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toms-cherry-trees · 15 days

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"Look After You" || Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: Time and distance cannot break certain promises

Word count: 4.2k

Tags: Mentions of war, mental asylums, unjust imprisonment, mentions of controversial mental health treatments, cross dressing (?), implications of violence against women, illness, no betareading we go in raw

Author's note: You might have seen this post where I mention the life of Dorothy Lawrence. Well this is very loosely based on her life mixed with Tommy's story. Left it very open to a part 2 if people like the premise.

(Yes my people watch me put together moodboards instead of choosing gifs)

Requested tag (hope not to disappoint) @brummiereader @emotionalcadaver

The asylum stood tall and imponent before Tommy’s gaze, its towering central dome and flanking turrets framed by the bright sun rays of a cheerful spring afternoon. The radiant gardens contrasted dramatically with the derelict state of the building itself; rusty and broken drainpipes hanging from the roof, rotten wood frames and shattered window panes, missing chunks of brick on the walls, revealing the inner framing and plaster. Nothing about that place inspired trust to those who crossed its threshold, let alone hopes of betterment. The lamentable exterior stood like the perfect match of the decadence within.

The smell of rot assaulted him the second he entered. The paint had started to peel off, and moisture stains crawled across walls and ceiling. Most windows in the main hall were shuttered, and the incandescent light bulbs did little to cut through the darkness, casting a sickly shadow over the room. The orderly that welcomed him in the entrance had an embittered face, and he questioned Tommy on his name, whom he was visiting and his reasons to. He patted him down and overturned his pockets, making him leave behind anything that could be used to harm or be harmed. Cap, cigar case, lighter, sleeve garters and shoelaces stayed behind while another orderly led him through long hallways and endless locked doors towards the morning hall where he’d meet the purpose of his visit.

Finally, they stopped before a wide set of oaken double doors with panels of rubbed glass, which allowed him a faint peek of what happened on the other side. The orderly barely opened the door enough to enter himself and told Tommy to wait outside, as if he feared something may escape from within given the chance. After a few minutes he returned, leaving the gap open for Tommy to pass through.

“Sister Janice will take you to her. Don’t look at other patients. Don’t talk to other patients. If they come to you, ignore them. Don’t take anything they give you”

Perplexed, curious and mostly annoyed by all the delays, Tommy ducked under the orderly’s arm while he held the door open. As soon as he stepped inside the orderly let go, and the door closed behind him with a heavy click.

The sudden brightness hurt his eyes after the unceasing darkness, and Tommy had to squint briefly as his pupils grew accustomed to his surroundings. An ample hall stretched before him, arch windows spanning from floor to ceiling lining the west and north walls. Moth eaten draperies of blue velvet had been drawn back to allow sunlight in, in hopes of insufflating some life into the gelid heart of the asylum.

The room had surely once been a magnificent ballroom, but had now been reduced to the sad, dirty, abandoned alcove where the non-aggressive patients spent most of their waking hours, some engaged in the very few activities offered to them, others dragging their feet and mumbling to themselves like lost souls, their gazes absent and their appearance unkempt. Not one person appeared to have a coherent thought there, and Tommy wondered if it was due to their own ailments, or due to the medicines the nurses forced down their throats to keep them tame and peaceful, albeit stupid.

As Tommy walked past, he couldn't help but notice the way his presence drew attention from them. The patients stopped in their tracks to stare at him as if he were the most marvellous wonder they had ever seen. They pointed at him, uttering incoherences and laughing at jokes no one else heard. Some tried to get close but were forced back with a sharp gesture by the nun accompanying him, whom only now Tommy noticed, carried a mean looking leather strap, hanging side by side with a rosary from her cord belt.

At long last, she came into view. Slouched on a rocking chair facing the windows, a ragged purple cardigan thrown over a white, floor length dress, resembling more a nightgown than any sort of decent clothing. A white linen cap covered her hair, and Tommy noticed that the ties had been removed, as had been from the rest of her garments. She looked thinner, thinner even than she did in France. She gave no indication that she had noticed their presence, her dulled eyes fixated on the gardens outside.

“I have it from here, sister” Tommy dismissed the nun with a wave of his hand, dragging a nearby stool to sit next to the woman.

“I’m sorry Mr. Shelby, but I cannot allow you to be unsupervised with a patient. She seems tame now, but who knows what atrocities a woman of sin like her might commit”

Tommy wanted to snort. She barely looked strong enough to hold herself in the chair, how could she harm anyone?

“She won’t attack me sister” Tommy insisted “Now step back, and I will make sure the asylum is handsomely rewarded for your troubles.”

The nun opened her mouth, ready to argue, but then chose against it. The asylum could do with some extra coin, after all. She straightened up and smoothed her habit, perhaps a way to reinstate her authority that Tommy had so brazenly challenged.

“You have half an hour” She stated at last before walking away towards a group of patients who were seemingly arguing over a doll.

Tommy’s gaze returned to the woman in front of him, who continued to be absent from the world around her, and who gave no sign of life other than the steady rising and falling of her shoulders with each breath. Thomas allowed the pause to linger between them a few seconds longer, but he didn’t want to waste his allotted time. He wouldn’t put it past these people to drag him out like that; the laws of men did not apply in these sorts of places.

He called her name softly, in a nearly soothing whisper. Once, twice, thrice, yet it did not do to her more than the drafts howling through the broken panes or the maniac laughs of the patients around them. He didn’t want to touch her and risk startling her, but he didn’t want to spend his visit staring at her left cheek. He took his last chance, using this time a different name, a name he had not pronounced since 1915.

“Private Anders”

The name stirred something in her mind. Her back straightened a bit and her features quivered in recognition. Slowly, stiffly, she turned towards Tommy, her eyebrows first furrowing in confusion then rising in surprise.

“Sergeant Major?” Her shock could not be disguised, and she readied to rise and salute, but Tommy motioned for her to remain seated.

“At ease, private”

Tommy recalled perfectly the first day he saw her. They were stationed near Albert, digging up a new front line as they tried to gain terrain from the Germans. The troops from the British Expeditionary Force and the 179th tunnelling company consisted mostly of coal miners, all turned sappers whose task was to ready up the land for battle. The clay rich soil basically melted between their fingers when it rained, making the digging of trenches and shelters a never-ending battle. The dampness crept up their legs and seeped into their bones, and Tommy had seen one too many soldiers whose feet rotted inside their boots. Even the strongest men, used to work from sun to sun in the depths of the coal mines breathing dust and methane, would sometimes succumb to the elements.

Tommy worked paired with Tom Dunn, a man as thick of back as he was of skull. He could easily lift an adult man and throw him across the field like a sack of potatoes, and legend has it he pulled the coal carts in the mine when the horses couldn’t. If left to it, he could probably dig out the trench with only his hands and his helmet.

He had been the one to introduce Tommy to her. Dunn had hidden that little lunatic in an abandoned cottage, not too far from where the troops were stationed. Somehow, she had obtained a uniform, which she had padded with cotton wool to flatten her curves and broaden her shoulders. Her hair had been cut in a military style, scrapes on her cheeks simulated a shaving rash, and potassium permanganate attempted to sharpen her jaw and cheekbones with dark shadows.

She slept in a damp mattress, with little more than a threadbare blanket to keep her warm; she had no means of acquiring something better, nor could she light a fire in the dusty hearth for fear of being discovered. Dunn had been feeding her with whatever he could spare from his own rations or snatch from others, which meant she had been eating the minimum for survival, since the woods offered nothing but naked branches at that time of year.

Tommy had been left thunderstruck, far too much to react properly. A million questions came to his lips, and a million died there as his mind couldn’t exactly put into words what he wanted to know. His gaze flickered between them both, who looked at him pleadingly like a couple of children asking their parents to stay up late. His first instinct was to call up their superior and hand her over to them, for her own safety, but then he thought about it better. The things that could happen to her if he handed her over to the war office…and that’s it, if they handed her over in the first place, or chose to make justice themselves.

No, for the sake of her safety and his conscience, he would play along with them for now.

“What is your name?” He inquired, a simple question to cut through the gelid silence that had befallen them.

For an answer, she handed Tommy papers and a matching dog tag. Forgeries, most likely, and very good ones, which meant she spent money on those. Paying from her own pocket to go to war

They held each other's gaze for endless seconds. At long last, Tommy offered a handshake.

“Welcome to the 179th tunnelling company, Private John Anders. I’ll look after you”

Tommy hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the meeting. The person who sat before him, hunched and dirty and completely lost to the world, bore no resemblance to the fiery, and perhaps a little unhinged, woman that had gone through every length to infiltrate herself in the front line. Years of memory seemed to have been erased from her mind, but she recalled vividly everything she went through in her time in France. She did not know the day and year she lived in but could easily recite the names of every man she met from the 179th, as well as every technique they implemented to dig out the clay.

Tommy was sure that, if he were to put a shovel in her hands, she would unconsciously start digging.

He had partly placated his worries by placing a nurse in the asylum, one handpicked by Polly and paid out of his own pocket, to look after her. But that solution felt like not enough. Not by a mile. What that place did to her, what they were turning her into…Killing her bit by bit, stripping away her sanity to erase from her any memory she held of those weeks in the front. He still recalled the tunnel collapse, when the rain-soaked clay began to crumble over them like cold tar, obscuring their vision and sticking their feet to the ground. How the men dragged out each other, coated from head to toe in the reddish paste. She had tripped, her foot had gotten stuck, he couldn’t tell anymore. All he knew was that she had been left behind, and he had re-entered the tunnel for her. Feeling his way through the darkness, keeping an eye on the entrance, calling her name out; her fake name, for even in the face of danger he had the mental fortitude to remember the importance of her cover up. How she dropped her own facade, her fearful voice calling him as she stretched her arm towards him.

Tommy, Tommy, Tommy

“Tommy!” Billowed an angered female voice, dragging his thoughts back to the present time.

Tommy squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, attempting to dissipate the fogs of the past that laid over them. Because he was not in the tunnels, nor in the Western front. He was sitting in his office, behind his desk, nursing a whiskey in his hands and with Polly sitting across him, equally angered and perplexed at her nephew’s inattention.

“You know I don’t appreciate my words being wasted”. It sounded like a threat, but half of the things Polly said usually did “If you had no interest in this briefing, you could have rescheduled our meeting”.

“You hate your time being wasted” Tommy pointed out.

“Which is exactly what you’re doing now” She remarked.

Silence lingered in the office while Polly lit a new cigarette and Tommy downed his drink, which had already begun to warm in his hands. He stood to pour another, which he finished almost immediately.

“So” Polly began, exhaling the smoke in an elegant blow “Will you tell me what’s on your mind?” As usual, Polly could see through him as easily as one would do through a clean glass. It unnerved him sometimes, to be laid open so vulnerably under her watchful gaze.

“It’s nothing” Tommy sat before the fire; hands laced behind his head in an attempt to seem relaxed.

“There’s been many things on your mind, Tommy, and nothing has never been one of them”. Polly’s slender fingers ran across the glass bottles on the bar cart before settling on gin, pouring herself a more than generous serving.

“You’re thinking of her”.

Tommy immediately thought of denying it, but what was the point? When Polly knew, no one could tell her otherwise. And as much as he hated others meddling in his business, the words came tumbling before he could hold them back.

“I’m just worried. She’s not the same she used to be. I don’t know what they do to her in that place, but she’s changed. Those medicines they give her, and who knows what else they’ve done. You know the treatments” He shook his head, as if to dismiss everything he said “Just worried”

“It’s been many years since you last saw her. Everyone changed after the war. God knows you did”.

“This is not the same. They’re killing her there” Tommy stared up at the ceiling, as if hoping to find a solution to his problems in the plaster. Polly only watched him, pondering over her next words carefully. She only hoped she would not regret whatever her nephew chose to do next.

“If her wellbeing worries you so, you have to do the right thing”

He frowned, turning to look at her with confusion clear in his eyes. Polly sipped the gin, swirling it around her mouth as she gave it a last thought. This was one of the far and few times in which Tommy proved he had a heart, and that softened her as well.

“If you are worried, you act. If they’re killing her in there, you get her out”

The sun had finally shone upon the soldiers after nearly a week of bad weather, when rain and fog had turned the living conditions in the trenches into nearly inhumane. The soldiers were happy, for they would no longer shiver until their bones ached, and they would at last be able to put their clothes and themselves to dry. The tunnellers were less than pleased, for the sun had dried the clay into a solid wall, forcing them to exhaust their muscles to dig out chunks the size of their heads while the sweat ran down their temples and backs. Their comrades kept them supplied with water, but it felt like pouring water on a bottomless bucket.

Tommy worked side by side with her. Him. Her. Her identity still got tied in his mind, and he had to think through every word addressed in her direction for fear of blowing her cover. He watched her out of the corner of the eye as she swung the pickaxe with a strength and determination he never expected to see in a woman. Despite her resilience, Tommy worried about her, and kept a watchful gaze for any sign of exhaustion. She could not afford to be taken ill or injured, for a trip to the medical tent would be enough to unravel all her carefully crafted lies. He had to take care of her.

They both worked in the very end of the trench, and the sounds around them would conceal any hushed conversation. Tommy’s curiosity was stronger than his willpower

“Why?”

She didn’t react at first, and Tommy thought she either didn’t listen to him, or chose to ignore him, both of which were valid. But before he could ask again, she whispered back, keeping her manly tone

“Why what?”

“Why come here? What sane person would come here, on her own free will, to be forced into coldness and starvation? Risk your life, and for what purpose? Couldn’t find good places to dig back in England?”

She snorted, the sound quite lighter than any man’s laugh, so she concealed it by clearing her throat

“I wanted to serve my country, same as you. Is there any sin on that?”

“Is that what you tell yourself at night to sleep?”

She stopped digging for a moment, leaving the pickaxe embedded in the clay. She sat in the upturned bucket they used as stool, wiping the sweat from her brow with her sleeve. She couldn’t work shirtless, and their uniforms had been made to shield from the cold only. Tommy offered her water; she drank a sip and poured the rest on her head. He noticed her hair had grown again, and curled behind her ears. He made a mental note to give her a trim after nightfall.

“I just wanted to see what it was like. What it really was. They don’t tell us the truth back home. The newspapers make it sound as if the front is almost peaceful and the men are just laying back eating turkey while the Germans fall a hundred a day. I wanted the truth, and I want to write about it. Make a book of all the lies they fed us home.”

Her reasoning didn’t sit well with him. All that effort, that trouble, that risk, just to figure out if war was as bad as she thought? Mad, mad in the head this one.

“And what does your family think you’re doing away from home?”

She scratched her chin, in the same way Tommy did when he got a shaving rash from his blunt razors. She had picked up male mannerisms quite fast, particularly his own

“Not much family left to care what I do or stop doing. I said I’d come to France to volunteer as a nurse, but they most likely think I came as a camp follower. If they knew what I’m up to, they would have me committed to the closest madhouse”

“The madhouse is where you belong” Tommy replied, albeit jokingly, as he stopped his work to pull out a cigarette from his pocket. But he was interrupted by a ball of clay being tossed at his face with masterful precision, dampened for maximum effect.

“Shut up, Sergeant Major”

Blue skies and a pleasant breeze welcomed them at the gates of Arrow House. Tommy chose to drive this time, taking the advice from the doctor who would oversee her care, who suggested she be exposed to the least amount of people possible during the first days as she adjusted to life outside. Only Tommy, Frances and the nurse who would be her primary caretaker.

She stared at the world around her with such wonder, like a blind whose sight had been restored. Every tree, every bird, the very landscape that surrounded his manor brought such wonder onto her face, like a child with a Christmas tree. Her happiness almost managed to convince him that this was, in fact, a good idea.

When Polly told him to get her out, he knew she meant to put her in a home of her own, with a caretaker, and allow her to have a life of her own. And Tommy considered the idea, for a while. To place her in a nice neighbourhood, in a house with a garden and a balcony where she could enjoy the sun, with a nurse and maids and a car. But it didn’t sit right with him. She had been alone ever since they took her. Imprisoned until the war ended, and then released only to be taken to the madhouse at first chance. Not one familiar face around her for nearly a decade. No, Tommy wouldn’t take her out of a cage just to put her back in a smaller, prettier one. She needed someone to protect her. And for better or worse, that one could only be Tommy.

When the car came to a halt, she was the first one out, gaping at the imponent state which Tommy owned.

“Is this where you live, Sergeant Major?” The wonder was palpable in her voice. But the only thing Tommy noticed was that after everything she still couldn’t find it in her to call him by his name.

“2000 acres of land, of which 12 are just garden, and 750 acres of farming land”

She cocked an eyebrow, and in the amused twinkle of her eyes Tommy saw a glimpse of the one she used to be.

“Are you a farmer now, sir?” She disguised her laugh behind the handkerchief she insisted on carrying, looking down like a bashful schoolgirl.

Tommy pulled out a cigarette; he felt the corner of his lips pulled into the shadow of a smile, pleased to see her spirits lifted.

“My business is more focused on progress and modernity, but I wouldn’t reject the idea. Perhaps one day it’ll come in hand to have crops and cows”

“That would be the bloody day” She didn’t even try to hide her laughter this time “Our mighty Sergeant Major, dressed in overalls and with mud up to his knees shovelling cow shit”

“I find myself more interested in horse shit these days. Come on, I’ll show you around”

Tommy gave her a complete tour of the house and adjacent grounds, both to show her everything that would be at her complete disposal, and also as a way to show off how far he had come since they were both in the trenches, hunched over a meagre fire lit inside an empty can and sharing a homemade cigarette made from tobacco leftovers. Her eyes were wide with wonder, her fingers running over tapestries, leathers and carved wood with childlike wonder

He saved her room for last. A wide bedroom at the very back of the house, situated in a corner with plenty of windows. It had a view of the back of the state, so she could enjoy the gardens, the horses and the surrounding woods. In the corner with the most sunlight Tommy had placed a writing desk, supplied with paper, pens, ink and a brand new typewriter. Amidst everything sat a bunch of old and worn pages, all of different sizes and materials, kept together nicely with leather cord. She picked it up gingerly, running her thumb over the first page. Even though the paper was stained and dusty, the words could be read as easily as the first day she wrote them.

Tears flooded her eyes, and she hugged the improvised diary to her chest like it was a most prized possession. And perhaps it was. She turned towards Tommy, a mixture of bewilderment and eternal gratitude plastered on her features

“Where did you get it? I thought they would have had it destroyed when they locked me up”

Tommy only smirked, pulling out a cigarette from the golden case he carried “Remember what I told you? Always make sure someone owes you something”

That gesture, so small yet so meaningful, shifted something inside her. Her eyes brimmed with tears she attempted to fight, but they won in the end. She practically jumped into Tommy’s arms, hugging him with the eagerness of a person who has been denied a caring touch for far too long.

“How will I ever be able to thank you enough, Sergeant Major?”

His free arm circled her frame, returning the gesture

“You can start by calling me Tommy”

Worry crept up Tommy’s spine as the higher ups did their rounds to inspect the work on the freshly dug trenches. It had been three days since she last showed up, and he would soon run out of lies to cover up for “Private Anders’” absence.

As much as she tried to deny it, finally the harsh conditions had caught up to her. Her health had gone down a slippery slope with the arrival of winter. First it had been just a fretless dry cough, easily softened with pine tea. But then came the bone pains, the headaches, the constant fatigue. The dampness of her safe haven had seeped into her bones and caused some sort of rheumatism. Tommy noticed the swelling of her hands as they struggled to grip the pickaxe. Her hair began to fall out in clumps.

The shivers and the fever had finally knocked her off her feet. She had been unable to leave her cottage, which in turn worsened her condition even further. Tommy had tried to bring her something more substantial to eat, but she seemed unable to eat more than a few bites of stale bread dipped in some coffee the Americans had given them. Dry, suffocating coughs racked her body until she had to gasp for air, her teeth and lips speckled with blood.

“This is the end line” She had mumbled weakly during the third night, while Tommy tried to desperately convince her to light a fire to warm and dry the place

“No. You are not going to die. I won’t allow it. I told you I’d take care of you” He stated firmly, sitting on the floor by her side with her hand in his, his other one cupping her feverish cheek. He had been in a similar spot, not too long ago. Watching life fade away from a young woman’s eyes. He refused to let her die, not like that, not there where he would have to dump her body in the river.

“I am not going to die” She stated with a conviction her current condition didn’t match “But to survive, I have to turn myself in”

The idea of handing her over to the war office filled Tommy with panic

“No, no you cannot do that. Do you have any idea what they could do to you? Your best prospect would be to be thrown in jail, to be given 10 years for impersonating a soldier. And that’s if the higher ups are feeling compassionate” He shuddered at thinking what those wolves would do to her “Listen, I get leave tomorrow night. I’ll go to the nearest town, get some medicine, maybe I can pawn some things and get you a new blanket. You-”

“No” With great effort, she propped herself up in one elbow. Tommy couldn’t help but notice the strands of hair left in the pillow “I’ve implicated you long enough. The excuses and lies you have made for me are enough to have you dishonourably discharged and tried. You have done everything you could for me, and for that I am forever indebted to you, Sergeant Major. This next chapter in my life, I have to write it alone”

She sounded dejected and disappointed, as if she had failed some unwritten expectation of her adventure. But Tommy thought quite the opposite. He only felt admiration for the things she had put herself through in order to tell her story. He still thought she was mad in the head, but in a completely different way

“Will you mention my name when you write your book?” He asked jokingly, helping her lay back down slowly, pulling the ragged blanket up to her chin

“Only if you want to be jailed next to me for helping an intruder” She laughed, but the sound was cut short by another fit of coughing “I’ll dedicate it to you, Sergeant Major. Everything I write and do will be because of you”

Tommy awoke with a startle. His eyes were wide open, darting around the room as he tried to locate the source of the disturbance. Everything seemed to be calm in his room. And then it happened again. A dry thud in the wall, followed by a muffled scream.

In a heartbeat he was out of bed, gun in hand. He followed the noises, which seemed to grow louder the closer he got to her bedroom. The door was ajar, allowing a sliver of moonlight to project in the floor, in which Tommy could see two shadows moving.

He stormed inside, gun ready to fire. But he didn’t find an intruder, no. Just her, on her knees, banging her fists against the wall as she screamed. Her nurse stood by her side, amidst a disaster of clothes and books and other objects, unsuccessfully trying to coax her back to bed

“Miss, please. The hour is quite late. You need sleep”

“No, no. The walls are coming down. We have to get out, the roof’s collapsing!” She yelled desperately, clawing at the wall trying to dig herself out of some dark place that only existed in her head. He saw her nails tear the wallpaper with ferocity. And then he noticed the nurse unlocking a cabinet and pulling out a syringe

“No” He said almost immediately as he put a firm hand on the nurse’s arm “Go to bed. I have this”

“But Mr. Shelby!”

“I said go. Leave me with her”

The nurse doubted, holding his gaze, but chose to exit the room, closing the door behind her.

Tommy walked towards her slowly, afraid he would startle her. He gingerly touched her arm, but his presence went as unnoticed as a speck of dust. He called out her name, again and again, without success. The mud had seeped deep in her brain, as it had done his, and blocked her senses from the outside world. In order to get through, Tommy had to get into the mud with her

He stood tall, in martial position, hands behind his back

“Private Anders!”

Quick like a lightning bolt, she stood up and saluted in a firm position. Tears streaked her face and her entire body quivered like an autumn leaf

“Sergeant Major sir!”

“At ease, private. You are relieved of your duties. Time to go back home”

Like the lifting of a spell, her eyes glossed over as she blinked slowly, looking around her from the bed, to the things she had thrown around in haste, and finally towards Tommy. Her lower lip quivered

“What is happening to me?”

Her knees faltered. Tommy lunged forward before she could hit herself, coming down to the floor with her held in his arms. She burrowed herself in his chest, her fingers clinging to his shirt as she wept, her body racked by sobs. Tommy shushed her quietly, his fingers carding through her hair

“Don’t cry. I’ll take care of you”

#tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x you #tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby one shot #marsie writes #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders imagine

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 8 months

Text

In Abstract 1

A sequel no one asked for. First Series: Portrait of a Dangerous Man

Warnings: noncon/rape, some violence, blood, alluded murder (for now?), grief, confusing, criminal allusions, some untagged extreme events.

This is dark!mob!Clark Kent x reader and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: You adjust to life with Clark, thought the past won't seem to let you go.

Character: mob!Clark Kent

Note: I don't know where this came from.

Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :) I appreciate your comments and enthusiasm! Reblogs help and are like candy, so please, feed me.

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

A speck of red. A speck of red in a sea of blue. From the observer's eye, one would not notice. But the creator, the artist, the start error is obvious. No inadvertent, but entirely deliberate. A reminder of what it cost you.

You close your eyes and the fleck of blood sears in your mind. Like the site of your boyfriend gasping his last breaths. Ex, now. For a while. It feels like yesterday yet no time at all.

You shiver and hug yourself through the white cashmere. The sweater offers little warmth in the cold house. The glass doors look out onto the white lawn, a fresh dusting of snow trims the covered pool and blankets the landscape. It would be beautiful to any who did not know the sinister secrets of this place. The crimes witnessed by these walls alone.

You turn away from the portrait hung above the gaping fireplace. Even the crackling flames cannot warm you. There is no comfort in this house or the man who resides there. A warden, a maniac, a murderer.

You near the glass doors, eyes drawn to how the snow gathers in corners. The thin sheet of frost that cakes the panes and the fog of your breath as you stand close. The world outside is obscured by your own existence.

Silence. Stillness. Distance. Isolation. The vast grayness of your small world trapped behind a transparent wall. You touch the handle, feeling the cold metal, gripping it tight. A sudden urge to run out and dive into the heaps.

"Dinner tonight?" Clark's voice claps like thunder through the lull.

You gasp and recoil from the door. You turn to him, hugging yourself as much out of fright as the temperature. You step away from the door and your yearning for escape.

"Dinner," you repeat, your hollow voice echoing off the high ceilings.

"Yes, your mother is coming to town? We'll get her from the airport and take her to Elliston's?"

"Are you asking or telling?" You mutter as you drop your arms, tucking your hands up the cuffs.

You sweep away, crossing to the archway that opens into the spacious kitchen. You go to the counter and flip up the lid of the coffee machine. You focus on the rack of pods. It's habit more than anything, often you let your cup go cold, basking in the scent but too numb to taste it.

He follows. You sense him. Like you always do. Always hovering. Always watching.

"Don't be like this. You've been looking forward to her visit."

You grumble as you pick out the cinnamon cookie pod and shove it in the top. You shrug. Not really. You only ever play the part he wants. Move your brush to his whim, streak the paint by his word, lay on your back as he gets what he wants.

"And I have been too. I can't wait to meet your family. All of them."

Your chest winds tight. You can't tell if it's a threat or genuine. He is always hard to decipher. If you had ever been able to see through him, you wouldn't be standing there, trapped in his house, in his grip.

Five months. Five months in your cell. Five months with Marcus' blood on your soul.

"I'll get a room ready," you put a mug under the spout and hit the brew button.

He lurks closer. You stare and wait for the drip to begin. He puts his hands on your shoulders, the fabric turning course beneath the weight of his grasp.

"Nina's already working on it," he growls into your crown, "don't act so hard done by…"

"I'm not," the trickle spits out and hits the porcelain sharply.

"I give your more than he ever–"

You tear away from him, sliding along the counter as you spin to face him. He clucks and tilts his head, slowly pivoting towards you. The anger cordons in his cheek.

"I told you…"

He scoffs. "You're right, he was nothing. Not worth talking about. Sweetheart, it was always going to be me."

You clamp your lips shut as your eyes sting. He doesn't wake up every day in horror, he doesn't sink into sleep like a stone in mud, he doesn’t know what it is to live in black and white when the world used to be painted in a million colours.

"I'll confirm what time she gets in."

He sighs and crosses his arms. You look down at the white sweater and unroll the crumpled hem. You didn't wear cashmere before, no silk, no satin. Just cotton and tweed. Now you wear what he tells you to.

"Find something to wear for dinner," he demands, "and after."

He crosses the pristine tile and you look at him in the face, eyes glossy and pathetic. He kisses your forehead as his hand comes up to your chin, his thumb stroking your lips. He inhales your scent and lets out a growl.

"Wear the diamonds," he demands.

He lets you go and leaves you there. You watch after him as he stalks off, checking the time on his wristband. He clears his throat as he turns out of your sight. Your vision blurs to a muddy blur.

The coffee machine dings and brings you back. As much as you love your mother, how do you explain this to her? Lies are easier on the phone, but face to face, the truth is clear to see.

🎨

Your mother pulls you into a hug, her suitcase forgotten at her side. It's been almost a year since you last saw her. You and Marcus made a rare trip down for her birthday. As solitary as she prefers her life, she cherishes your rare company.

"Tweety bird, it's been so long," she hugs you, swaying you with her. She releases tou and holds you at arm's length, "don't you look like a dead mouse?"

"Ha, yeah, I was up late… painting," you smile thinly.

"Never change," she chides as you sense a shadow approach. Clark grabs the handle of her suitcase and rolls it towards him as he puts his hand on your back. "Oh, who… is this?"

"Clark," you try not to show your frustration. Your mother's always been a touch flightly, "I told you about him."

"Ah, yes, oh, that Marcus," she tuts and shakes her head, "couldn't believe it when you said he ran off but then again, I wasn't unhappy."

"Mom," you sniff.

"Well? He always left his dirty socks on the couch."

You bite the inside of your cheek. You'd rather not talk about him. You fear she'll see right through your story. Clark takes his hand off your back.

"Nice to meet you–" he begins.

"Don't be silly," she pulls him into a hug, an impressive feat as she is rail thin, "you must be the one saving my gal from heartbreak."

"Um, sure," he snorts, "you're Janine?"

"That's the one," she pulls back and fixes her wild waves, "I'm afraid she hasn't given me more than your name."

"She's been busy. Commissions and all," Clark puts on that perfect act. The gentleman with all the charm. The one you fell for. "We hope you're not too tired, I suggested a reservation for dinner…"

"Oh, yes, please, I'm starving. That airplane food is better avoided," she trills, "besides just ask Tweety, I'm mot much of a sleeper."

You shake your head in confirmation and she grins wider. Clark rolls her bag around and waves his arm ahead of him, "ladies."

"Oo, finally got yourself a gentleman."

"Mhmm," you hum as you start forward, "something like that."

🎨

You watch the wine flow into the glass, filling the belly with a rich burgundy colour. Your mother looks around emphatically as Clark gives a curt nod of dismissal to the server. You're left to peruse the menu.

“Wow, this is a fancy place,” your mom comments as she opens the leather folio containing the menu, “where was it Marc would take us? Denny’s?”

You give her a look. It’s strange, you’re mother was never one to turn her nose up at simplicity but there were some very specific sticking points when it came to your boyfriend. Ex. Or maybe money really does corrupt all.

The wine is stringent. You don’t like it. You take a hefty swig and set the stem down heavily. Clark gives you a look. Right, he has his curated image, you have to fit into that.

“So mom, how was your flight?”

“Ah, it’s fine. But I was sat next to this skinny fellow. So nervous. Jittered the whole way. I had to close the window because it made him sick. So I took a nap.”

“I hope you don’t mind shacking up with us. I thought of a hotel but we have more than enough room,” Clark suggests, “after a long day, I’m sure you’d like to just relax.”

“With us? You live together?” Your mom raises her brows.

“You knew this. Remember?”

“No, you said you moved out of your apartment, I don’t remember a where or with who. This is moving fast,” she says, “definitely not a rebound then?”

You cringe. Clark is a better actor than you. He laughs. Or maybe it is really that funny. Laughing at your dead ex and the ensuing predicament. You take another gulp of the disgusting wine.

“Well, the salmon looks interesting, “but I do prefer halibut…” she mulls over the listings, “oh, prawns. Tweety, don’t you remember when you drank all my vodka and puked up seafood all night?”

“Mom,” you swallow.

“Tweety, that’s an interesting nickname,” Clark says, opening the door for further humiliation.

“Ah, yes, well, funny story.”

“Not really,” you intone.

Your mother ignores you as she closes her menu and rests it on the table in front of her. “Her aunt used to give her Tweety Bird everything. Pajamas, stuffies, notebooks… she hates Tweety Bird. Always has but she was too nice to tell my sister so she had this little collection. I bet it’d be worth a bit now. Vintage and all that.”

“Oh, Tweety,” Clark echoes, “interesting. Cute.”

“Yellow did always suit her.”

“Anything suits her, doesn’t it?” He puts his hand over yours, “I tell her all the time. She makes paint stains look incredible. You wouldn’t believe it, at the end of the day she walks out of the studio looking like, uh, what’s that artist that does the splashes?”

“Pollock,” you answer dully.”

“She was always obsessed with men with too much time and not enough talent,” your mother remarks, “art, I’m just happy she isn’t still working at the coffee shop.”

“That was like six years ago,” you retort.

“Still, you have a degree, you should use it.”

“And she does,” Clark assures, “she’s wonderful at what she does.”

“Aw,” your mother almost fawns, “you’re such a sweetheart. Where did she find you and where do I get one?”

You barely restrain from rolling your eyes. Clark basks in the praise. You empty your glass and feel the slosh in your mind. It might be a bit too much but the wine makes the nights go quicker.

You decide on a salad. You’re not hungry. Your appetite is scant at best, food is a necessity, not a joy. Like much of your life now. It makes you miss those numbers you thought were so dire. The easy life of putting numbers in boxes and putting frozen lasagna in the oven.

The server returns and you turn your attention to his convenient arrival. You need the distraction. He nods to your empty glass and you see how Clark takes notice as well.

“Did you require more, mademoiselle?” He offers.

“One will do until we have our entrees,” Clark insists, “no good drinking on an empty stomach.”

You smile and take the stout glass of water from beside the stemmed glass, “thank you. He’s right.”

“Do we know what we’re having?” The server asks.

Clark defers to your mother with a gesture. She orders first. Halibut with the seasonal vegetables. Clark has his usual filet mignon, and you get the cobb salad. You hand over your menu and sit back, twiddling your fingers in your lap.

“Salad,” your mother comments, “when she was a teen, I couldn’t pry the onion rings out of her hands. Now look at her. It’s catching up, isn’t it?”

“Nothing wrong with being mindful,” Clark comments as he brushes his fingertips along his thick beard. He’s let it grow out, his hair too, the curls spiraling past his ears. “It’ll save room for dessert, they have a delicious creme brule.”

“Mmm, amazing–” your mother’s voice catches and she looks past you.

You don’t react right away as another serve sneaks up on you. Clark reaches behind him with one hand, covertly as if trying not to give himself away, and brings it forward as you peek up at the woman all in black. She giddily grins and backs up.

Clark takes a breath and pushes back his chair as he rises. He turns and kneels as the server hovers nearby, hands clutched together. Several other tables hush and servers look up from their work. You feel time halt as your ears ring.

Clark presents a red velvet box as your mouth falls open. For those strangers all around, those who don’t know about you or him, it must look like shock, even glee. But it's thrumming, crashing terror. No. No. Your eyes pinpoint on the large diamonds as he reveals it, three rings of smaller ones around the large.

You look up over his head then over at your mother. She dabs her eyes and covers her mouth in disbelief. You wobble as you turn back to Clark. His voice rumbles in your ears but you can’t make out the words. You blink. And blink. And blink. Gaping like a dead fish.

“...marry me?...”

His question hangs before you. You could keel over and shrivel up. You could stand up and flee. Run until you can’t stop. You close your eyes and see the blood spurting from Marcus’ chest. The image of your mother’s face flits across your mind, replacing his. You won’t let him hurt her too.

“Yes.”

The voice is not your own. It can’t possibly be because you can’t feel it on your tongue but it tickles in your ears. Clark snatches your hand and forces the diamond on, standing as he tugs you up and pulls you into an embrace. He tilts your head and kisses you. The fairy tale he writes for the onlookers is nothing more than a cautionary tale.

#clark kent #dark clark kent #dark!clark kent #clark kent x reader #au #mob au #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #in abstract #series #dcu #dc #superman

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alpaca-clouds · 10 months

Text

Let me talk Anarchism

Okay, let me quickly talk about it, because I am so annoyed with this. For once in the way how it relates to Solarpunk, but also in relation to media. And yeah, choosing good old Hobie here, because while it was kinda played for humor with him a lot, he was one of the few characters in media I have seen, that are actually kinda a positive representation of anarchism.

You know, media in general misrepresents anarchism all the time. Sometimes for propaganda purposes, and sometimes because the creator does not know any better and has grown up with said propaganda themselves and just believe it. Most of the time, media hence represents Anarchism as "Society without rules!", which is most certainly not what anarchism is.

The word Anarchism comes from the Greek An Arkhos, which translates into "Without Rulers". That is exactly what Anarchism means. Anarchism is a political philosophy that aims to get rid of all unjustified, involuntary hierarchies.

This is, by the way, why Anarcho Capitalism might use the word, but can never be anarchist, because capitalism aims to build unjustifiable hierarchies. It is exactly the goal of the system. So Anarcho Capitalism is a contradiction in itself.

An anarchist society will still have rules. We know that, because there have actually been societies in history, that today we would call anarchist. It is just that instead of a sort of some group of people ruling over everyone else deciding on those rules, everyone would get to have their say in it. That is, why those historical examples of anarchism for the most part have sprung up in smaller, close-nit societies, because before the age of the internet it would've been rather hard to make everyone's voice heard.

If you are wondering: "But isn't democracy already doing that?" The answer is no. Because democracy is not working, due to the politicians having all the power and the populus not being able to force them to stick to whatever they promised during the election. We cannot recall politicians, who have lied to us. So for the most part, it is the people with big money, who influence the politics. People, who were not even elected, but who the politicians will try to please more than the average joe, who has voted for them.

It is another reason, why a lot of anarchists are against the police. Not only do they use police violence, but they are in a position, where they are allowed to use it against people, often without much reprecussions. And all of that, without the people having any say in who does and does not get to be a police(wo)man. It is another unjustified hierarchy.

And, yes, it is also why anarchists tend to be against the concept of nation states. Because internationally some states rule over others. Colonialism might've ended on paper, but it has not ended in practice. The reason some nations are poor, while others are rich, is that the poor nations get exploited by rich nations. An unjustified hierarchy. And that is without starting on the fact how many borders have been drawn by people, who had no right to do so.

On the small scale, though, anarchism first and foremost is about helping people. Mutual aid is one of the core principles of the anarchist movement. Helping people, who got left behind by the unjustified state and the people who are in power. It is also about empowering people and allowing them to find their own voice.

See, here is the fact: One of the core believes in anarchy is, that people are actually not terrible. If the state stopped existing tomorrow, people would not run around, murder and pillage. They would still help one another. We have seen this time and time again when through war or natural catastrophies systems of power have failed. People help each other. Because we are actually a pretty social species.

This is also why I absolutely loathe the depiction we see in a lot of media. Most of all in Legend of Korra. Where not only the Red Lotus, as an anarchist group, does not do jack shit in terms of mutual aid and things like that... We also see basically the Earth Kingdom go to ruins and violence within minutes of the Earth Queen having been killed. Like, no, that is not how people would react in that situation. There would not be instant riots or some shit. Jesus. What made them think that?

And yes, sure. Some anarchists might riot on the streets, because they riot AGAINST the unjust system. But always remember: Usually, when there is police violence for example against a protest, it is your friendly neighborhood anarchist, who will be willing to put themselves between you and the police.

#Solarpunk #anarchism #anti capitalism #anti patriarchy #communism #anarcho communism #fuck the police #media #politics #the legend of korra #spider punk #astv hobie

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danibee33 · 16 days

Text

The Queen’s Guard

*COD medieval au - Simon Riley x reader

cw: arranged marriage, dark themes, attempted sa & non-graphic sa but pls *read at your own discretion*, gore/violence, sexual themes, etc.

word count: 1.1k

“Again.”

You can’t help but to flinch at the sound of swords being drawn; it rings in your ears, echos in the recesses of your brain. The piercing, metallic clangs resound throughout the room-

How long had you been here, anyway? Judging from the sunlight that peers through the high transom windows, its golden rays giving the great hall an ethereal sort of glow, it must be nearing time for dinner-

“I’ve seen enough, thank you.”

With a dismissive wave, you rise from the bronze throne and turn on your heel, eyes focused straight ahead, fixated on the intricate carvings in the doors, your escape just within reach-

“Your Grace..”

General Leon’s voice is laced with exasperation and warning, and your long history with him is the only reason you halt, your handmaid nearly bumping into you as you turn again- the young woman struggling to rearrange the ridiculous train on your gown as the man speaks,

“You cannot continue on without a Queen’s Guard- His Grace demands the position be filled.”

Oh, of course. How thoughtful of your kind husband. The husband who only sees you when the physicians deem you fertile enough to produce an heir. The husband who you’re not even sure could pick your face in a crowd because he only ever fucks you from behind, your face pushed down into the animal furs beneath you.

The husband who killed your last guard, gods rest his soul.

Yes, I’m sure he’s very concerned for my safety..

You give a heavy sigh, fighting the urge to roll your eyes as you feel the placating smile tug at your lips; the one you’re so, so good at. The practiced smile that puts everyone in the room at ease, the one you’ve perfected in your relatively short existence of being groomed for this very life.

The life everyone dreams of, a life of royalty, of the highest privilege and power- how little they truly know.

“Of course, please, let us meet the next one then.”

Taking your place upon the throne once again, you sit properly, prim and demure, just like you were taught. The very picture of perfection in your emerald colored silks, not a single hair out of place-

Yet, inside, you were wasting away, your thoughts boiling and raging, your anger smoldering just under the surface, like a vein of coal in the earth that’s been lit aflame- the embers never dying, but never able to turn into the inferno they so wishe to be.

You don’t bother to spare your gaze when the doors open with a low groan, the quiet footfalls that enter the space only really given away by the shifting of chainmail and armor.

They’re confident strides, you notice- long and steady, and without even seeing him yet, you can feel the energy shift around you, his presence seeming to fill every available void,

“Ser Simon Riley, Your Grace.”

With one look, you’re utterly struck by the imposing man walking towards you- shoulders and hips swaying with each deliberate step, left hand resting lazily on the hilt of his long-sword.

His armor plates are dark, obsidian in hue, so different from the usual flashy silver you see everywhere you look. He is a looming shadow in front of you, somehow as wide as he is tall, if that were possible- and his eyes. The skin around them have been smudged with kohl, making the mottled amber of his irises look preternatural, his unmoving gaze entirely focused on you, even when he bows,

“Your Majesty.”

Your mind screams danger, much like it would if a fully grown wolf had just sauntered through the doors, looking for its next meal- and yet, for as much fear as he inspires, there’s something that draws you in- like a siren singing to sailors lost at sea.

Returning his gesture, you gently nod, holding his eyes until the General calls him back to assume a fighting stance; and even then, you swear you see his head tilt just so, just enough to flash you an arrogant look as the guard takes his place across from him. Ser Simon must easily stand a head and a half taller than the other man, you think, his figure even more impressive than it was before.

The men exchange nods before drawing swords, their dance beginning the same as all the others, assessing and calculating each other until the guard makes the first move-

The heavy whoosh of his blade is dodged with little effort, the giant wraith of a man moving far faster than any of you expected. He gracefully ducks under the other’s still outstretched arm, placing himself in the perfect position to swing his own sword towards his opponent's exposed neck- a maneuver surely meant to behead if this were anything other than a mock duel.

“Reset-”

“No.” You stand abruptly, stepping down from the throne much to your own surprise, “Ser Simon, what experience do you have as a Royal Guard?”

“Your Grace, this is-”

With a raised hand, you quiet the General, watching the mysterious knight sheath his sword once more, bowing again as he faces you,

“None, Your Majesty.”

Well, at least he’s honest.

“What experience do you have then?”

His head tilts to the side, and you watch the other guards tense when he takes a single step closer, those damned eyes gleaming down at you with a hunger you’ve never quite seen before,

“Battle, Your Grace. I’ve seen far more than most.”

This time, it’s you moving towards him, and when you step closer, the Kingsguard follows suit, though it seems nothing goes unnoticed by the towering specter.

“Well, Ser, I do not go into battle.. You might be better suited for my husband’s army, no?”

You watch the very corners of his eyes crinkle slightly, his gaze narrowing in amusement, and you’re positive you would see a devilish smile on his lips if he removed the helmet,

“I might.” He says flippantly, broad shoulders shrugging as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, “But, I came here to serve you, My Queen.”

A deep and burning chill blooms in your core at his words and the resolute way he says them; it lights every nerve on fire, every cell and molecule, every atom in your being vibrating at a frequency you’ve never felt as the title rolls off his gilded tongue.

No, you’ve never met a man quite like this, and part of you questions if he truly is just a man at all- because no man has ever felt like this, no man has ever been able to pick you apart so quickly, make you feel bare with just his gaze alone.

He terrifies you as much as he excites you, and oh, how you’ve longed to feel something other than loathing, and boredom.

There is nothing practiced or placating about the smirk on your lips now as you nod toward your General, your handmaid once again adjusting the cumbersome fabric of your gown as you move forward-

“Well, you’ve gotten your wish, Ser Simon.” You coo as you breeze past him without a parting glance, “General Leon, make sure my guard is taken to his new quarters, will you?”

They fall into a sweeping bow as you exit, a quiet acknowledgement being the last thing you hear before the deep pulsing of your own heartbeat fills your ears.

What in the seven hells have I done..

[chapter 2 >>>]

#knight!ghost #medieval au #call of duty #simon ghost riley #cod fandom #cod modern warfare #alternate universe #simon x reader #fem reader #all hail the queen

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kowaiitenshii · 11 months

Text

[Sunkiller Lullaby Part Two]

Pairing: Darth Vader X Reader

Plot Summary: Accepting your role as Lord Vader’s personal attendant, you take the first steps in learning your new duties, and proving your loyalty to your new master.

Warnings: Canon-level violence. Mentions of death/murder. Descriptions of fear. Corruption. Canon-divergent. Unburnt!Vader. Reader is a former slave. Improper use of the force. Vader is his own warning. Descriptions of mistreatment. AFAB reader, feminine pronouns and descriptions used. 18+ content to come in later chapters.

Words: 4.2k

A/N: First off, thank you so much everyone for all the love on part one! I truly did not think so many people would enjoy it! I appreciate everyone who reblogged and liked, and I cannot wait to continue sharing this story with you. If people continue to enjoy my writing, I will most likely open up for requests/prompts!

Part One HERE

Part II:

To your dismay, you awaken to bright beams of starlight peeking through the sheer inner curtains of your suite.

You blink in confusion as you mull over the contents of the past night’s dream, and lament the fact that it was only that; a dream.

Sighing deeply in disappointment, you slowly rise from bed and dress yourself for the day, deciding on a deep ruby red set of robes. They’re thick and soft as you slide them on, and you decide that red really compliments you.

You are again presented with a decadent breakfast, this time dining on exotic ripened fruits, cured strips of thinly sliced meat, and toasted breads.

When you finish, the friendly droid again kindly leads you to Lord Vader’s private chambers.

As the doors slide open, you nearly jump out of your skin when you find your master awaiting you, staring at the door expectantly as he anticipates your arrival.

Forcing yourself to hold your head high, you saunter into the room as nonchalantly as you can muster. Your hands shake as you approach, and you clench them tightly in an attempt to push down your building nerves.

“Morning, young one.” he greets you coolly, his deep voice resonating through the silence.

“Good morning, My Lord.” you reply calmly, bowing to the Sith Lord.

He gives you an approving nod as you rise, before turning to the large window behind himself, commanding you to join him.

“Come.” he booms simply, and you oblige him. Standing next to him only highlights the size difference between the two of you, seeing as you only reach his shoulder at the highest.

All the lights of the room both overhead and from electric controls shine off of Vader’s helmet and armor, creating almost an aura of light which glints off of him. Your eyes are drawn to the heavy slant of his shoulders with his cape draped over, and the curve of his very evident biceps beneath his thick suit. Your face reddens slightly before you turn to face the window, feeling a measure of shame for looking at a Sith Lord in such a way.

The two of you gaze out at the expanse of stars before you, and you can’t help but marvel at the sight. Being from a small planet and having been enslaved since you were just a young girl, you had never any chance to explore or travel, no matter how badly you may have wanted to.

One of the things that amazes you the most as you stare out into space is the realisation that the stars are colourful.

There are stars of every colour you can imagine, and most of them are planets. Each star glittering across the sky in endless hues, they remind you of the fields of wildflowers that were common on your home-planet.

For a fleeting moment, you imagine lying amongst the stars and wrapping yourself in a blanket made of space itself, before Vader speaks again.

“I have arranged a test for you today.” he asserts, his tone unreadable.

Cocking your head, you glance up at your master, questioning exactly what sort of test he had in mind.

“We need to have the understanding that we can trust in one another if I am to take you on in personal servitude.” He explains, sensing your curiosity.

You can feel yourself go cold as the words sink in. It could be any kind of test, and ice cold pangs of fear grip your heart as you pray you do not fail.

Failure is simply not an option.

The trembling in your fingers only worsens, and to your horror, Vader notices.

He takes one of your quivering hands tightly within his own before placing the other heavy, leather-clad hand over top of yours. His touch is like holding a livewire, like nothing you had ever felt before, and it makes you jolt in your skin.

His gaze albeit masked is fixed upon you as he speaks, the air catching in your throat.

“I can sense your fear, your hurt. Your rage.” he says, a reassuring tone hidden in his distorted voice. “Use them. Do not fear me.” he commands, before dropping your hand like he had never touched it in the first place.

Not fearing him was a hefty task indeed.

You say nothing in response, swallowing thickly and flexing your fingers to rid them of the lingering sensation of his touch.

Just then, the ship begins to descend on a barren planet. The land is desolate, clouds of smoky-coloured dust covering the rough, rocky terrain.

You take deep breaths to steady yourself as the ship lands, still reeling from the touch along with your nerves and their gnashing teeth gnawing at the back of your mind.

As you disembark, you can feel how tightly wound your body is with anticipation. Despite this, you diligently follow your master as he treks along the barren, grey landscape, leading you to a wide clearing in the rocky wasteland.

All around you are boulders and crystals of enormous size, and you figure this must be an Empire-controlled resource planet.

Looking up to the violet sky, you pray to the maker that you make it out of this in one piece.

Vader stops at once, turning to regard you once more as you come to stand before him.

“Before we begin,” he starts “What is your name?” he asks, striking you with the realisation that you had not yet told him, and that he almost certainly already knew it. Truthfully, you had nearly forgotten that you had a name, as more derogatory terms were commonly used to refer to slaves. It is a strange thought that Lord Vader would even care to know it.

“(Y/N).” you answer dutifully.

“(Y/N).” he confirms before speaking again. “As I previously stated, we must be without a shadow of a doubt that we trust in one another. I have brought you here to assess that fact.” he explains, his droning voice reverberating off of the jagged walls of the terrain surrounding you.

Doing your best to maintain your shaken composure, you watch as the Sith Lord strides a few paces away before speaking again once more.

“I will test you, as you will test me.” He iterates, now turning towards you and watching you for a moment.

Rooted to the spot, you clench your shaking hands and swallow the lump in your throat, fixing your gaze upon Lord Vader.

You will test him? What could he possibly mean by that?

You watch in thinly veiled terror as he raises his right hand and the ashen earth around you begins to tremble. A large mass of sparkling crystal sizable enough to crush a freighter breaks away from the earth, beginning to levitate.

Stomach in knots and your mind racing, you watch in horror as it rises impossibly high and comes to a stop directly over your head.

In your youth you had heard tales of the Jedi and the Sith, but you had always taken them with a grain of salt. It is then that you come to understand that the stories were true, and the force is more powerful than you could ever have imagined.

Vader’s voice cuts through your frenzied train of thought, snapping you back into the moment.

“Focus on me.” he instructs you, holding the spiked mass of crystals steady above you, pulling it higher.

Although every atom in your body screams at you to run, you know there is no point. Wiping away the fine sweat forming on your brow, you obey your master, fixing your widened eyes upon him.

“Feel your fear.” he commands in a guiding tone. “Feel it, and understand that I will never harm you.”

Dread cuts into your chest like knives, and still you obey. You feel the goosebumps on every inch of your skin, your muscles poised to flee, and the fine tremble running through you in waves.

You look upon Lord Vader who holds your life in his hands so effortlessly. Focusing on the expressionless countenance of his helmet, you envision looking into his eyes and finding unwavering certainty there.

You stand as a statue as the massive crystal drops, time itself seeming to slow, and you don’t so much as blink when Vader catches it just before it hits.

“Very good.” Darth Vader affirms, before reeling back and launching the crystals far off into the distance; the sound of impact only coming as a murmured echo.

Sighing a huge breath of relief, your shoulders and head droop as the tension washes away in waves. When you lift your head, the Sith Lord is in front of you again, this time holding a cylindrical silver and black object in his outstretched right hand, motioning for you to take it.

“Do you know what this is?” he asks as you carefully take it from him, examining the activation switch on the side.

“Yes,” you affirm as you inspect the object with great curiosity. “It is a lightsaber.”

You had seen them in use only once when your planet was under siege, but you had also seen them traded by smugglers a handful of times.

However, you had never held one. The metal is cool to the touch, and it is deceptively heavy in your hands as you marvel at it, turning it over and over in your hands.

“Turn it on.” Vader demands, cutting your observation short. You swallow your nerves, holding the lightsaber in your right hand and placing your thumb over the switch. You jump as you press it, the glowing crimson plasma blade instantly shooting out with a sharp sound.

The glowing saber incandesces between the two of you, red light illuminating Vader’s ominous visage.

“Good. Now off.” he directs, and you obey immediately.

“Now, we test my faith in you.” he states intently, stepping closer and closer until he is merely an arm’s length away, looming expectantly over you.

Stomach tingling and your mind blank, you watch as he harshly grips the wrist of your right hand and presses the unarmed lightsaber against the blinking control panel on his chestplate, the shocking sensation of his touch feeling a million miles away.

Staring at where the hilt of the blade rests against his armor, you have the cold understanding that you could kill him right now.

You could kill him, and yet it would do nothing to change your fate.

It takes a moment to realise he’s staring at you before you look up to meet the blank gaze of his mask. Somehow you can feel it in him, the faith he has in you and the understanding that killing him would not save you.

You’re like that for a moment, staring at each other and listening to the rhythmic sound of his breathing before he steps away, and you hand the lightsaber back to him.

“Well done.” he praises as he beckons you to follow. “Come. We are done here.”

You both board Lord Vader’s ship once again, your mind and emotions still reeling from the stress of the situation you just managed to live through as he calmly leads you to his chambers.

“Make yourself comfortable.” he orders as you enter the room, and you waste no time in shrugging off your outermost robe, leaving on your cowl and belted underdress. Plopping wearily onto one of the long couches in the room, you notice that it’s notably firmer than the plush furnishings of your suite, though you were in no place to complain.

Lord Vader stares at you for a moment, and you become bashful at the idea of him looking upon your uncovered skin, before he turns to his place at the large window to watch as the ship takes off.

You wonder if he does anything other than stare out the window in contemplation.

Straightening yourself up, you watch the grey planet fade away as the ship flies, bidding the site of your near-grave a goodbye before looking around the room in which you sit.

Now that you have the chance to really look, you take in your surroundings. To your right, the wall with the door is covered in blinking controls which you can only assume are either used to manipulate aspects of the room or call droids and Imperial personnel. On the far wall opposite where you sit, there is a large open doorway into an illuminated room housing an enormous tank filled with a mysterious blueish liquid, and you wonder what the purpose for it could possibly be.

You don’t see a bed in the room, so you assume that Vader sleeps elsewhere. That is, if he indeed sleeps.

In the left hand corner of the opposite wall, you can see a long white table littered with various parts, mechanisms and tools laid out upon it, and you find it mildly interesting that Darth Vader likes to tinker.

The Sith Lord’s voice cuts through your curious observations like a razor.

“What do you know of the force?” He asks, peering over his shoulder at you.

You’re stunned for a moment before you answer.

“I must admit, Lord Vader, I know very little, as it was forbidden to be taught on my homeworld.” you reply truthfully, caught off guard by the seemingly random question. It was true, the ways of the force were not formally taught as a form of trying to shield the people of your home-planet from the Empire; all you know are the legends and the myths that were told as stories.

Lord Vader nods in acceptance.

“This ship is equipped with an entire library full of knowledge of the force, both light and dark; Jedi and Sith. You are free to utilise it if you so wish.” He offers, but it sounds more like an order.

Feeling as though there’s something he’s not saying, you simply nod.

“Thank you master.” you accept graciously with a soft smile.

He only nods in reply, gaze lingering heavily upon you before he turns away from the window, pacing over to his work bench in the opposite corner from where you sit and taking a seat.

You do not know how long he toils over his machines, nor how long you accompany him in doing so.

The last thing you remember before waking up in your own bed is dozing off on Lord Vader’s couch.

Confused and unaware of how you got back to your suite, you rub the sleep out of your eyes and sit up. As you rise, a gentle knock sounds behind the door.

“Come in!” you call out, clearing your throat and wetting your lips.

The friendly droid enters, bowing to you and chirping its greetings.

“Good evening, Madam! I’m assured you’re ready for your meal?” it asks politely. Smiling softly at the kind droid, you nod.

“Yes, please.”

After all, the stress of the day's activities has left you quite hungry, your stomach growling at the thought of the decadent spreads you’ve been spoiled with.

The droid steps out for a moment, promptly returning with a spread no less extravagant than the others you’ve been lucky enough to enjoy. Tonight, your meal consists of a striking plum-coloured stew, accompanied by an herbed mash of root vegetables, and crusty baked breads still warm from the oven.

As you eat, a curious and humorous thought crosses your mind, and you set down your spoon to ask the droid a question.

“Was it you that carried me all the way back here?” you giggle playfully, finding amusement in the idea of the spindly droid hauling you through the corridors.

“No milady, Lord Vader saw to that himself.” the droid answers dutifully.

Knowing it is incapable of lying, the idea hits you like a train, and you’re struck by it for a moment.

Carrying you to your room seemed like a task that would be uncharacteristically tender, too gentle for Vader to carry out. You can feel the flush that spreads across your cheeks as you come to the understanding that there is still much you do not know about your master.

“Oh, um. Give him my thanks.” you reply quietly, leaving it at that.

“As you wish, Milady.” the droid affirms.

Spending the rest of your meal in contemplative silence, it does you well, nourishing and soothing your tired body.

Before the droid leaves you for the night, you request the books that Lord Vader had mentioned, thinking some studying may help you to understand your master, even if just a small bit more.

It happily delivers them to you, leaving you with a stack of thick and heavy books with weathered bindings.

Elsewhere, Darth Vader paces in his chamber, heavy footsteps echoing around him.

He is quite satisfied with the recent turn of events, knowing surely now that your spirit had not been broken by your life of torment, but that it was bendable.

It was true that you had great fear within you, but your lust for power and your anger was greater. Your suffering had made you fierce, it made you courageous.

The Emperor will be pleased.

Remembering the strength in your expression as you had connected with him while your very life hung in the balance, the absolute, steady faith you had in him; And then the dichotomy of holding your serenely peaceful sleeping body in his arms, your angelic calmness, he feels an unfamiliar flutter in his chest before shaking it off.

Spending the rest of the night flipping through an ancient tome, you are thoroughly intrigued by the stories contained within. They read like fairy tales; tales of heroic bravery, of villainous contempt, of epic battles and galactic love.

They’re enchanting, reminding you of those cherished times as a child when your parents would read to you before putting you to bed.

Well into the late hours of the night, you finally ready yourself for sleep, yawning and stretching as you shrug off your garments.

As you lay out an outfit for the next day, you catch a glimpse of a passing moon. It’s beautiful, a light yellow hue to the pallid monolith as it glows. Moons always reminded you of solitude, your only companion in those quiet hours of the night. As you watch it pass, you silently hope that you dream of your mysterious suitor again.

Your prayers are answered.

Becoming aware of your surroundings, your eyes scan the room around you. It’s a more intimate setting this time, a quaint stone cottage within a verdant forest. There are strange herbs and flowers hung to dry all about the room, leaving it with a floral, green aroma.

Sitting on the floor in front of a warm, crackling fire, your vision finally adjusts to your dimly lit setting, and you spot the one you had wished for standing just within the doorway.

He smiles warmly as your eyes land on him, exposing a row of perfect teeth. You can’t help but to smile back.

Striding out of the shadows, he joins you by the fire, nestling you against his side. His energy is the same and you can feel it just as strongly as before, entrancing and sultry as the fire before you.

You spend a long moment just looking at him, committing every aspect of his features to memory in case you never get the pleasure of seeing him again.

He’s still got that warm smile on his face as he gazes back at you, making your stomach flutter. His hair falls in perfect golden waves on his shoulders, framing his outstandingly handsome features. His eyes are half-lidded, his pupils blown wide as he looks upon you; his full, pink lips parted.

Feeling the heat in your body rising, spreading across your face and tinging the tips of your ears, you look away shyly.

The connection you feel with this man still baffles you, it doesn't make any sense, leaving you confused and questioning whether you can even trust your own emotions.

Though, you suppose dreams don’t have to make any sense.

Reaching over to you, he brushes a tress of hair away from your face to read your expression, pulling your attention back to him.

You blink sheepishly at him through long lashes as he hooks a finger under your chin, turning you to face him fully. Goosebumps form instantly at the contact, your hairs standing on end as a wistful sigh leaves your lips.

He brings your face so close to his own that you can feel his gentle breaths tickling your lips. The air, the energy between you is like a thunderstorm; intense, restless, and exhilarating.

You revel in the way he touches you like something that threatens to break.

The realisation then hits you that this is your first time seeing him unhidden by his cloak. You take your time in taking in all the new details you had missed, noticing a lengthy scar on the right side of his face, running nearly all the way from his hairline to just below his eye.

He slowly curls a strong arm around your waist, pulling you onto his lap, never breaking eye contact while doing so. Following his movements obediently, you shift your legs to wrap around his waist as you perch on him; the tips of your noses tickling each other as you adjust yourself.

You want, you crave nothing more than this closeness and contact with him.

After being denied pleasant, consensual human contact for so long, the feeling is intoxicating. It makes your head swim, and your heartbeat race.

Still face to face, you delicately raise your right hand, ghosting the tips of your fingers down the length of his scar, taking great care in case it’s still painful for him. Your fingers buzz and tingle, like nerve endings coming back to life after having fallen asleep.

Lips parting and eyes falling shut at your touch, he presses his forehead against yours.

Your whole body lights up and hums at the sensation, like a static charge. His intense and all-consuming energy surrounds you, threatening to swallow you whole.

And you let it. You let him in.

Holding the doors to your mind open, you begin receiving visions.

Visions of a small boy with tawny hair and bright blue eyes. Visions of the familiar sandy, dual-sunned landscape of Tatooine. Visions of that small boy toiling away in the shop of a cruel junk dealer.

Your eyes fly back open with the newfound understanding that the child was him, that he truly had lived a life like yours.

In this moment, as your heart races and your eyes flit between his, he feels like the person closest to you in the entire world.

He looks back at you with soft eyes. The expression on his face is one that says:

This is me. Do you see it? This is me.

Overwhelmed by the connection, by the painful swelling of your heart in your chest, you let instinct lead rather than logic.

Leaning into him further, you brush your lips just barely over the full curve of his, inviting him to close the distance.

Instantly he relents, capturing your own lips with his, pure passion and intense longing radiating off of him in waves.

As he tangles a large hand in your soft hair, you can feel your heart thumping against your ribcage, your blood rushing through your veins. Draping your arms over his sturdy shoulders, the very air around the two of you feels electric, tingling and crackling with released tension. Lips locking over and over, hands everywhere, tongues tasting each other in the heat of your fiery desire, you send a message through your ministrations.

I see you. You say with every touch of the lips, every tease of his tongue, every rake of your nails across the soft skin of his abdomen. I see you.

When you finally break the session to suck in greedy gasps of much needed air, he bites onto your bottom lip, prolonging the contact for as long as possible. He clutches you tightly, possessively to his strong body, as if you could be ripped from his arms at any moment; his own chest heaving as he breathes.

He slides a large, rough hand up the small of your back, steadying you as you rest your head on his shoulder for a moment. Pressing a feather light kiss to the petal-soft skin of his throat, your eyes slide shut with great satisfaction.

Credz:

Lightsaber graphic creds: @saradika

Taglist:

@heyitsaloy

@poisonedsultana

@cryptidsrcool

@mayhemories

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sapphire-writes · 1 year

Text

Sapphire of His Eye

pairing: Aemond x Velaryon(Strong)!Reader request: You and Aemond are more alike than you care to admit; both dragonless children, both witty scholars, both unnaturally drawn to each other. word count: 2.7k warnings: language, violence, suggestive language note: this was requested by my lovely drama/angst anon! I hope you enjoy 💎 you can find more of my work here

Everyone else had one.

Not you. You spent hours upon hours laying in front of the fire, watching the flames lick at the purple egg that resided in the fireplace of your chambers.

Hatch, you would pray to the old gods and new, hatch and I shall join the Faith. Hatch and I shall believe.

But the gods are infinitely cruel.

“We picked an egg for the baby,” Jace tells your mother, and you cannot help the pout that forms, nor the quivering of your lip as you look down at your new sibling.

Perhaps his egg shall not hatch either.

Shame twists within your gut at the hope you cling to.

“My love,” your mother says, sensing your distress.

You walk to her side, and she takes your hand in hers, placing a kiss atop your knuckles.

“I have something for you,” she says, wincing from the aftermath of her recent labors.

Rhaenyra motions to Laenor who comes to your side, kneeling.

“Do you know what the most precious gemstone is said to be?” Laenor tells you, reaching within his pockets.

You shake your head, lower lip wobbling as your father places two nuggets of sapphire into your small palms. Ser Harwin watches, smiling gently at you as he rocks the babe in his arms.

“Sapphires have long represented the ending of wars, the peace between enemies, the revealing of secrets. There is magic in these gemstones,” Laenor tells you as you turn the smooth gems in your hand.

“Though I believe their most precious quality is that they reflect the color of the sea you so enjoy,” he continues, watching your face closely.

You hold the gems carefully in your hand, as though they may break.

“They are lovely,” you whisper and your father smiles, pleased with your reaction.

You cannot help the twisting and turning of disappointment in your gut. You had hoped for another egg, selfishly. Perhaps one that would hatch.

Laenor notices your disappointment, he takes your hands in his.

“You have both fire and salt in your veins,” he tells you, “mastery of one does not mean you lack the other. You are a Velaryon after all.”

Liar, the whispers of court would say, sweet little liar whose dark hair and midnight gaze is not of the skies or the sea. Though your mother would scold you for thinking such things. Your eyes are blurry with tears and you blink, letting them stream down your face. Laenor wipes them from your soft cheeks.

“Come now, do not fret,” Ser Harwin says joining you, still rocking the new babe in his arms.

“Might I be excused?” you ask, not bringing yourself to meet the eyes of the adults who watch you.

Rhaenyra meets Harwin’s gaze as Laenor squeezes your tiny hand in his.

“Of course, my love,” he tells you, and you flee from the room.

“Why do you cry, Princess?” Aemond asks, his voice small as he comes to sit beside you on the steps.

Your uncle has found your hiding place, heard your cries as he left his mother’s chambers, drying his own tears.

“I have nothing to my name,” you sob, hiccuping, “no dragon, nothing.”

“You are of vital importance to your family,” Aemond insists, “your hand shall be needed when you reach maidenhood.”

You wipe the tears from your cheeks and use your sleeve to wipe your nose. Aemond’s expression silently scolds you; he tugs at the fabric of your dress and offers a handkerchief instead, You take it from him.

“As for your dragon,” he says, pursing his lips, “I do not have one either.”

It was a familiar ache he felt, as though he was missing a limb.

Dark, watery eyes stare up at him. You open your fist, presenting the sapphires your father gifted you. Aemond cracks a small smile.

“They are beautiful, princess.”

“Take one.”

Aemond looks at you.

“Father says they look like the sea,” you tell him as he selects a gem from the pair, turning it over in his hand.

“I read a story once, about dragons,” Aemond says softly. You press your head against his shoulder, leaning into him.

“Tell me, please Uncle,” you ask.

“That in Old Valyria, dragons used to guard gemstones such as these,” Aemond tells you.

“Perhaps we are dragons,” you tell him, “and we shall guard them.”

“I shall not soon forget this kindness, niece,” he tells you, dropping formality. You smile, rolling the smooth gem in your hand.

King’s Landing becomes a distant memory after that day. After the death of your aunt Laena. After the death of your father. After Aemond. Your memories of Driftmark as bathed in familial blood, and no matter how many times you try and cleanse yourself of the horrors of those walls, Aemond’s screams seem to follow. Jace and Luke can escape into the skies, they can fly until their ears pop and the only sound surrounding them is the howling of the wind.

You are landlocked. You are trapped.

They say Harrenhal is haunted, that tragedy and ghosts roam the halls of the monstrous fortress. You wonder if High Tide shares the same fate.

As you grow into womanhood you find solace in books, studying your craft, and becoming quite the young diplomat. Your stepfather Daemon beams with pride at your skilled High Valyrian, at your mastery of the histories of your people.

Fate brings you back. The gods weave intricate strings.

“Nephews,” Aemond drolls, violet eye landing on you, “Niece. Come to train?”

His gaze is icy as his lavender eye quickly takes you in.

“My brothers are needed elsewhere, Uncle,” you answer, taking Jace’s arm.

“How convenient,” Aemond says, smirking toward the ground.

“I beg your pardon?” you ask, surprised at him.

“It is rather convenient, that when their opponent is armed they choose to avoid conflict,” Aemond says, eye honing in on Lucerys. Your brother turns red with shame, casting his gaze on the floor.

“Shall I pick up a sword to satisfy you, Uncle?” you ask.

A smile tugs at the corner of Aemond’s mouth, despite trying to stop it.

“Would you even know what to do with it?” he asks, and you flush with anger.

“Let us take our leave,” Luke begs, tugging at your arm as if he were Joffrey, “come, sister, please.”

“I shall have you know I am much practiced with the blade,” you tell Aemond, tugging free of Luke’s grip.

“Princess, I must insist you are escorted inside,” Ser Criston tells you, stepping between you and Aemond.

You can feel the necklace you were heavy against your sternum, hidden under your dress. The sapphire presses against your flesh, but it now feels hot as though it is branding you. You have worn it continuously as you grew into maidenhood and had it fashioned into a necklace. As a child you held it in your skirt pockets, the weight seeming to ground you. Your hand flinches touching the chain that peeks through. Aemond’s eye travels to it, searching lower but finding nothing.

He knows. He knows you kept it, knows you wear it still. Aemond is smiling, eye narrowing.

You wonder what became of his sapphire, the twin of your own.

You’re still wondering as Jace and Luke lead you inside, it takes both of them nearly carrying you for you to leave the training yard.

“I shall not let him speak to Lucerys that way,” you tell your mother later that night.

You know she has been crying as she returned from visiting your grandsire’s bedside. Rhaenrya attempts to hide her tears to no avail. It is easier now as she combs your dark hair, seated behind you.

“You must pay him no mind, my sweet love,” she tells you, “let him talk, it is all he can do.”

You remain silent a moment longer, letting yourself get lost in the feeling of your mother brushing your hair. Your eyes prickle with tears at the thought of leaving her. But a match has been made, an alliance secured. The heir of Sunspear awaits your presence. A marvelous feat that you have secured.

This does not satisfy you. You spend the night tossing and turning. The following day is no better as you stare him down across the throne room. Even when Vaemond Velaryon’s skull splits like an egg, your gaze remains on Aemond. You do not flinch as Daemon cleans his sword, and Aemond smiles at your composure, as though he is proud of your bloodlust.

“Rather unlike the behavior suiting a princess,” Aemond calls to you, finding you in the gardens.

“I did not realize you attended the same lessons as me, uncle,” you tell him, pretending to be confused.

Aemond clicks his tongue, humming softly to himself.

“I was sent to inform you of tonight’s festivities,” he tells you.

“I shall be gone by then,” you tell him.

“Whatever do you mean?”

You turn to him, again feeling the urge to touch the sapphire pendant that rests against your sternum. It burns against your flesh, seemingly trying to meld its way toward your heart.

“I am to journey to Dorne,” you inform him, “it tis a rather long journey I am told.”

“Why ever do you want to journey there?” Aemond inquires, nose wrinkling with his distaste.

“It is wise to meet my betrothed before the wedding.”

Aemond freezes, looking at you.

“I did not realize you were matched.”

“It was rather recent,” you tell him, “though I am surprised he agreed.”

“A Dornish prince and a dragon princess,” Aemond muses, “a match for the songs I am sure.”

You detect a hint of bitterness in his voice but decided to not call him on it.

“I suppose,” you tell him, “though I am hardly a true Targaryen, I am dragonless after all.”

“Do not say that,” Aemond insists, “it is you who deserved a dragon, rather than those brutish str-”

“Not another word, Uncle,” you snap, “what you say about them you say about me.”

You stare at him, feel his violet gaze roam over your dark hair and dark eyes. Liar liar liar.

Aemond purses his lips tightly.

“Forgive me,” he says, surprising you, “I only meant-”

“I know what you meant,” you tell him.

“Do you truly wish to marry this Dornishman?” he asks.

“I was supposed to marry Aegon if you recall,” you tell him.

Aemond did. He recalled it very well. It was your mother’s attempt at smoothing things over between the blacks and the greens, though Queen Alicent did not agree.

She shall be mine then, Aemond had thought. A foolish wish. A childish dream.

“I shall take my leave,” you tell him, “it was good to see you, Uncle.”

“You as well, niece,” Aemond says, watching you depart. A sour taste fills his mouth as the last of your skirts disappear.

The journey is terrible. The seas are rough as though the gods themselves are displeased with the arrangement between you and the Prince of Dorne.

Even being a child of Driftmark your stomach churns as the waves continue to toss the boat. It has been several days at sea and the water has become so choppy this afternoon that you are unable to even write to distract yourself. Your inkpot clatters to the wood of the desk below, shattering and leaving botches of ink everywhere.

You curse, trying to clean everything when the boat jolts sending you flying backward. You slam into the wall of the ship, stars filling your eyes at the impact of your skull against the wood. You groan in pain.

“Princess!” a knight calls, rushing down to your aid.

“Have we arrived?” you ask, feeling as though you may heave up the little food you managed to get down that morning.

“No princess,” the knight says, visibility is shaken, “it..you had better join me.”

He leads you to above deck and you blink as the sunlight nearly blinds you. The sound of gulls fills your ears, and the smell of salt and a gentle mist of seawater bathes over you. The air is warm, much warmer than you are used to. The sun is suddenly blocked from your vision and you look up.

Vhagar.

The massive queen of dragons has stopped the ship, pushing it into a small isle made up of sand and palm trees. Stranded. The knight beside you shakes as you look around. The crew is gone, the only remainder is charred wood, and splatters of blood. Vhagar roars, and you can see her teeth are stained with crimson. Tendrils of black smoke curl toward the sky.

Your uncle lowers himself from her back, drops onto the deck of the ship, walking over to you, a smirk on his face.

“What have you done?” you hiss.

“Please, my prince,” the knight beside you trembles, “please I have done what you asked.”

“And now I have no use for you,” Aemond says, and Vhagar roars once more.

The knight attempts to escape, fleeing away from you and off the side of the boat. He barely makes it on the sand when Vhagar greedily snatches him up, swallowing him whole.

“How dare you!” you cry, rushing toward your uncle, beating your fists upon his chest.

Aemond grabs your wrists, holding you still. He bites his lip as you struggle to free yourself from his iron grip. The wind tears through your hair, causing your eyes to water.

“Do not fight me, niece,” Aemond warns, “I have news.”

“You have killed my crew,” you snarl, “my mother’s people.”

“Traitors to the realm,” he tells you.

“What the seven hells are you talking about?”

“The king Viserys is dead,” Aemond tells you, “Aegon has been crowned king.”

Your blood runs cold, and you clench your fingers into your palms so hard they nearly go numb.

“Aegon?” you snarl, “my mother should be queen.”

Aemond smiles at you once more.

“How dare you,” you yell once more, eyes narrowing, pulling away from him, “traitors!”

His grip is unyielding, in fact, he pulls you closer. The feeling of him pressed against you sends a delicious thrill through you which you shake your head trying to rid yourself of. This is your enemy, your captor no doubt.

“You are mine now, princess,” he snarls, “as my prisoner or as my wife, you decide.”

You inhale a sharp breath.

“I am betrothed.”

“I shall have Vhagar slay him too if it pleases you.”

You glare at him, baring your teeth.

“You do not desire me as a wife,” you snap.

“Shall you be my prisoner then?” he murmurs, releasing one of your wrists and grabbing at the skirts around your bottom, pulling you flush against him.

You let out a whine, feeling him growing hard against you and your eyes widen.

“You shall warm my bed regardless,” he purrs, smiling down at you.

“You would force yourself on me?” you growl, anger and fear blurring your vision.

Aemond merely chuckles at your vile implication. How little you know of the man he is now, the man he has grown into. Aemond would never.

“No, sweet niece,” he assures you, “you will find yourself willingly in my bed.”

“You are beastly,” you tell him, slapping his face so hard that his eyepatch is thrown from his face.

You gasp, seeing the bright blue sapphire that rests in his empty socket. His face contorts into a snarl.

“You see?” he murmurs, “all this time, I have desired you.”

He brings a hand to your necklace, tugging at the chain. You struggle, but the sapphire is revealed all the same. Aemond’s eyes light up, as he turns it between his fingers.

“I knew it,” he murmurs.

“That means nothing,” you hiss, still squirming in his arms.

“It means everything.”

“You think I would betray my mother?” you ask, incredulously.

“I think you would like to ride a dragon,” he tells you.

“I have ridden before,” you tell him, thinking back on your memories of riding Syrax with your mother.

Aemond smirks lazily.

“I was talking about me,” he croons, holding tight as you squirm once more.

“You speak so crudely Uncle,” you accuse, “such horrible things you say.”

“Yet they are true all the same,” he tells you, “yet you want me still.”

“No,” you hiss through your teeth.

Liar liar liar.

“Tell me the truth of it.”

“No.”

“That is fine, princess,” Aemond says, keeping you pinned to his side, “we have a long journey back to King’s Landing.”

Aemond tugs you towards Vhagar, your feet nearly dragging across the deck.

“Take all the time you need.”

HOTD taglist: @bluevxnus, @thattargboy, @xlilacfrostx, @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed, @marvelescvpe, @geminithrone, @deltamoon666, @i-killed-ramsey, @tempt-ress, @eddiemadmunson, @zillahvathek, @hangmanscoming, @jojoesq, @f4ll-for-you, @rwdkarla, @cc13723things, @filipiniamultifandom, @watercolorskyy @alexxavicry @sachafirebringer @polireader @jamespotterismydaddy @grv7ay9In35s @sofiaadler @sophielangdonx @doublesparrows, @sophielangdonx, @alitaar, @castellomargot, @paodemorangol1l1, @nik2blog, @arkainea @eddiemadmunson

#aemond targaryen #aemond x y/n #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x fem!reader #modern!aemond #hotd x reader #modern band au #aemond modern au #modern aemond #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen fic #aemond fic #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen fanfic

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arabellasleopardcoat · 6 months

Text

The Devil (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: The corpse in your bathroom is not a corpse, but rather a pure blood fanatic with a penchant for child brides. You are not impressed.

Warnings: Violence, sexual thoughts, mature language.

A/N: Part of my Halloween celebration! Part 1 here.

There is a girl screaming, somewhere. It forces Daemon out of his slumber, groaning. Gods, what in the Seven Hells had he done to deserve such a rough awakening?

“Ugh. Stop that, girl.” He says, getting up from the wet stone floor he lays on. It's oddly smooth under his palms. Daemon braces himself for the wave of nausea that will surely follow, expecting the horrible hangover he has gotten every time he drinks ever since he turned thirty.

One would think it gets easier, with age. It does not. And surely, if he had drank enough to not remember where he is or how he got here, this was going to be the mother of all hangovers.

Much to his astonishment, it's not. There is no pounding headache, nor is there a wave of nausea that follows his movement. Daemon is unable to marvel at it, though. The vague sound of a girl whimpering and cowering forces him to stop his pondering and instead focus on the problem at hand.

“Stop that, you little fool. I am not going to hurt you.” Getting up was much harder than he thought. His body feels heavier than it should. It's only as he looks down that he realizes that he is still in his armor, covered in blood.

Daemon understands it, then. He remembers the battle at the Stepstones, and his triumph over that damn crab. He looks you over and smiles.

You are a pretty thing. Younger than him, and terribly shy, you cower in a corner of what appears to be a bathing room. Someone has made sure that you bathe, as you stand before him in only a flimsy towel.

His men have always been a loyal bunch. Daemon had chosen them well. They didn't disappoint, anticipating his needs and sending someone to serve him. And not just anyone, but a woman who is exactly to his liking.

The bath is already drawn. He cannot wait to get inside it.

“Come here.” He orders you, and your face scrunches up in displeasure. “Help me get out of my armor.”

You take a hesitant step towards him before halting.

“I… I… You… There is blood.” And it's quite a dumb comment, but what else can he expect? He doesn't blame his men for not having found the epitome of wisdom here. There are barely any women at all. It's commendable enough that they have managed to find someone as sweet looking as you are.

You cower more. Your eyes shift to the door of the bathing room. That, he cannot have. Daemon wonders if you have been instructed already on what is expected of you, or if they had just shoved you into this room and ordered you to obey.

He steps closer to you, crowding you. The warm light compliments your skin, making you glow under the candlelight. You have an innocent air about you, all big eyes and pouty lips. The skin of your shoulders and arms is soft and unmarred. A perfect maiden, just in the bloom of youth.

“My men chose you well. You are a pretty one.” His dirty, bloodied hands come to grasp your pristine towel, pulling it away. You are naked as the day you were born, all displayed for his hungry eyes.

Gorgeous breasts. Lush hips. All smooth, perfect skin. If Daemon were a lesser man, he would be slobbering at the way your bosom bounces with your struggles, how your skin flushes and shines with the exertion.

“What are you doing? Leave me alone, leave me alone!” You are a feisty little thing, trying to wrestle your towel out of his hands. You are also slapping at him, everywhere you can reach.

Seven Hells. You are perfect for him, aren't you?

Daemon pulls you closer, hugging you to him. This close, he can smell the herbs and oils in your hair and skin, and it is heavenly. You smell clean and pure. Good enough to eat.

“You are so soft.” He trails kisses along your neck, keeping your wrists pinned down to your sides. You squirm, making faces and aborted noises. “And for how you struggle, you are pure too. Oh, I haven't seen a woman in months.”

“You are disgusting.” You finally manage to push him away, and you move towards a corner of the room. There is a bunch of fabric there that you quickly snatch. It's not a color he has ever seen before. You pull it over your head, and it's only then Daemon realizes it is a shirt. “Get out!”

“Don't be like that, little girl. You will be rewarded handsomely.” He says, half-heartedly. While play fighting might be fun, Daemon is too tired to truly fight you. Besides, he finds it distasteful. He might coerce, but rape is another matter altogether.

“I am not a sex worker!” You complain, from your corner in the room.

"Not for sale, huh?” Daemon smiles. He is amused at your refusal. Most serving girls would trip all over themselves for a night with him, especially if he was offering money for it. Not you, though. You were awfully proud for a commoner. It would only make seducing you more sweet.

“Who the hell are you?” Your voice is snappish. It seems like you finally lost your patience. It's not the tone that makes him pause, though. Daemon has realized from early on that you are quite spirited. No, instead, it's the fact that you don't know him.

“Daemon Targaryen.” He offers, after a pause. The idea of not being recognized in sight is one that is deeply confusing to him. Even here, so far from his home, he is known by the men and women that serve his army. For the Seven's sake, even the Crab King's men shudder at the mere mention of his name.

Something must be wrong. Daemon is somewhere he shouldn't be. There is no other explanation for this, and it makes his skin crawl.

You stare at him, in silence. Your lips purse. There appears to be a storm raging behind your eyes. Whatever confusing thoughts you are having, you do not share them with him. Instead, you point towards the door.

“No. Nope. Out!”

And Daemon, after realizing something is very wrong, does not have the heart to argue. He walks out of the bathing room, head hanging low. He is not ashamed, but he's not sure of what he feels, either.

When he crosses the threshold, the feeling of wrongness intensifies. There is a bright, white light illuminating the space he finds himself in. It doesn't look natural, it is much too harsh for it.

The furniture in the room is all wrong, too. There is nothing made of wood in sight, the love seat is shaped wrong and there is some strange artifact resting on it. Everything he touches seems to be made of a lighter material than wood and rock, that feels off against his skin.

Daemon grabs a small rectangle, covered in raised numbers. He presses down on them, curious about their texture.

Something on the wall lights up. People appear on the walls. Daemon screams, startled by their sudden appearance.

“Who are you? Identify yourselves!”

The people on the wall ignore him. He takes out Dark Sister. Now that he looks at them, Daemon realizes they are not people. They are too small for it. They must be something different. He thinks of the beasts of Old Valyria and comes up blank.

“Are you trying to stab my TV?” Your voice makes him turn, swinging his sword. You are gaping at him. Somewhere along his journey through this strange room, you seem to have found some men's underclothes that loosely cover your legs. You still wear the same shirt, which does nothing to support your bosom. It should make you look deeply unattractive, yet somehow, it does not. Perhaps, because Daemon knows exactly what hides under those clothes.

“Seven Hells, girl.” Daemon rubs a hand over his face. He is starting to get a headache. “Why are there tiny people on the wall?”

“It's…” You grab the rectangle from his hand and press something. The people on the wall disappear. “It's not real. It's like a picture.”

“A painting, you mean?” Daemon frowns. He had never heard something like it. You seem about to explain, so he shakes his head. “It's no matter. I see you traded your clothing for something that hides your charms. Good thinking. It will make it easier to focus around you. ”

“Excuse me?” You cross your arms over your chest. Daemon can't help but leer. You are just too damn easy to rile up.

"Rather unfashionable, though.” He adds. “And it doesn't hide your chest fully.”

“This is nonsensical.” You say, sitting down on your strange love seat and pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. “Fucking witch.”

“Witch?” Daemon sits next to you. The love seat is made of dark leather. He guesses his armor won't stain it too much. It's awkward regardless, the joints in the metal not meant to bend that way. He starts taking off the chest plate, only paying you half a mind. He figures the venting that will surely come will bore him to tears.

Listening without hearing it's an art Daemon perfected a long time ago. Entertaining young maidens is no hard task at all. Mostly, they are pleased with hearing a few awed sounds here and there and some insightful questions.

Most men, they don't bother pretending to listen to women at all. It is what makes him so successful when it comes to courtship. You don't actually have to listen, it's enough just pretending to do so. Girls like you, they are just like flowers. Pay them a little attention, make them feel seen, and they will open up their petals. Then, it's not hard at all to pick one.

“Oh, forget it.” You mutter, and it's so bitter it takes him aback. It occurs to him, you were probably not about to air your grievances about someone, but perhaps alluding to a true witch.

“You consort with witches? Is that the reason for these strange artifacts?” Daemon raises his eyebrows. If any, it would make some sense.

"I do not.” You answer, nose scrunching up cutely. You look rather young, but he has met whores who look like girls barely out of childhood and are old maids already. There is a certain innocence to your demeanor, though, that indicates either a sheltered life or youth. “I am about to sound insane.”

“Go on.” He stops trying to remove his chest plate and turns towards you. This time, he gives you his full attention. Your eyes are wide and earnest, not a hint of dishonesty in sight. It's very refreshing. As a Prince, he is used to people lying to him to try to gain his favor. You don't look capable of it.

“A woman, she gifted me a love spell. Unblock my path, give me my other half and all.” You give a small groan, rubbing your eyes again. Embarrassment makes you sweet, it appears.

His other half. Hm. Daemon gently cradles your jaw in one of his hands, ignoring your squeals of protest. Pretty, for a commoner, and obedient, too. Your struggling stops as soon as his grip turns harsher. You look up at him, making a face.

“You are getting blood on me.” Your voice is shaky. Daemon has always enjoyed intimidating others. There is something so delectable about seeing fear overtake someone's face and knowing he is the one in control. It's even better with women.

But with you? It's not good. It's positively delicious. Your eyes lower in submission just the barest hint, before snapping up to meet his, angered. You bite your lips, as if unsure if you should be excited or scared of the display.

It's not like it's the first time a woman shows excitement and admiration over Daemon's prowess. But it's not a common reaction. Most women, they recoil at the barest hint of a threat or complain about his brutality. Those who mix excitement with fear, in his experience, are a special type of women. One that is very fun to play with.

“A bit late for that.” Daemon gestures at the love seat, carelessly. He is not very interested in discussing this, really. He is more interested in the fact that there might be some magic at hand. And not only that, but that you might be his fated half. “I have smeared it all over your chambers already.”

“Home. Not chamber.” You correct, haughtily. It's a sad thought, that these little rooms are all you have. Yet, what else could he expect from a commoner? No matter how pitiful, though, there are more important matters.

Focus. He needs to focus and get the answer he needs. But your body is tensing up, eyes darting towards the door. You look about to try to slip out of his grip, perhaps put some distance between the two of you. Daemon can damn near taste it. So to make sure you do not move, he gets bolder.

His hand goes lower. From your jaw, to the side of your neck. Not yet at the base of it, as not to choke you, but pressing hard enough you could imagine the threat. Think about how his hand could slip a little lower, or he could press a little harder.

Your pulse jumps rabbit fast under his fingers. Your lips part. They, they close. He wonders if that is the face you would make, were him to silence you with a kiss.

“Let's not get sidetracked. You? My other half?” Daemon frowns. You are pretty enough, with an edge of wordly innocence that would lead even the most pious man to sin. But you are not Valyrian. Your hair is too dark, your eyes are not purple. Why would you be his?

When Daemon thought of settling down, he always thought it would be with a Valyrian woman. While you were a far cry from his current wife, the Bronze Bitch, you were not exactly what he had in mind.

Daemon has always wanted a Valyrian bride. It is the way things should be. The only way to honor his heritage, keep his bloodline alive, ensure his children are special. How could a Targaryen claim a dragon if their blood was so diluted they barely looked like a Targaryen anymore?

Yet, Daemon is not blind. You seem to fit him in ways he could have never expected, as if you had been made for him. If your witch, or the gods, had brought him here, there had to be a reason.

“I think the same, trust me.” You roll your eyes, a bit too cheekily for someone whose windpipe he could crush at any second. It reminds him of a puppy or kitten, trying to seem ferocious. Daemon allows it only because it is endearing.

“What's so bad about me? I am a Targaryen prince, I own a dragon, and not to mention, I am extremely handsome.” He is half joking, half serious. Daemon is a tad offended, in truth. If any, he should be the one having all sorts of qualms about you being destined for him. You are a commoner, with nothing to your name, and from an absolutely unimportant family.

“The fact that you are fictional, for starters.” You jerk your pretty little head away, scoffing. That has to be the oddest thing he has heard you say all evening. And you have said plenty.

“Fictional?”

“In books only. And a TV adaptation.” You mutter, getting up from the love seat. You grab a blanket, thrown over one of the other seats, and wrap yourself in it.

“Huh.” Daemon's mind is working faster than ever, trying to decipher what you mean. This is not Westeros. That's clear. But what is it? Is this another world where he is only a story to you? Or is this some distant future, where tales of his name and deeds have spread?

“Huh, what?” You turn towards him, all wrapped up in your blanket. You look like an empress of old, blanket over your shoulders trailing after you like a cape.

Daemon takes a step towards you. Then another. You do not move, pinned to the spot by his gaze. Your lips apart again, as if to say something. This time, he does shut you up with a kiss.

Your lips are soft against his. Your mouth is pliant, and you open up for him beautifully. One of your hands tangles in his hair, pulling to keep him close. Daemon doesn't care that your grip is bordering on the painful. If any, it makes him more excited.

His hands go to grasp at your hips, greedily. Your flesh yields like soft butter under his touch, and you give just the smallest sigh against his mouth.

He crowds you, walking you backwards towards a table. Your mouths are still locked together, your breath coming in hot little puffs of air against his. It's a perfect fit, and as the back of your knees hit the table, and you let yourself be lifted onto it, Daemon wonders how he could ever question you being destined to be his.

“Does that feel fictional to you?” He asks you, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. Your lips twitch upwards.

“I am not certain.” You grin. “You would have to kiss me again, to be sure.”

“Just to be certain.” Daemon repeats, grinning back. “We can't have you having doubts.”

“Of course.” You answer, leaning closer. Your hand goes to cup his jaw. Your palms are tinted with blood. He has gotten you all dirty. The idea of you being bathed in blood, just as he is, from just being close to him is intoxicating in a way Daemon can't yet name.

He gives you a passionate, harsh kiss. Your head sags softly, until it hits his collarbone. Daemon decides it then. He is not going back alone, not to the Bronze Bitch, not to that damn war. He will have you, one way or the other.

Daemon gathers you up in his arms, walking back to the bathing room.

“Come. We need to get cleaned up.”

You nuzzle into him, soft as a kitten. You let him take your clothes off, then his. The water in the tub is lukewarm. One of your hands comes to rub at his shoulder blades, holding a rag.

Daemon grabs your wrist and presses a soft kiss to your palm. You look at him, eyes filled with lust. You are perfect for him.

You have always been.

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blessedarethebinarybreakers · 3 months

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Not sure if this is the right place to ask this but I gotta start somewhere. I've been learning a lot about indigenous history and activism as I work on deconstruction, and a sentiment I come across a lot is bitterness towards Christianity. I cannot emphasize enough how much I fully understand. The rough bit is that sometimes when I read their work, I get the implication that there's nothing worth saving in the Church/Christianity- that to hold on to it is to hold on to all the colonialism and white supremacy and yuck.

As a disabled trans Christian, I get that, but it still hurts. I love God and am a Christian despite everything. I want to be an ally to indigenous people, but I want to follow God this way too. I know those aren't mutually exclusive, but it feels that way sometimes. Do you have any insight for me to find peace in this regard?

Thank you.

Hey there, thanks for the question, sorry for the delay!

This is something I've also wrestled with — a question I ask myself over and over, and probably always will. I cannot offer you peace, because as Jeremiah 6:14 says, "There is no peace!" — not while our faith continues to be wielded as a weapon against so many peoples. What I can offer you are some of the thoughts that have allowed me to continue to be Christian with hope that this faith can be better than what it's long been misused for, and the resolve to do my part to make it so.

First, that Christianity isn't unique in being co-opted by colonialist powers.

Any belief system can be twisted for violence, and many have been. If Christianity didn't exist, white supremacy still would — colonialist powers would have found a different belief system to twist into justifying their evils.

That absolutely does not absolve us from reckoning with the evils that have been done in Christianity's name! This isn't about shutting down critiques of Christianity with "uh well it could have been any religion" — as things played out, Christianity is the religion responsible for so much harm, and we need to acknowledge that and listen to groups who tell us how we can make some form of reparations.

But for me at least, there is some comfort in understanding that Christianity isn't, like, inherently evil or something. Recognizing that it isn't unique even in its flaws helps me look at the problem with clearer eyes, rather than wallowing in guilt and shame, if that makes sense.

Next, that there are Indigenous Christians, and Black Christians, and other Christians of color — that oppressed peoples have found things worth cultivating within Christianity! If they can find something worthwhile in this faith, it would be arrogance for me to deny it.

For instance, even when white slaveholders edited Bibles to remove too much discussion of liberation, even when white preachers emphasized verses about slaves being obedient to their masters, many enslaved people recognized how Christian faith actually affirms their equality and the holiness of their desire for liberation.

Black Theologian Howard Thurman opens his 1949 book Jesus and the Disinherited with a question asked to him by a Hindu man who knew the harms white Christianity had done to both their peoples: “How can you, a black man, be Christian?” The long and short of Thurman’s answer is that, in spite of the pain and exploitation too often inflicted by Christians in positions of power, the oppressed have always been able to see past that misuse of the Christian message to the true message lived out by Jesus Christ: a message of liberation for all.

For more thoughts on why and how to keep being Christian in spite, in spite, in spite...I invite you to look through my #why we stay tag.

___

How I wish that Christianity had never gotten tangled up in Empire! but it did, and it still is, and because for good or ill I cannot help that my spirit is stubbornly drawn towards the Triune understanding of the Divine, the best I can do is to use my privilege and what small influence I have within Christian institutions to move us towards decolonization. What some of that's looked like on the level of my personal beliefs:

I am firmly against any form of proselytizing. I don't support evangelism financially, I speak out against it, I don't platform it. (If someone wants to hear about my faith, they'll come to me — I don't run after them. And if someone does want to have that conversation, I aim to make it a dialogue, where we are learning from each other.)

I continuously work to recognize and uproot Christian supremacy within myself — the beliefs I didn't even realize where there until I started digging. That has included challenging any inkling within myself that Christianity is the "best" or "most right" religion. (One book that's helped a lot with that is Holy Envy by Barbara Brown Taylor.)

I seek wisdom from and relationship with Christians of color. Their insights are vital to our faith, and I try to use what small influence I have to uplift them.

On that last note, here are some resources I recommend as you continue to explore these questions:

This First Nations Version of the Christian Bible is gorgeously written, and a great way to explore scripture through a Native lens.

Native by Kaitlin B. Curtice is a lovely poetic memoir that explores how one person has sought to hold both her Christian faith and Potawatomi identity within herself. (She also has a new book out that I haven't read yet but really want to!)

God is Red: A Native View of Religion by Vine Deloria Jr.

Rescuing the Gospel from the Cowboys by Richard Twiss

I haven't read any of these 4 books but they look good too

This video with advice to non-Indigenous Christians

If anyone has any resources to add, please do!

#why we stay #issues in christianity

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elysiumblue · 9 months

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Pick a card - Describing your beauty 😍

A reading that can help bringing you positivity. Let me attempt to describe your beauty. I may also provide some advices to enhance your beauty in some piles.

As always, this is a general reading, so just take what resonates, and leave the rest behind. Also, this reading is aim to provide positive vibes. If you find the messages offensive, then the message may not be for you. Maybe you are not ready for the messages, or you can try pick another pile.

👇🏻 Pick a heart emoji that you feel drawn to 👇🏻

And find the corresponding reading for you below!

💜 Pile 1 💜

People feels that you need to be seen more, because they want to see your beauty! They can see the glow of you, even when you're trying your very very best to hide it. Besides that, people also see that you're visibly hurt, so they want to help you with the healing.

Yes, I can see that pile 1 is definitely going through some shit. It's more apparent in the way you push people away, or hurt people with your words. I can see that you don't do this because you like to hurt others, but it's due to you not feeling yourself worthy enough to be loved 😔 You seem to be pessimistic, due to the intense suffering you've been through. I can specifically see suffering inflicted by male or religion here.

You may not believe it, but people feel that you're a royalty, as they can't help but admire how you go through so much shit, while still be able to remain a good person. The color you picked, which is purple, is a color of royal too. Also, 3 of the 4 queens have showed up in your reading. The only one missing is the Queen of Cup, which indicates you should try to be more open to the idea of love. Let people love you. Believe that you are loveable. And more importantly, love yourself.

Give yourself a chance, to be open to more people. This time it's not the same, as you're stronger than before, and also not all people is as horrible as those you've met before. Be open to the love and kindness of people. Let them help you, and most importantly, let us see your beauty and your glow. I feel that you're now living in a shell, but not even the shell can fully cover your brilliance, no matter how hard you try to shut it tight.

(I don't want to specify the events, but I really feel that you've been through some tough things. Songs about toxicity and violence keep showing up in this reading. Your pain is valid, but don't let it define you. Things will definitely get better. ❤️‍🩹)

🩵 Pile 2 🩵

I feel that you have a dark vibe and a retro style. Your beauty feels timeless, which reminds me of Lana Del Rey and Dita von Teese. You probably like black, and maybe blue too.

Your beauty is intimidating yet breathtaking. You make people just want to stop and admire you, and be with your vibe. The vibe of yours is dark yet very soothing, making people feels like everything will be ok if you're here. Some also find your style very inspiring. I cannot accurately describe why but I can come up with an example. It feels like people spend hundreds of dollars to buy an e-ink tablet, so that their eyes won't hurt by the light of the screen, and one day you remind them that paper book exists. 💥📕

I didn't forget about the intimidating part of your beauty. People knows that you look fine but they also know that you are not the one to be fucked with. Just looking at you, they can imagine what will happen if they make an unwise move on you 💀 You feel dangerous, but it only makes you dangerously beautiful. Must be the dark vibes that you exude. Reminds me of "Jiraikei", a Japanese style which looks really cute, but can be very destructive. As the name, "jirai", which literally means landmine suggested, people will be shred to pieces if they're not careful. But there may be some people who purposely mess with you, because they want to be screwed lol 💀💣

❤️ Pile 3 ❤️

Man. You probably an air sign. The energy is so air sign. Or maybe you aren't because I am not an air sign, and am not experiencing the air sign experience firsthand.

You feel so elusive. Looks like a fairy that doesn't belong in the human world, and is super rare. You looks beautiful, but at the same time you feels like you don't belong to anyone exclusively. This makes some people want to catch you, and own you. (And then they failed lol) Some people will try to make you commit in a relationship with them, just so they can see you more often. (I guess they also failed too lol 💀)

The way of your speech also has a charm to it. You can say something that makes zero sense at all, rambling bs, and people still listen the whole thing, or even believe in you. You may find this a bit amusing sometimes. However, there may be some people thinking that you're shallow, and untrustworthy, because of the way you speaking.

You probably surrounded by people. I feel that you're quite popular, and may even have multiple people crushing on you. They really be like moths to the flames. This makes you feel overwhelmed, and makes you want to hide from people sometimes. It also makes you a bit confused about who you should spend your time with. This makes you hop from people to people, one thing to another thing, which contributes in your elusive vibe.

Although you know that you're liked by people, you still find yourself comparing yourself to others. You make changes to yourself from time to time, which is a nice thing. However, some changes are unnecessary, especially those you made just to please others.

I heard an example that sounds quite contradictory, but if you get it then maybe it's a message for you. Some people may think that you're so hard to keep up with, and they want you to be more grounded. However, when you try to be grounded, you lost your charm and find yourself struggling. You have to acknowledge that your unpredictability is a part of your beauty, that should not be changed. You have to know that if people find it struggling to deal with you, that means that you're not for them, instead of you being the problem. 🥴

(This is one of my favourite songs. Also Prince was a Gemini. More air sign energies. He was not afraid of speaking up and changing things up. And he was always changing musically. There's a quote from him, saying that making music is like meeting a new friend, which made him want to make something he had never seen before.)

#pick a card #general tarot reading #tarot reading

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bg-brainrot · 2 months

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Hugs for a Vampire (Astarion x GN!Reader) - Chapter 14: After Defeating Cazador

Chapter 14: After Defeating Cazador

Each chapter can be read as a standalone hug.

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Rogue!Tav)

Genre: Fluffy, Filling in Canon

Rating: Teen

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Act 3, Canon-typical violence, Astarion's coping mechanisms, Astarion's quest, cw: Astarion's trauma

WC: 3.1k words, 14/18 chapters

Summary: Set in Act 3, the conclusion of the Pale Elf questline, Rogue!Tav needs to find just the right moment to support Astarion.

Author's Note: Bringing over my same note from AO3, since this was the chapter, the one that inspired this series all the way back in September.

I, like many, wanted to just jump in and give Astarion a hug. But as someone who relates all too deeply to Astarion, I felt like it was his time to just let it all out. And when a wound is that raw? To me, it’s all about timing. Naturally a disclaimer that everyone heals differently, wants different things, and this is colored a lot by my own experiences/attitudes! I just wanted to explain a bit of my reasoning behind this hug.

Ao3 | [Hug13][Hug15] | Hugs for a Vampire Masterlist

You’ve all but done it. One more well-placed dagger and your team has defeated a vampire lord in his own lair, his cruel ritual stopped in its diabolical tracks.

Or at least you hope it’s been stopped. Astarion is looking at you, eyes pleading with you in a desperate frenzy you've not seen before. “I can do this, but I need your help.”

“Astarion,” you start, his name nearly choking you. You’re not a paragon of good or a champion of righteousness. You’re just another Baldurian rogue who got caught up in this tangled mess of mind flayers and gods. So you weren’t lying when you told your lover you would consider this. You’ve thought long and hard about this, you’ve lost sleep over this, and, ultimately, you know you cannot let him go through with this. “If I help you complete this ritual, these people will all die.”

“These people died years ago, trust me on that,” he says dismissively, as if these lives are just a few gold pieces at the bottom of a stolen pouch. “All that’s left are feral spawn, desperate for blood.”

However, you see these words for the truth of them: he sees himself in these spawn. He hates that he sees himself. When you respond, you can barely hear your own voice through the pounding in your ears, the panic coursing through you. “They don’t need to be desperate nor feral if they’re given a means of survival. They just want to live, like you do.”

Astarion bristles at that, and his next words come out angry, “And if we release them, how many people will they kill? Tens of thousands? Hundreds of thousands?”

His questions aren’t meant to be answered, you know that much– He’s justifying his actions, to you and to himself. That doesn’t stop you from answering his line of rhetorical questioning, “You don’t know what they will do, none of us do.”

Your words fall on deaf ears, as his mouth catches up to the arguments he has readily prepared for your hesitation. “If they die and I ascend, I won’t have to rely on the parasite to walk in the sun. I’ll be free – truly, completely free.” Astarion sounds so blissful, on his tongue is a taste of that ephemeral happiness that he’s been so fervently chasing. It tugs at your heartstrings, plucking at them expertly in a way that only a master manipulator like him can. “Isn’t that what you want?” His tone challenges you to deny his happiness, and clarity hits you like a ton of bricks.

He’s reverted back to his old, guarded self. He’s the Astarion you met on a ravaged beach, the man who wanted to leave an entire grove of tieflings for dead to save himself, who tried to seduce you for protection. And you’re not about to let this moment reshape him into someone you know he isn’t. Not truly.

You look into Astarion’s eyes, those ruby pools that have drawn you in so very many times over the last few months. Over your travels, you’ve caught his eyes many times, read his worries, felt his love. These are the eyes you know most intimately, deeply– and as your own eyes dart between them, you see him as genuinely as you ever will.

You see fear, of course– it’s what’s driven him here, it’s as much as he said when you faced Petras. He wants a way to keep himself and you safe. But beyond that you see a ravenous hunger, more than any thirst for blood or craving for gold. That hunger, born of blood, of power, of freedom, is clouding everything else. It’s up to you to dissipate those clouds.

“I know you think this will set you free,” you start, delivering each word deliberately. “But it won’t. It will only trap you. Just like it trapped Cazador.” As if to prove your point, you turn to the pathetic mess of a man on the floor.

Some vampire lord he is now, groveling in front of Astarion, realizing that his poisoned words have done nothing to change his “favorite” spawn’s mind. His body has already been beaten, his face bloodied, his elegant clothing torn to shreds. And his utterly pitiful, earthly appearance says more than words ever could.

Astarion looks down upon his former master, considering your words. You see his eyes glint with steel as he turns back to you, and you hold your breath as you wait for his response.

“You… you’re right. I can be better than him,” he says, and your heart clenches in sheer relief. Turning back to Cazador with his signature wicked smirk, he continues, “But I'm not above enjoying this.”

You watch as your friend, your companion, your lover repeatedly drives Cazador’s own twisted blade against him. Each stab is punctuated by a wrenching, guttural cry, Astarion’s face contorted with a rage even the hells would fear. Cazador’s body grows limp, and Astarion continues to stab. You lose count of how many expertly executed stabs he delivers, but you can’t bring yourself to look away. You need to watch, to witness his blood-stained hands grant his own deliverance.

Releasing one final world-rending scream, he pulls the blade out, stumbling back. You know he’s done, in every sense of the word. Head turned up to the heavens, to the very gods who have never heard his pleas, he cries out– a heart-wrenching scream, mixed with a heavy sob– before his body collapses to the ground.

Your body instinctively moves toward him, your heart screaming to help him, to hold him, to be there for him. But a warm hand clamps on your shoulder and you look back. Karlach’s fiery yellow eyes lock with yours and she silently shakes her head at you. No, soldier, her eyes say. He needs this.

And despite your heart’s protestations, despite your eyes welling with burning hot tears, your head agrees. So you wait.

Astarion’s body trembles, a slow heaving wracking his frame. Sobs build up and burst out in a series of cries, each more painful than the last. Tears stream down your own face as you feel his visceral pain, but you stay back. And even as his cries petter out, you don’t step forward. It’s not your moment to have, there will be time for you to hold him, to cry with him, but not now.

Before that moment can arrive, the spawn around you are released from their magic bindings, Cazador’s hold on them finally worn off. Despite their predicament, they seem no worse for wear. Sweaty, tired, half-naked, but whole. Above all else, they seem… confused. They’re almost too scared to approach the hunched, blood-soaked man kneeling before their former master, but Dal takes the initiative.

“Is… is it over?” she asks, tentatively. “Is he…?”

Astarion takes a few shuddering breaths before collecting himself, rising to his feet slowly. “Yes,” he says, voice thick with lingering tears. “He’s gone.”

Petras looks about with uncertainty. For the first time in decades, he’s expected to think for himself and it’s clearly going to be an adjustment. Concerned, he asks, “What does that mean for us?”

You stand there, watching your lover. So many emotions run through you that you can’t even catch them all. Sorrow, concern, but most of all: Pride. He’s free now, to do whatever he wants, to be whomever he wants. And as his siblings look to him for leadership, he faces them head-on. A lump forms in your throat as you wait for his answer.

“It means you have a choice,” he says, staring at Petras squarely. “You can hide here, living in the shadows like parasites. Or you can be more than what he made us to be.” Astarion’s voice lightens at the end, his preference clear in his tone. His entire demeanor shifts back to his usual, poised self and he stands a bit straighter, as if he’s making the decision for himself as he speaks. “You can choose differently, of course. But the consequences are on your head.”

Dal looks beyond him, up to the cells where the rest of the spawn sit trapped. “And… what does it mean for them?”

“Ah, now that is a question,” Astarion says, looking down at Cazador’s winding, red staff. He contemplates openly, and you know it’s alright to provide another small push.

“Let’s release them,” you say, clearing your throat a bit as you swallow your last tears. “They deserve the same chance you got.”

“You’re right,” he says, with a nod. Another wave of relief washes over you, as he doesn’t even hesitate to agree this time. “The poor wretches in the cells are innocent. They shouldn’t have to suffer just because I… lured them here.” You merely nod back– you wish you could say that his actions weren’t his own, that he needn’t feel the guilt any more, but you know that’s beyond this moment. That he will need to sit with the events of the day for a while, and that you shall sit there with him as long as he needs.

Astarion grabs Cazador’s staff, inspecting it for a moment before striking it into the ground in one powerful movement. A red, pulsing light emanates from it, filling the room with an eerie glow before you all hear the loud ka-thunk of the cell doors releasing their prisoners.

You all turn in unison to look, before Astarion speaks to his siblings, “They’ll need someone to lead them. Take the tunnels into the Underdark, find somewhere… well, not safe. But less perilous?”

“What? No, we can’t–” Petras protests immediately.

Astarion raises a bloody hand to stop him. “Just try to keep them out of trouble.”

Dalyria, taking charge in the face of her sibling’s flustered looks, nods and ushers the rest of the spawn toward the cells, the 7,000 newly-released waiting for them. You watch them leave in a solemn silence.

After they’ve climbed the stairs and carried on, leaving your field of vision, Astarion turns back to your small party. “I… I think we’re done here.” he says, setting his face into a hard expression. “Let’s go.”

Your group turns away, allowing Astarion a moment of privacy to put his armor back on, to wipe some of the blood off his hands, to collect himself.

As he rejoins your party, your companions perk up, sensing their opportunity to provide their support. Karlach claps him on the back softly, looking at him with pure admiration on her face. “Good work, Astarion.”

He shies away from her, a bit of embarrassment coloring the tips of his ears. “Thank you, I suppose.”

Shadowheart nods to him in approval. “You did the right thing, Astarion. Some sacrifices aren’t worth it,” she says. Her own silver hair is a testament to her words.

Astarion, knowing her place of understanding, nods back wordlessly. It’s the most they will get from him for now, and they set off to lead your path out of this decrepit place.

As you begin to walk, you turn to your lover, still wanting to offer him a modicum of comfort, to embrace him and tell him it will all be alright. But his expression is vacant. When you nudge him gently he only says, “That’s it. He’s… he’s gone.”

You remain silent, waiting for him to continue.

“After all these years– these centuries– it’s really over.” The awe in his voice is unmistakable. But more so, the uncertainty, similar to Petras’ own, has settled in. Now that he's back, safe with you and your group, his vulnerability is peaking through.

“How do you feel?” you ask, broaching the subject that’s been worrying you the most.

“I’m… I’m not sure,” he says, honestly. “I feel a little numb.”

An entirely reasonable reaction, albeit not one that you can fix. But you don’t need to fix it, just listen for now. You nod, encouraging him to continue.

“What I’ve lost,” he sounds wistful, but looks sideways at you with a small smile. “What I’ve gained. It’s all so much.”

You smile at him, appreciating that even in this moment, he sees you, he weighs you against all that he’s lost and he smiles. “It’s a lot to take in,” you agree. “Even under the best of circumstances.”

“And gods. All those spawn. Free in the Underdark,” he breathes out and looks ahead at where those spawn are inevitably fleeing Cazador’s lair. “I need some time, I think. Just to let it all sink in.”

As much as you want to hold him, to tell him how proud you are of him, to crush him under your weight for days on end just to make sure he’s here, he’s safe, he’s still himself– you know it still isn’t the right moment. So you just say, “Take all of the time that you need, my love. I’ll be here, you know I will.”

Looking into his eyes, you see the weary gaze of a man whose entire existence was just up-ended. His eyes are still rimmed with red from his tears, and you see more moisture gathering as he turns away. “L-let’s just go.” He continues walking forward, picking up his pace. “This place reeks of death and I want to feel alive again.”

With nothing left to say, you follow him and your companions up and out of the yawning pit of Cazador’s dungeons.

The entire walk, Astarion’s shoulders remain tense, his face guarded and closed off from the world, from you. It’s still not time, you think.

Before you make your escape, you encounter the Gur once more. You talk to them as you reach the rising platform, and, while he vehemently defends his choices, Astarion still seems so very reserved. In the back of your head, you can’t help but feel like you haven’t done enough. That perhaps the time was right at some point, but you missed your moment to comfort him, to be there for him. Either way, it’s not right now.

You all pile on to the elevator, leaving the bloody mess of Cazador, of Vellioth before him, to be swallowed by the earth. Walking through the mansion’s halls, Astarion remains quiet. You periodically check to make sure he’s still there, but of course he is– he makes his own choices now and he wants to be here. He’s just deeply in thought, beyond you for now. You must wait for him.

The group passes barren walls, each of Cazador’s tacky paintings stolen hours ago– by a much cheerier band of adventurers, you can’t help but think. But you wouldn’t trade places with your past selves for anything, because this group is still together, still has their souls intact. This group will get through this and live to steal many, many more paintings from evil wretches like Cazador.

After following your own path back to the entrance, you can sense Astarion’s unease building, his body fighting an unseen battle. Turning to look at him, you see that he’s not looking back, not looking forward, rather staring down at the ground ahead of him.

You hang back, wondering what’s the matter but, before you can ask, he offers, “I hate this place. So why does it feel like my feet are made of lead?”

A hard heartbeat pounds your chest. You don’t know how to respond, or if it’s even your place to do that. Instead you pose a question back, “Do you want me to stay behind with you for a moment?”

He shakes his head harshly. “No,” the word comes out softly, despite the grimace on his face. “I’m just… frustrated. He’s gone, but it’s like I still feel his claws on me.”

Karlach and Shadowheart pause ahead, at the door you entered through on the battlements. “Soldier?” Karlach calls, raising a single eyebrow at you. One of her hands is placed on the doorknob, a simple turn away from the outdoors.

Ah, that might help, you think. “Could you open the door? It’s rather dark in here, it would be nice to illuminate a path for Astarion.”

The large tiefling woman complies with a grunt, swinging the door open at a brutal force. If you weren’t so focused on Astarion’s face, you might have laughed at her eager show of help. As it is, your eyes are trained on the vampire’s face, reading each line carefully as the door opens.

Daylight streams in, cutting through the musty halls of Szarr Palace, illuminating the dancing dust particles in the air. Astarion’s head cranes up, away from the ancient carpet he’d been fixated on a moment before. Like he’s been jolted from an uncomfortable slumber, he shakes his stupor off, placing one foot in front of another until he’s crossed the threshold of the place he’d perversely called home for two centuries.

Something about the way he stands strong, the way his chest puffs out, reignites the pride that wells within you. You follow behind him closely, as if you might protect him from the darkness he’s leaving behind.

It’s when he’s well and truly in the sunlight outside that you see the markings of the day on him, in blood smeared across his face, the tired creases of his eyes. Infiltrating the palace, finding the 7,000 spawn, facing his tormentor– all of it catches up to him now that he’s left the cold grip of Cazador’s clutches.

Astarion’s shoulders slump, his eyes close, and his head tilts up to the warmth of the sun, as he takes a deep inhale of the fresh air. Like a cat basking in the glorious remnants of daylight through a window, he looks to remain until there’s not even a sliver of light left.

You turn to Karlach and Shadowheart, who are looking on with unsure expressions. Waving a hand out at them, you signal that you’ll meet them downstairs. They slip away wordlessly, leaving you and Astarion alone, perched atop of the battlements of Baldur’s Gate.

No words pass between you when he finally opens his eyes. They’re even more crimson in the sunlight, and the emotions swimming in them are inscrutable. One thing is for certain though, now is your chance to hold him, to comfort him.

You hold your arms out to him, an open invitation. Astarion looks at them then looks up at you, eyes brimming with fresh new tears. He shuts his eyes closed once more, hot streaks silently running down his face, and steps into your welcoming embrace. Warmth, release, relief– his feelings are your own, as you hold each other. And so, feeling the weight of the decisions you’ve made that day, in the very sunlight he’s given up, you cry in each other's arms.

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call-me-doll-face · 11 months

Text

WARNING: Dark bucky barnes, sexual themes, violence, 18+

A/N: I wrote this on my phone so I apologize for no page break. Will be fixed when I have access to my computer ❤️

ME AND THE DEVIL:

I know you do not usually seek out men like him. In fact, someone smart would avoid the likes of him at all costs. Someone smart would find other means of getting what she wants; what she needs. Other alternatives. However most people would not call me smart. Would say I am easy, I am gullible, I am pathetic. However, I guess desperation can change your point of view, because I started thinking something on the wrong side of crazy.

I started thinking he could be my salvation.

Getting his attention was not difficult, unbelievably. Men like him want what they cannot have. Something unexpected, something exciting, lifechanging.

So, what do you give a man that has everything? Sex? That is almost laughable. He could have any women he wanted. They practically worship the ground he walks on.

Money? That thought is even worse. You can tell that he is drowning in it. Has more than any one man should.

Friendship? It is a nice thought, but he would never trust it. Never let you close enough to even try.

No... I gave him a chase. I let him see me in the seedy club that he frequents. Let his eyes skim the skimpy little black dress I wore just for him; then just when he had almost had his fill, I would take it away. Disappear into the crowd.

This little game of ours carried on for longer than I would have liked. It became a dance of sorts, our game of cat and mouse. Until I finally let him catch me.

I finally let him have me; let him control my very being. The act brings me more pleasure than I can handle, this big strong man consuming me body and soul. The power that came with submitting to him....

Slowly, I realized there was more to him than the man everyone hated and feared. There was compassion, empathy, and a heart filled to the brim with love.

That love wrapped around my heart and anchored me. Gave me a sense of safety I hadn't felt in a long, long time.

Over time, I felt bad for what I was doing to him, wanting to find a way to explain it all to him. Find a way to ask him to help me instead of trying to coerce it out of him.... I wanted him willing...

But he found me out before I got the chance.

We stand across from each other, backs pressed against walls and trading accusatory glances.

Bucky is furious, face tense and his jaw clenching. Brows are furrowed over narrowed eyes, making him look fierce, intimidating.

I can tell he wants to say something to me, wants to lash out, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just grits his teeth and snarls at me, which makes him seem even more menacing. A shiver of excitement runs through me at the strength and power of the man before me, curling around my spine and drawing me to him like a moth drawn to a flame.

Any sane person would be terrified, but not me. After all this time I know without a doubt James Buchanan Barnes would never harm me; would bet my life on it.

As I take a step towards him, I notice his back straightened, icy blue eyes throwing up a wall, guarding himself and his emotions from me. Too late, as I’d seen the pain and betrayal there. My heart cracks at it.

I had done that. I had put that look on this untouchable man's face. I’d hurt him, betrayed him, ruined him.

More than anything I want to fix it.

“Bucky... James... Please let me explain.” My voice is a soft plea, brown eyes begging as I take another step towards the man I had come to love.

This impossibly strong and stubborn man who had changed everything.

Broad shoulders slump in defeat at my tone, face downcast and eyes dull. He is closing off from me, but I will not let him. No.

Finally stepping before him, I let my hand cup his face gently. My thumb gently rubs at the corner of his mouth that had turned down slightly. Those eyes squeeze tight at my touch, face leaning into my hand desperately.

“Tell me it was real. Please tell me it was real. You weren't using me.” He begs, voice wavering with emotion and my heart breaks further. Lips trembling, I press my body closer to him, cupping his face and pressing my forehead to his.

“I love you... I love you buck; I love you.”

Lips meet mine desperately, hands gripping my back and pulling me flush to his hard body.

He is devouring me, drinking me in. His tongue licks at the seam of my lips and I instantly grant him access, whimpering when it snakes into my mouth and dances with mine.

“Say it. Please. Please say it.” The words are spoken against my mouth, hand sliding up to grip the nape of my neck firmly, demanding I give in to him. Blue eyes search mine as if trying to see right through me, trying to see into my very soul.

Was I sent to destroy him? Was I some cruel means to an end? Someone to break down his barriers, strip him of his armor and lay him out to dry? Leave him to his enemies to rip apart as they see fit?

Our breathes mingle, so close its hard to tell where one ends, and one begins. He is engulfing my very existence; I’ve never been more willing to drown.

My belly flutters with anxiousness as I will myself to give in, to trust that he will believe and understand me. Closing my eyes briefly I let a soft sigh leave my parted lips; let the tip of my tongue dart out to wet my bottom lip before gathering the courage to face him head on once again.

“I will tell you everything. Every single detail, all you have to do is ask. But right now, you must know that this, this thing between us, is one of the scariest yet realist things I have ever known. I wasn’t supposed to love you. I was never supposed to care for you the way I do now, but God do I.” his chest deflates with a shaky exhale at my words, the waft of air moving the loose strands of hair out of my face. “James- “ reaching up I cup the back of his head, caressing the soft brown hair there. “I want to be with you. I want to stay WITH you. I do not want to run from my problems anymore. I want to burn them to the ground and build a life with you.”

“But?” He mumbles, nuzzling against the side of my face.

“But…- “here we go. This will make or break whatever this is. “But my ex is a bad man.” Bucky’s body tenses at the mention of another man, pulling away to give me his full attention. “He is a bad man, and buck, he has my daughter. He has my daughter, and he wanted your money, and I could not let him hurt her.”

The more I talk the more panicked I feel. Its like word vomit, I cannot stop until I have gotten all of it out. My breathing quickens, chest starts to hurt with the stress of it as tears gather on my lash line, causing buck to become blurry.

“He told me he’d hurt her if I didn’t do exactly as he said. Oh god buck, she is only four years old.” A choked sob escapes from me, my hand reaching up to cover my mouth as a tear breaks free. Bucky just stands there, staring at me in shock as I drone on. “I know he will follow through if I disappoint him. He’s hurt the both of us more times than I can count already. His best friend is a police officer, so nobody had believed me when I’d tried to get help, it had only made things worse. I didn't have a choice.” I am full on crying now, body wracking with sobs as I hold myself, trying to keep myself together.

a variety of different emotions fleet across Bucky’s face before he finally settles on rage. It sets in his shoulders, fists clenching at his sides before shoving past me and out the door, walls slamming with the force of it shutting.

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I had thought that was that. That he was done with me. I went to the little sketchy hotel room I’d rented in case things went south, curled onto the bed I don’t like to think too much about, and sobbed. I sobbed until exhaustion took hold and drug me under.

Coming to felt even worse. My eyes had crusted shut from all the tears and my head throbbed with a migraine that almost cripples me.

It could have been hours, days for all I knew. I just didn’t care.

Just as I go to roll over in an attempt to go back to sleep the door to the room bursts open and there he is. There he is, covered in blood and practically dragging Gabe in by the back of his shirt.

“Bucky! Are you okay!” I gasp, jumping to my feet and rushing to him, terrified that some of the copious mounts of blood could be his.

Grunting he lets Gabe fall to the ground unceremoniously before engulfing me in a bone crushing hug. “I’m all right doll. Had some business I needed to take care of. I’m all right.”

I cling to him, letting the familiar scent of leather and gunpowder wash over me and calm my nerves. “I thought you were gone. That you’d left me.” My bottom lip wobbles, and he pulls back, cupping my jaw gently with his metal hand, thumb running over my lip to soothe it.

“I’m never leaving you, doll. I’m yours just as much as you are mine. But I will not have you without her.” It takes my mind a moment to process his words, but when it does my heart soars, eyes watering for a completely different reason than earlier.

“She- she’s here?”

“She is.” He quickly grabs my shoulders to prevent me from rushing past him and out the door, stops me from going to her. As if sensing the words of protest bubbling up, he gives me a stern look and I swallow them down with a frown. “First, business.” He indicates what said business is with a sharp kick to Gabe’s side, pulling a grunt from the other man.

“Y-you stupid whore. Couldn’t even do one damn thing right.” Gabe snarls with labored breath, drawing up onto his hands and knees with a pained groan. Blonde hair that is usually kept impeccable falls over his bruised and battered face in a greasy mess. Green eyes, red from busted blood vessels shoot up to glare at me.

Bucky remains quiet, yet I can feel his silent rage filling the room and choking us. I wait for the eruption, the blow up I know will come, but to my surprise he just clasps his hands together and moves to stand slightly behind me.

It dawns on me that this powerful man that everyone fears is giving me, little old nobody me, the lead. He’s letting me decide what happens to the man that tormented me and my daughter for years. Bucky is letting me take justice into my own hands.

When I turn uncertain eyes on him, he gives me the slightest dip of his chin, eyes shining with encouragement. “Burn them to the ground, then build a life.” They’re the softest words he’s ever spoken to me, and they give me all the confidence I need.

A humored laugh is heard from behind me as I straighten my spine and turn to face the pathetic excuse of a man that’s now on his knees before me. The blood in my veins sings with the satisfaction of him kneeling there. His rightful place; below me.

“You think that just because you fucked James Buchanan Barnes that suddenly you’re not the same little pathetic girl from a nowhere town in Ohio? Think again princess.” He sneers, spitting blood at my feet before turning hateful eyes back up at me. “Both you and that stupid little daughter of yours are useless. Hell, you weren’t even adequate enough to stick a dick in. what are you going to do to me, huh? Cry in my face, drown me in your tears?”

I let every word from his mouth soak in. let every hateful thing he’d done to me, made me feel, seep into every pore, and consume me. My own rage, mixed with Bucky’s, builds to an almost cataclysmic point, while all I feel is a calmness wash over me. My mind and heart go quiet as I just stare at him with empty eyes, not saying a word as he slowly starts losing his confidence, starts to squirm.

“You have absolutely no idea how much of a pleasure it is for me to see you on your knees, covered in blood and squirming like a rat caught in a trap.” My voice comes out even, smooth, and he instantly has a sneer back on his face at the words. Before he gets the chance to open his mouth and spew more bullshit, I turn on my heel to slightly face bucky. “You know, you were right about one thing, I’ll give you that... I’m most definitely not the same little girl from Ohio. What you WERE wrong about however is that it’s not because I fucked bucky, oh no, that honor goes to you.” Giving bucky a sweet smile, he watches in amusement, brow cocked as I lift the left side of his shirt and steal the lightweight combat blade he keeps hidden there.

Twirling it between my fingers I twist back and let Gabe see it, let him take a minute to sweat it as I take slow steps towards him.

“For years you made my life a living hell. You trapped me, moved me to a place where I had nothing; no one. You controlled everything. Who I socialized with, the money, hell it was you who made me get pregnant. Now that- “coming to a stop in front of him, I run the tip of my blade down his cheek, relishing in the flinch he gives at the first touch of metal against sensitive skin. “That was your first mistake.” A sharp cry tears from him as I clench my teeth and dig the edge of the blade in just under his eye, dragging it all the way down his cheek to his jaw in a bloody line.

“You fucking bitch- FUCK!” he shouts out, going to move away from me but bucky is instantly there, holding him in place with a harsh hold on his shoulders. The pure arousal in his eyes takes my breath away and I feel the excitement at pleasing him all the way down between my thighs. I never realized how exhilarating this could be. Setting my sights back on the man before me I let a crazed grin slide free.

“Do you want to know where you fucked up? You gave me someone to love more than you. You gave me someone I cared about more than myself. You tore me down to a point that I didn’t care what you did to me, but when you gave me that little girl? When you hurt, that little girl? Well, that was the beginning of the end for you.” Flipping the knife in my hand so that the hilt is up I slam down as hard as I can, feeling it slice through the bone like butter as it makes a home in his shoulder right by where Bucky’s hand rests.

Bucky seems just as surprised as Gabe, staring at the blade with wide eyed disbelief before his teeth flash in a wicked smile, laughing incredulously. Gabe screams, wiggles in agony, trying to escape the pain. With a giggle that I should be appalled by, I yank it out, blinking the warm blood splatters out of my eyes. My tongue flicks to the side of my mouth by its own accord and the tangy copper flavor fills my mouth. The sound of his pain is music to my ears, the raw pride that bucky exudes makes my clit throb.

“You’re going to pay for what you did. There will be so much more pain, this is only a small taste of what’s to come.” I can’t handle this anymore, my body shaking with so much pent-up energy that I feel as if I’ll combust. “But later.” When my brown eyes meet icy blue ones, my lips pull between my teeth, and those eyes flick to them, locking on to the movement.

Bucky, ever observant, seems to know what I need before even I do. Pulling rope from the back pocket of his tight fitted jeans he quickly ties Gabe’s wrists and ankles so that he can’t escape. Dark eyes move back up to me once he’s done, body appearing larger as he rounds Gabe, chest puffing out as he stalks me.

“What was your second mistake? So glad you asked, I’ll tell you.” placing my palm against his broad and sturdy chest, I halt bucky. His chest falls in even controlled breathes as he searches my face, trying to decipher what I want. When my eyes flick to the floor before me, right where Gabe had just been, he gives me a knowing smirk before he drops to one knee, then the other. Now, seeing him before me is a completely different type of excitement, but just as thrilling.

“You put this man in my path. A man you knew was dangerous. Could destroy you. Oh, but you never thought I'd confide in him. Tell him the truth…. Fall in love with him. No, you underestimated me.” Thick fingers hook into the waistband of my leggings, gently tugging them down my legs along with my panties. He lets out a deep groan at the wetness already visible on my thighs, inhales deeply, and takes in the smell of my arousal. Gripping under my knee, he hooks my leg over his shoulder and dives in like a starved man.

My head falls back at the first broad stripe up my center, a whimper as that skilled tongue flicks and curls around my bundle of nerves. The man is pure sin, knowing what I desire like the devil himself. His metal hand grips my hip, grounding me as he feasts on me, tongue spearing into me, drinking from me with obscene slurping noises. It doesn’t take long before I’m ready to crumble for him, the knot in my belly tightening and a warmth spreading over my entire body.

Looking to the man on the floor, seeing how red-faced and humiliated he looks, sends me ever closer to my climax, and I can't help but torment him even more. Cruelty has never been my nature, but I'm relishing in what it does to him. "He's so good, Gabe. So much better than you ever were." Bucky groans at my words, sending vibrations through my whole body. I gasp loudly, brows knitting at the feeling as my fingers bury in his soft locks. "How does it feel, watching someone so powerful worship the person you thought was nothing?"

"You stupid -"

Sliding his flesh hand between my legs, Bucky easily slips two fingers into me, instantly curling them and expertly finding that special spot inside me, and I’m a goner.

His name falls from my lips like a prayer, back arching as my orgasm crashes through me in waves. I can feel his eyes on me, watching me as he sucks my clit into his mouth and pumps his fingers faster, working to prolong my pleasure as long as he can.

When I finally come down, I push him away from me with a gentle hand on his head. Locking eyes with Gabe I let the delight show on my face. Gloating in the way bucky played my body like a fiddle. “It’ll be the last time you ever underestimate me."

Wrapping a firm hand around buckys throat i guide him backward until he’s on his back. He lets me control him and lifts his hips to help aid me in pulling his jeans down just under his ass. My mouth waters as his cock springs free, laying flushed and leaking against his belly. Usually, I would worship him. Let my tongue slide down his delicious happy trail to the base before licking all the way up his shaft to the tip. Usually. Not now.

Bucky watches with hooded eyes and teeth dug into his plump bottom lip as I climb over him. Fingers dig into the flesh of my hips as he leans up slightly to watch where we meet. I watch as those brows scrunch in concentration, and his jaw goes slack as I position myself and slowly slide down onto him. I take him all the way to the hilt in one slide, wincing at the burn of it, of him. He’s so big. It never matters how much he preps me. It’s always a stretch to fit him.

He looks at me desperately as I try to give myself time to adjust. I feel the muscles in his hips bunching, struggling not to thrust up into me, the thick muscles flinching under me. Taking pity on him, I lay my hands flat on his chest before raising myself up and dropping all the way down. The noises he makes as I start to ride him in earnest are sinful, feeling so good all his barriers are down, all his pleasure on full display.

He lets me take him apart right there in front of another man. Willingly submits to me, whines when I take him to the very edge then denies him his pleasure. “Please, please doll fuck. So fucking close, please stop teasing me. Come one baby, ride that cock, let me fill that pretty pussy up, please baby doll I’ll do anything you want.” He whines and pleads. Pulling him into a sitting position I cradle his head against my chest as I bounce, feeling my climax coming once again as his cock slides against my walls, rubbing every spot flawlessly.

Meeting Gabe eyes once again over bucks’ shoulder, I give him a triumphant smirk as I rest my chin on the top of Buckys head. “Cum for me baby. Be a good boy and fill that pussy up.” As soon as the words leave my mouth he’s cursing, shouting my name and his hips jerk erratically, shooting ropes of hot cum into me and coating my walls. The feeling of his cum in me sends me over the edge right after him, and the clenching of my walls around him coaxes another orgasm from him as well, our cries and shouts echoing around the room.

Gabe finally breaks, pathetic sobs and pleads leaving him as he presses his face into the old carpet.

Ignoring the pest in the room, We take a minute to bask in each other, pressing soft kisses to any part of skin we can reach, trading soft works to one another. Once our heart rates have calmed down, he gives me one more chaste kiss. “Ready to go see our little girl?”

#slight angst #bucky barnes #mcu #bucky barnes smut #avengers smut #bucky fanfic #mcu fanfiction #angst #bucky x reader

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pherelesytsia · 2 years

Text

Who did this to you...? 2

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x female/Reader

Summary: Bruised and broken, Y/N, trapped in a loveless marriage, arrives at her best friend's house, desperately hoping someone will help her, aware she cannot return to the estate of her husband.

Warning: fear, anxiety, angst, violence

Word Count: 2.3k

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4

Silver brightened the sinister sky, breaking the dense blanket of clouds, yet did not clash like a ripple of hundreds of poisoned arrows down on the wicked foes. The rain pattered heartlessly, bouncing off the dark blue umbrella. Smoke emerged out of the exhaust pipe, soared upwards, and then faded away. The branches of the lonely trees swayed back and forth in the wind, howling like a wolf summoning the gleaming moon shrouded by travelling clouds.

Light streamed mutedly through the wide and narrow windows and barely touched the paved path leading to the front door flanked by two pots sheltering flowers, tulips. Clenching her hands into fists, Peggy braced herself to face the very worst. Wet spots sprawled on the long coat reaching her knees. The curls had lost shape and although she did not wear lipstick, her lips were red as oozing crimson. No weapon was at her side, hidden well from curious gazes, and no guilt welled within her soul. A low prayer escaped her lips, was certain no harm could come to Y/N, sure no one would attempt to force their way into the house she called her home, had locked the door and drawn the curtains. No love dominated her gaze, felt nothing except utter hatred, and it deepened with every step.

The majestic estate seemed lonely and deserted. Peggy laughed low. Peals of laughter punctured the silence and informed Peggy, standing in the shelter of the umbrella, that many people were beyond the thick walls with eyes capable of seeing the unseen and ears able to perceive that a voice was absent.

The hatred seething in her heart dispelled the cold breaking through the cloak. Fearless, Peggy faced the den of the dragon, had heard countless of stories about the Shelby family, the one sounding absurd and ridiculous yet the desire to know the truth was too great, ignored the wisdom, all she had heard about the dreaded family.

Stopping Peggy´s right hand reached for the wood but she hesitated for a moment as words resounded and she listened carefully but the sounds made absolutely no sense and as laughter silenced the guests, Peggy knew they were all delighted and untroubled. Winter ruled in her gaze. She knocked on the door, loud enough to know everyone in the house must have heard her, even those at the other end, behind thick doors and heavy blankets. Fear didn't flood her eyes, didn’t regret the journey across the town and heard the heavy steps drawing near the door. Focusing her gaze over her shoulder, Peggy witnessed the deepening dusk entering the yard in front of the mansion, but she did not turn and stayed motionless in the pouring rain.

Peggy believed in the good in people, even if it was a Shelby, couldn't imagine sitting at the table and not noticing that someone was missing, that Thomas didn't notice that his wife wasn't seated by his side, not holding her hand and telling her how beautiful and lovely she is. Hatred welled and clouded her mind, unable to understand how someone could be so ignorant, how someone could forget the existence of a woman so loving and kind, but Peggy knew Y/N was right, that she was not exaggerating, telling a story, a wicked tale to receive attention.

The light was blinding, but she saw clearly, sharp as a polished dagger, knew exactly what she had to do, what had to be done. Bracing herself Peggy prepared herself for everything, for shame and screams, guns and pain, accusations, beatings, everything once escaping the throat of fearful humans. She forced a weak smile, and the voices grew clearer. The smell of alcohol lingered in the air. Greeting, Peggy repositioned the umbrella and faced the man framed by vibrant yellowish light.

"Good evening." the voice was cold as the night but did not send a shiver down her spine.

Narrowing her eyes Peggy recognised the man two steps away. Peering into the house, Peggy looked past the man taller than her by a few inches and witnessed children in the ranks of adults and she smiled at the boy in a greyish suit who had come to a halt with a smile on his sharp yet gentle features.

John cleared his throat but Peggy was unimpressed, had hoped to face Thomas Shelby.

"Good evening, I suppose Thomas Shelby is here?", "You should make an appointment. You can call in the morning, the secretary will give you an appointment as soon as possible." spoke the blond man Peggy had seen a few times around town.

Flashing a smile Peggy realised John wanted to close the door, that he wanted to send her away, but she refused to be shaken off and stepped fearlessly closer to the young man.

"No, it's of huge important, I need to speak to him." Peggy spoke sternly.

John heard the urgency in the young woman's voice. Laughing low, he leaned against the frame of the wooden door, settled his hand on the doorknob and half-heartedly listened to the words his brothers were uttering, the jokes mingling with roaring laughter.

"I hear they're having a party, a very lavish one." she broke the silence.

Peggy didn't know where to begin, what to tell him, but she had already heard everything she needed to hear.

“Yes, the family is celebrating.” John responded.

Again, Peggy laughed, clenched her hands into fists, ignoring the stabbing sensation spreading through her chest as she remembered Y/N sleeping in the tattered dress on her sofa and refusing to take it off, and Peggy could only guess what the beaten woman was trying to hide. Peggy wrinkled her nose in disgust. A wave of hot air hit her like skimming waves colliding with the emotionless face of the rocks piercing the ruthless ocean. The stench of smoke and alcohol was prominent in the air, but it did not dull her senses.

"Are you missing anybody in your ranks?" Peggy probed, losing patience.

John grinned and shook his head in response.

"Not that I know of, but if you'd like, I could check? Are you looking for your husband? I can guarantee that he is definitely not present, it's a family gathering." responded John, guessing what might be the cause of the lady's arrival, not seeming she had come to murder the family.

Nodding, Peggy tried to calm her mind. Moistening her lip with the tip of her tongue, she absently nodded and glanced into distance and noticed a girl had joined the young boy. Firmly, she bit down on her tongue. She wished to curse and scream like a banshee, to invade the building like an army of millions of soldiers and inform them all of what terrible creatures they were. Peggy had hoped to encounter sallow faced people who had sent everyone and everything out on the streets of the town to find the missing woman, but they were feasting, drowning in a sea of whiskey and rum, in old stories. Soundlessly, Peggy chuckled and backed away.

"If you believe no one is missing, then I shall be on my way. Have a lovely day, Mr Shelby. I'm dreadfully sorry to have bothered you and your family. I bid you farewell." Peggy said goodbye.

She tried to stay strong, remembered what Y/N had said, that she shouldn't be surprised if no one noticed, if no one was looking for her and fearing for her safety.

Bewildered, John, dressed in a greyish suit, stared after Peggy following the long path, walked directly towards the vehicle parked far away from the others belonging to the members of the family.

Slowly, Peggy mingled with the darkness of the deep night.

Questions rested on his lips, understood nothing, and the words the stranger had spoken resounded in his mind. The door creaked, sang out loud, and John shook his head in confusion and brushed through his damp hair, walking deeper into the house without noticing. The laughter turned louder and John smiled at the children, exchanging questioning glances.

“Everything is okay, go upstairs and play.” Johns assured and the children listened.

Facing his brothers on the sofas bearing the same joyful expression, sipping on the glasses and talking in delight, the worries faded for a brief moment into oblivion.

Thomas laughed and Arthur patted his brother's right shoulder and agreed. No one asked questions, failing to notice how John slowed to a standstill with his hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers in the midst of the room. The light of the chandelier touched the faces. John let his eyes slide from one person to the other, from Ada to Arthur, and turned to the others. The strangers' words echoed in his head, chased him like a loyal hound.

His thoughts raced like a racehorse trotting in great haste across fields and meadows. The sound of the gramophone was driving him mad, tried to understand, to make sense of it all, but nothing made sense anymore, nothing, and John was convinced no one was missing.

Glasses bearing whiskey and rum rose to the sky. The brothers laughed and Arthur rose and stood by the rising flames of the fireplace with his arms folded in front of his chest, dressed in a dark suit, and Ada was close by his side. Polly poured herself a glass of wine and listened to the words the brothers exchanged.

The children were safe, John kept counting all of them, but no relief filled his heart and soul, feeling in every fibre of his body that something was wrong, but he found no flaw nor mistake. For a split moment John wondered if the lady had merely arrived to distract the family, if she was searching for her husband, but then John remembered the expression adorning the woman's face and it caused his heart to ache. Deep in thoughts John strolled to his family.

Pairs of eyes harbouring questions settled on John but not uttering a word. His eyes widened and looked at the ticking clock and realised how late it was. The frown on his smooth features deepened. His skin paled, turned almost sickly, and noticed shocked Y/N was missing. Swiftly, John turned and ran back to the door. Fear clouded his mind. Harshly the stiff wind collided with his flesh, tore it open. John whispered a prayer. He hoped the woman was still there, that she was in the vehicle or standing in front of the door, but a faint travelling light was drawing close to the town. John swept the wetness from his skin and felt the cold rain soaking through his suit. An icy shiver roamed across his whole body. He turned around, still hopeful, but the last spark of optimism was smothered. He swore, not able to accept the situation.

There was a commotion. Questions escaped, demanding answers, needing to know what had occurred, who had knocked on the door. The door slammed shut, John stormed into the building, wheezing. He spoke in the tongue of sailors, thought where the young woman could be, where Y/N was, who had taken her, feared for his brother's wife and turned wide-eyed to them, trying to figure out what had occurred.

"John?!" someone shrieked, a woman.

John did not answer, couldn’t. His shaking hands ran though his unmade hair, failing to grasp what had happened and realising that Y/N was not present, that she was not playing in the shelter of the warming flames with the children, that she was not seated on the sofa and realising she was not sitting at the generously set table at dinner. There was ice between Y/N and all of them, but John liked her, found it adorable how she played with the children, and even though it didn't seem so at first glance, he enjoyed her presence.

"Where is Y/N/N?" John asked.

The faces drained of colour. The silence was horrible. Tumult arose and children whispered. All at once they glanced around, noted Y/N was absent, and suddenly discovered she hadn't arrived from work. A glass shattered into thousands of pieces. Eyes settled on Thomas, gazing speechlessly into the distance. The smooth golden ring burned into his flesh. Hastily, Thomas stood up. His legs threatened to give up under the heaviness, under the weight of the world. He cursed.

Lips no longer touched, and nearly asked who was supposed to pick up his dear wife, wanted murder the person but, horrified, Thomas realised it was him who had to pick her up from work, remembered the promise he had made to wait at sharp five in front of the factory.

Thoughtlessly, Thomas advanced, feeling the burden grow beyond measure. Tears blurred his vision. Gulping, he stared at the bouquet of beautiful flowers in a light blueish vase on the coffee table, her favourites, had purchased them in the early hours of the day. Thomas Shelby uttered a prayer as a wrenching pain settled in his chest, had broken the promise he had given his wife on the wedding day.

TagList:

witchymoonbabe secretdreamlandmentality mysticalpandora kittiowolf210 muhahaha303 dreamy-caramel elinalfrida violet-19999 niyah834 watersquirtpewpewboomm piceous21 elliaze heidimoreton literishdegree99 globetrotter28 thecrazytealady regulusblacksimpsblog torresbarnes nightgirl250 sweet-angely05

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