasant, I think. I don’t have any frame of reference for that, except for imagining what it might be like to be kidnapped by a terrorist or something and have to survive a very, very frightening and precarious existence. But whatever it was, it was important when Loki came back for The Avengers, that whatever compassion he had left was absolutely shriveled to a minimum because of the experience that he had. Harrowing, I think, and scarring for life—in a way that Thor and Odin and Frigga find very, very difficult to understand.” [source]
and now the show pretends that Loki teamed up with Thanos completely of his own will, even though Marvel had JUST confirmed that the sceptre was influencing him throughout Avengers, and they hand that traumatic backstory that was Loki's off to their precious OC.
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