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wutheringcaterpillar · 2 months

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A Bump In The Night: Part 5- The End

Summary: With the baby growing, it is becoming to difficult to hide it anymore. Threats were made, Pol hardly even batting an eye at you still worried sick about Michael. Meanwhile Lizzie still has her intentions and is willing to make a bargain with the devil himself in order to ensure Tommy is hers, and James is yours as it should have always been. The only thing is, they don't realize Tommy is and will always be one step ahead and has plans of his own, he knows how to press people to tell the truth.

Warnings: Kidnapping, incest, pregnancy, mentions of arranged marriage, violence, assault, non consensual touching, guns

Taglist: taglist: @calmingmelody96 @sunflower-tia @haydenpookiebear @star017 @sweetcheesecakesblog @mamawiggers1980 @calam-arii

3 months prior

"Oh for godsake Thomas" Polly rushed through the kitchen like a bat out of hell in disbelief that thing could get any worse, anymore disturbing what in the fuck were you thinking! She slammed her hands down on the wooden table, spitting her venomous words with such vile and anger.

"She will marry James! Word will get out about the two of you fucking in that filth riddled forbidden bedroom! Enough people know already! You can't marry her! It isn't right and neither is that rotted fruit in the womb! Are you out of your god damn righteous mind because I will help the both of you find it!" You cowered in your seat shamefully, your feelings hurt while your heart was racing about ready to burst out of your chest. How could someone that you love say such hateful words about he r own kin? Yes it was wrong but the child bared no play in this family affair.

Tommy stood their clenching his jaw, an animalistic anger widening his blue eyes as he noticed your lip quivering. You hated conflict he needed to remind himself and Pol of that but she was too far gone to hear anything he had to say, there was only when option which was to level the playing field.

"She will not marry him! You want to know why Pol, eh? You want to know why?" Spit was flying from between his lips, anger rising and pumping and in his chest. He flicked his cigarette in Polly's tea, slamming a fist at one of the cabinets.

"She is pregnant with my child! Those boys, those Birmingham low life fucking scum don't give a fuck about her! But I do! I will not throw her or our child in harms way. So with the utmost, tumultuous disrespect go on and fuck yourself as far as your bastard of a son goes. You bring up one more word about my unborn child I will ensure Michael will never been seen or heard again, and I will blow all of us up in this fucking house and if you want to play me, you should know better than anyone, I will win." Polly went quiet, gulping back her fear and anger. What was she to do when she still had no clue of Michael's whereabouts or what Tommy may have told his men to do with him. What if he gave him away to someone as bargaining chip? The Shelby's had many many enemies over the years, the list going on and on to the point Pol didn't even know where to start.

Th dark turn of events made you nauseous, what will happen when this child is born? Will these problems still occur, are you going to have to walk on eggshells, constantly being terried that your own family would be out to get you? Maybe Pol was right, maybe it would be better just to get rid of it but the idea of aborting something, someone that was made from a powerful, endearing form of love hurt you immensely. You could just picture it now their baby bright blue eyes that looked just like Tommy's yearning to be loved and taken care of. Excusing yourself from the table Tommy raised his hands up in irritation with Pol about her insensitive comments toward you.

Fast forward to now...

Your bump was growing, you were becoming too big for your typical everyday clothes but Tommy has been such a lamb in giving you his, ensuring the maids were checking in with you when he was away for business. Today's business in particular was a cause for concern as he had a meeting with Lizzie. You weren't so much worried about Tommy as you were her making a move on him or trying to outsmart him to where you would marry James in just a few days.

Your hands cradled your tummy anxiously, nibbling on your nails while you paced the room waiting for him to return. Tommy knew how you were and insisted everything would be alright. A knock at the door startled you from your thoughts, probably Frances again seeing if you needed anything. She really lived up to Tommy's expectations in caring for you, not going more than thirty minutes of checking on you in fear of losing her job, which you couldn't blame her the family paid her very well, even insisting on free time for herself and occasionally allowing her to have dinner with everyone, she did make the meals after all.

Twisting the knob, the phone started to ring, your heart thudding in your chest thinking about how maybe it was Tommy calling to check in on you and give you an update on the situation, but before you could think any further, you were met with a wetted cloth pressed harshly against you nose and mouth, the last thing you saw being a blurry image of a man that looked familiar...

"Shhh, shh, it'll all be over soon sweetheart..."

Meanwhile Tommy tapped his foot anxiously, Lizzie sitting across from him with an unhappy face and her arms crossed. She had been getting nowhere with her plan. When you didn't or Frances hadn't answered the phone his eyebrows furrowed together as he rang again, and once more after. Still no response, something seemed dreadfully wrong.

"You're not trying to get a hold of that whore of a sister you have are you. Don't play stupid with me Tommy, the town talks and it's quite obvious she is baring with child isn't she? We know it's yours. I can assure you it's far too late though, she should be gone by now. This is the part where you thank for taking care of your problem." At her bold statement, reality set in that she was behind this or at least was involved. Tommy hung the phone up calmly, taking in a deep breath and raising his eyebrows with a narrowed look of threatening, crystal blue eyes.

In a hasty hurricane of emotions Tommy whipped his hand back, slapping Lizzie across the face, not once but twice cheek to cheek, knocking the wind out of her hair and disheveling her once perfect hair. She grasped at her jaw in shock before Tommy cusped her chin, forcing her to look into his dead sea eyes.

"Listen to me and listen closely. There has never been a connection to us. Now you can dream on in this fairytale word of yours but what happens between my family is none of your business. As far as I'm concerned you are just another whore on the street, opening your legs to any man who will give you what you won't work for yourself. If you think your life is hard now, then tell me where she is before I make it worse." Lizzie was blindsided by the intimidating man's harsh words. He had never snapped at her like that before but maybe that was what she needed for him to get his point across that this was not a game she wanted to play.

"Now, if you know something I suggest you tell me."

Sirens were the first thing you heard as you slowly came back to reality, vision blurry and hearing rendered. The fuzzy image was like looking at an etch a sketch a child drew, all you could make out was two men chatting across the room, one being tall and dressed in a white long sleeve shirt, the other one slightly shorter but the more submissive one by the way he was slouched over cowering.

When you released a low groan, it was clear you were being gagged by what felt like cloth, limbs tied to the chair you were sat in, along with your wrists nowhere for you to go. Your vision became clearer as you blinked rapidly, now able to make out who this man was. Tommy had tried to kill him long ago, he was a dangerous man.

Perching his eyebrow up with your sudden cognitive awareness, he picked up a shiny metal object approaching you like an animal did it's prey, yelling at the other man to get out.

Fucking Mosley...

"Good morning sweetheart, you look quite rough but that body-" His hand flicked at the buttons of your shift, revealing your cleavage, wasting no time ins grasping at the cushiony skin, causing you to wince and shake your head vigorously.

"Ravishing, aren't you?" You tried to scream through the makeshit gag, only making him chuckle darkly, green eyes shimmering in the dimlit room. Glancing behind him, the walls were coated with luxurious wallpaper and you could hear the sounds of music just outside the door, surely there were other people here, only intensifying your fear. Where the fuck was Tommy?

"Now let's see what else we are working with, hm?" He untied the sweat pants you were wearing, the bump now resting out as clear as day. Your breathing increased rapidly when he slid the blade down your stomach, tears flowing freely.

"If you wanted a child and not an abomination, I'd love to give you the pleasure Y/N.. but first this has to go." He pressed the blade into your skin sharply, shedding blood instantly. In a fight or flight response, you headbutted him with all the force you could. He dropped the blade, but perhaps that wasn't a smart move after all.

"Why you little bitch!" He sent a powerful blow across your face, knocking you out once more.

"Fucking Shelby's."

Walking into the pub, wind rustling his hair, there he found Arthur sat at the bar wasting away the same as any other day. When they locked eyes, Arthur huffed not having anything to say to Tommy as he demanded another glass of whiskey from the barmaid, taking a glance at her cleavage when she wasn't paying attention and smirking to himself.

"Everybody out! Family business." Well there went Arthur's fun, fucking Tommy always sucking it right out of the room.

Tossing his hat onto the bar, he sat on the stool throwing Arthur's glass over the bar onto the floor where it shattered.

"What the fuck Tommy, can't have one fucking drink, eh?"

"Y/N's missing. I have an idea of where she is, but we need to move fast eh?" As soon as Tommy mentioned that you were gone, he demanded information as to who took his baby sister.

"James and fucking Lizzie thought up a grand plan, only reason I got it out of her was because I know her fucking past, parts she didn't know I knew but that's besides the point. They've made contact with someone from our past Arthur, and I have a great idea of where she may be. She didn't give me a name but I didn't need one. My men saw James after our meeting going into a club 5 miles from here." Arthur sat their contemplating the right thing to do, you were his sister after all but that didn't mean he wasn't disgusted by the revelations he encountered that first night.

Still not speaking, he ignored Tommy simply huffing in disbelief that Tommy would come to him for help. Why should he? Incest was a crime, a disgusting relationship and he would not stand by it, he was disappointed in both of you. Taking the hint Tommy carried on.

"Arthur I don't ask much of you, I've never once judged you from your past, I've always been at your side now I need you to be here for me...You may not agree with the situation but I need not remind you she is our sister, she needs us. Who knows who the fuck has her or what they are doing with her. I need you brother." Arthur brushed his hand through his oily hair, down over his beard contemplating. Tommy had a point and fuck did he hate when he always did, however you were not the only Shelby missing.

"What about Michael? Hm? He's a Shelby too that only one of us in the room knows where he is. He's Pol's kid for fucks sake Tom. Where is he?" Tom shook his head, uninterested in relaying those details just yet, once you were back and he could see with his very own that you were unharmed and the baby was okay then he would spill.

"That information is not important now is it? Y/N is a sweet, innocent girl and she's always been there for everyone Arthur, can you say the same about Michael, 'cause I can't." He had a point there, Arthur remembering all the times Michael screwed him over and Pol expecting them to just forgive him because of the last name he shared. It was bullshit.

Tommy had plenty of dirt on his brother but he didn't operate like that, he was Arthur's weakspot and he knew that, he didn't have to use his past against him for him to give in and fall in line with his requests and orders. Nodding, Arthur slammed the rest of his drink, groaning and following Tommy out the door.

"You smell like shit." Tommy tried to make light of the situation, setting a subtle reminder that neither had to agree with the others decisions they just needed to be there for one another.

"Ah shut up Tom. Who's ass are we killing this time, hm?"

With Tommy being gone, Polly was making herself at home in his office, digging through the drawers of his desk, scattering papers across the room looking for any information that might help her find her son, but there was nothing. Now that you were missing, she'd be damned if she was going to lose her own kid, putting him first in a selfish way.

A knock at the door startled her, thinking it may be Tommy until the voice spoke.

"Relax Pol, it's just me." Oh thank god, it was just John.

He walked in with sympathetic eyes, hating see his aunt in such a desperate state of mind without a hint of a starting point to find Michael but he knew something and she could tell.

In a moment of silence, Pol pointed her cigarette accusingly at him, blowing smoke into the brisk air of the room.

"You never come in to Tommy's office unless he's here. What do you know, where is he?!" John put his hands up surrendering the idea of him indeed knowing something, but he wasn't here just for that.

Tommy clued him in on the plan, asking him to stay home and keep Pol subdued, and to inform her Michael would be home soon unharmed but only after you were safely secured in his arms once again.

"Michael is safe. He will be home later after Y/N is found alive and safe. He forced him to work in the states and keep business affairs civil to bring the company in money.

A wave of relief washed over her, but when she heard who they think had taken you a dreadful, terrified feeling rushed through her veins. She didn't think it would go this far, that James and Lizzie would be so spiteful, not that she was much better herself. But never this bad.

"Where's Arthur?" John scoffed with a surprised yet irritated look on his face.

"Don't you in the least bit care about y/n and Tommy? I know they are on your shit list but they're family Pol, they're blood. We've all made mistakes but if they are happy just let them fucking be happy."

Pol stood their contemplating on the right thing to say, she couldn't separate her love for the both of you from her views on this relationship.

Kicking the door in Tommy walked into the club with determined eyes, searching for his target while Arthur walked behind him smoking a cigarette, waiting for the younger Shelby's queue to start fucking people up.

"You see him Tom?" He shook his head, but was still scanning the room while keeping his composure. Heads turned toward the family with looks of disgust, some with fear as they knew very well who the brothers were.

After a few sharp turns and corners, Tommy motioned toward Arthur to light this god damn place on fire and kill anyone that got in his way as they were both carrying. The boy spotted Tommy out of the corner of his eye but Tommy was faster, shoving him against the wall and cocking his gun beneath his chin.

"Where the fuck is she? I knew you were no good from the fucking start. What can't pull a beautiful, innocent girl so you go and have her fucking killed eh? Sounds like an insecure little bitch to me. You didn't think I'd find you did you James?" He eyed the boy skeptically, his eyes beaming with anger, giving off a profound sense of dominance. He kneed him in the stomach, causing him to groan out in agony, almost falling to the floor if it weren't for Tommy holding up, ignoring the chaos behind him his brother was causing, a table flipping in the air and hitting the wall besides James's head. A piece of wood flying of a broken leg and striking him in the eye.

"Take me to the fucking room." He dropped the boy, kicking him in is back to go on and crawl if he had to. He didn't care, he just needed you.

The room was in a far back, closed off area of the club, away from people that no one would have heard your screams.

Barging in the room Tommy threw James's bruised, and battered body on the floor, ignoring his whimpers, seeing red when he saw Mosley's lips against the warmth of your neck, his hand caressing your breast while blood flowed freely from your nose. The cut mark of the sharp knife glistening in the light beaming in through the dirty window.

"Ah well if it isn't Mr. Shelby. It's been quite some time no?" When Tommy pulled out his gun once more, Mosley was quick to yank your head back by your hair, pressing the blade roughly into your skin.

"Ah, ah. Temper, temper. I was simply doing what the young lad here couldn't. You should know by now you can't escape me." When Arthur screamed angrily and bolted forward, Mosley dug the knife in deeper, causing you to scream out in pain, making Tommy grab Arthur by the arm and yank him back. He didn't want to risk it, not yet.

He breathed in the sea breeze scent of your hair, continuing to pepper kissed to your temple, making you squirm in discomfort from the man's unwanted advances. Your eyes locked with Tommy to put a stop to this, to end this right here right now. Seeing you in such a pitiful, abused state angered him but also shattered his heart to think Pol couldn't be trusted to look after you.

"What do you want eh? The campaign is fucking over, she has nothing to do with this. This fight is between us, the men. Now why don't we handle this like proper gentlemen eh? Let the girl go." Mosley wasn't convinced, shaking his head no. That would be too easy. He expected adventure, excitement, he wanted to see his enemy crumble, to have no choice but to admit to defeat.

"And why would I do that hm? If I recall correctly you tried to kill me. You've lost my trust Mr. Shelby. Quite the disappointment you turned out to be, now here I am trying to rid your baby sister of this rotted fruit in the womb that belongs to you." Tommy was blindsided, no one had actual proof that there was any relation more than a sister and brother relationship. Lizzie didn't have solid proof, James hadn't either just speculation he was bluffing but Tommy couldn't risk egging him on instead standing there silently with his hands folded in front of him in a gentlemanly manner as he tried to keep his composure.

"Mr. Mosley, not quite sure where you are getting false information from. After all I think the only one that may have fucked his sister is you, you do like to keep it in the family if I recall correctly." Mosley stiffened his jaw, grabbing a tightening his fist in your hair before shoving your head down and smacking his gun down on your head merely knocking you out as blood trickled down your forehead.

He was moving away from you slightly, they just had to wait for the opportunity, even though Tommy's heart was thudding inside his chest rapidly in fear of what would happen if they didn't make a move soon. Just a few more steps away from you...

"The per-petulant know it all, walking into my fucking club. These are my grounds Mr. Shelby, what kind of host am I not offering you a drink first? Maria-" Before he could finish yelling for a woman, in a swift motion Tommy went to throw a punch and reach for his hat to scrape his skin off while Arthur rushed to your unconscious aide.

Mosley was faster though, head butting the younger Shelby as he fumbled to take his gun from his jacket. The weapon falling out and sliding across the floor.

As Arthur undid your bindings, he noticed his brother needed help. Unlike Tommy, Mosley wasn't messing with him at the moment, giving him an advantage.

Pulling his gun from the back of his trousers he aimed it at Mosley, who grasped his own gun in his hand now, holding Tommy in a head lock with his forearm wrapped around Tommy's neck.

"Put the gun down Arthur, or a bullet goes through her head." Tommy was losing air and attempted to scream for Arthur to take the fucking shot.

Simultaneously, Arthur screamed a "fuck you" Mosley's way, both guns going off in a poetic yet dreadful scene of the dangerous men at play.

Blood splattered across the wall, Mosley's grip on Tommy loosening, making him drop to the floor on his knees as he tried to catch his breath with weary, fuzzy eyes glancing up. The bullet Mosley shot had only just missed your head by a centimeter, his lifeless body flailing to the ground as Arthur managed to him with a killshot in the middle of his forehead.

"You alright Tommy, hm?" He waved him off, stumbling to get up and pull you out of the chair at this godforesaken place. Carrying you out in his arms while Arthur picked his gun up off the floor, taking Mosley's in the process.

"C'mon sweet girl, let's go home." Relief washed over Tommy like an immense wait had been lifted from his shoulders.

He gave Arthur the go ahead to call the man he put Michael with to allow him to be released from his duties, too zoned out and only focused on you, worried if the baby was alright.

Your dreary, restless head rested against Tommy' shoulder as he walked you inside, spotting Pol and Michael standing by the fire place. A look of pity washing over your aunt's face when she noticed the bruises on your face, the dried blood painted from your hair down your forehead. She hadn't wished this upon you, she never would, she hadn't realized just how serious this situation was or how perhaps James wasn't the man she thought he could be for you.

Now with the family reunited even with strained ties, the house settled, the fire crackling in the background, Tommy laying your cold body down on the sofa beside it to warm you up, tossing a wool throw blanket over you in the process.

Pol was the first one to speak.

"I-I'm so sorry I-I didn't know I-" Tommy cut her off abruptly with the raise of his hand not even batting an eye at Michael standing in the room, acting as if he wasn't present.

"No, no you didn't know. You didn't take the time to know. Frances has already informed me that you were too wasted to even hear someone breaking in the fucking house. She had to hide in a fucking closet Pol. Look at her now, tell me is this far enough for you, or do you want her dead along with our child?" This place was no longer a safe space for you, and Tommy refused to put you in harms way ever again, too worried to even risk it because it was clear he could not trust anyone in the family to even care about your safety just because of one unplanned pregnancy.

When the early morning light peered in through the window, the sounds of bird chirping in the harmonious summer day, you woke up head pounding from the painful blows Mosley striked you with. Tommy was layed beside you, caressing your cheek delicately and lovingly, glancing down at your weak state with sympathetic eyes.

"Good morning love. I set two tylenol on the table with a glass of water. We should get going soon, we don't have long until the others wake." With a puzzled look, you glanced around the room only to see your belongings no longer there. Only the dusty old furniture that was handed down through generations.

"W-what?"

"We're going away for awhile, at least until she is born." Your eyebrows propped up with excitement and surprise, how did he know the gender?

"That's right she. I had Frances contact the doctor. Now take your pills and let's get the hell out of hear because I won't risk your health and safety again nor hers." The tears started welling up in your eyes, insisting on taking the pills to go in the car. You were finally getting away, having the light at the end of the tunnel with Tommy by your side. He assisted you up, holding on to you with a protective, and caring hold to help you into the car.

The two of you sat in silence for a moment, the events from the previous night still washing over you, reminding you both as you stared back at the house you grew up in of why you were leaving.

"Well, wh-where are we going?"

"Far, far away from here my beautiful girl." He took your hand in his, digits scanning over you smooth skin before resting a kiss to your forehead, smiling like a fool in love that the day had come, he finally was going to have the ability to be happy, no arguments, no danger, just a family of his own with the girl he shouldn't have loved the way he did.

#tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby x reader #peaky blinders #peaky blinders imagine #tommy shelby imagine #thomas shelby imagine

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thelordofgifs · 9 months

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Ranking all the Kings of Gondor

Based on what, you may ask? Vibes. Let's go.

Eldacar. Twenty-first King. THE bestest boy in the legendarium. The hero of the Kin-strife, the archetype of immigrant child trauma, the exiled king, the vengeful father... we love him so so so much ok!!

Aragorn. First High King of the Reunited Kingdom. Yes I know your list would put him at the top but this is my list and I do what I want. Anyway he's wise and kind and "the hands of the king are the hands of a healer" and he's brave and clever and has an excellent fairy-tale romance going on and I am very much not immune to Viggo Mortensen covered in blood with unwashed hair.

Elendil. First High King. He's brave he's cool he's wise he DEFEATED SAURON. Love him.

Isildur. Second High King (co-ruler). Justice for my boy the movies did him so so dirty!! Anyway he saved the line of the White Tree and fought so so bravely and he did his best. I will not countenance Isildur slander actually.

Valacar. Twentieth King. Ranks this highly mostly because he's my blorbo Eldacar's father, but Valacar is cool! His father sent him to the Northmen to build an alliance and Valacar promptly fell in love with their chief's daughter instead. And then Vidumavi died long before he ever even became King and you have to wonder if Valacar feared he would outlive his children too :(

Aldamir. Twenty-third King. Also ranking highly mostly because of genetic proximity to my guy, but Aldamir is sooo tragic actually. He's a second son who never should have become King except his older brother was MURDERED and maybe he spent the rest of his life trying to live up to him!! Also he was also killed in battle which I am sad about. This family cannot catch a break.

Eärnur. Thirty-third and last King. This is the idiot who challenged the Witch-king of Angmar to single combat and was never seen again, but I have a soft spot for him on account of. that was really sexy.

Eldarion. Second High King of the Reunited Kingdom. We don't know much about Aragorn and Arwen's son, but movie!Eldarion is very cute which is enough to earn him a high rank.

Rómendacil II. Nineteenth King. An all-round competent guy who ruled as regent for years for first his lazy uncle and then his lazy father. Built the Argonath!! Also he's Eldacar's grandfather which again earns him points.

Eärnil II. Thirty-second King. Ended up with the crown after his predecessor and both his sons were killed in battle (although NOT his daughter. JUSTICE FOR FÍRIEL). Anyway Eärnil strikes me as a decent guy who was doing his best. Props to him for taking pains not to alienate the Dúnedain of Arthedain.

Ondoher. Thirty-first King. The aforementioned predecessor, who is mostly ranked highly because I feel bad that he died :( and he tried to ensure Gondor would still have an heir to the throne if he and his eldest son were killed! But his youngest son joined the battle in disguise and got killed anyway!

Minardil. Twenty-fifth King. Another tragic one, he was Eldacar's great-grandson and was slain in battle by the descendants of Castamir. I am upset about this.

Meneldil. Third King. We don't know much about him, but he was the first solo ruler of Gondor and also the last child born in Númenor before the Downfall, which is cool.

Telumehtar. Twenty-eighth King. Finally got rid of the last descendants of Castamir, excellent work.

Calimehtar. Thirtieth King. Defeated the Wainriders attacking Gondor in a great alliance with the Northmen, which we love to see. Also he built the White Tower of Minas Anor! Good for him.

Anárion. Second High King (co-ruler). He was initally a lot higher on the list because I feel for him always being overshadowed by his father and brother, but then I learned he was killed by a THROWN ROCK which is kind of pathetic ngl. Sorry, Anárion.

Tarondor. Twenty-seventh King. Had the unenviable task of rebuilding the realm after it was ravaged by the Great Plague, but unfortunately he moved out of Osgiliath for good (which makes me unreasonably sad. I love Osgiliath) and also allowed the watch on Mordor to lapse for good.

Eärendil. Fifth King. We don't know much about him, but his name is nice.

Anardil. Sixth King. We don't know much about him, but his name is also nice.

Telemnar. Twenty-sixth King. Died in the Great Plague, sad for him I guess.

Narmacil II. Twenty-ninth King. Slain in battle with Wainriders, made no impression on me at all.

Siriondil. Eleventh King. We know very little about him, but that's a good name.

Cemendur. Fourth King. Boring and doesn't even have a good name.

Turambar. Ninth King. Mainly this low down because THAT'S A TERRIBLE NAME WHAT ARE YOU THINKING.

Hyarmendacil II. Twenty-fourth King. Defeated the Haradrim in battle, good for him I guess.

Atanatar I. Tenth King. No personality. I don't like his name either.

Rómendacil I. Eighth King. Defeated some Easterlings in battle, but apparently not very well because they later killed him. Oh well.

Ciryandil. Fourtheenth King. A Ship-king, and I don't like Ship-kings (mostly because Castamir tried to be a Ship-king).

Ostoher. Seventh King. Didn't do much, although he started the practice of the King spending his summer in Minas Anor. Good for him? I guess?

Eärnil I. Another Ship-king. Died in a great storm, which is one of the perils associated with being a Ship-king!

Calmacil. Eighteenth King. Generally incompetent. Gains a couple of points for being Eldacar's great-grandfather.

Narmacil I. Seventeenth King. Also pretty incompetent. He let his nephew do all the work of ruling for him.

Atanatar II. Sixteenth King. Lived in indolence and splendour, and neglected the watch on Mordor which was not very wise of him!

Hyarmendacil I. Fifteenth King. Ok he actually sucks. The King who defeated the Haradrim and instituted the practice of taking their sons as hostages to live in the court of Gondor.

Tarannon. Twelfth King. The first of the Ship-kings, also known for his loveless marriage to his wife Berúthiel who gets blamed for everything for some reason.

Castamir the Usurper. (Technically) twenty-second King. Should not be on this list and is here purely so that I can say. FUCK. THIS. GUY.

#lotr #eldacar #aragorn #elendil #isildur #valacar #not tagging all of them #this took me most of an afternoon please admire

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ceilidho · 9 months

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1800s mail order bride [price/reader] for da wip game

i haven't yet gotten around to writing more of this fic (it's listed as complete on ao3 because i feel like it leaves off at a good place so if i never get back around to it, im fine with that, but the door is still open enough for me to return.

without having given this too much thought, this is what i would probably write if i were to make this into a proper fic (huge spoilers below because i'm basically outlining the entire plot):

after the scene in the sheriff's office, Price whisks you off to the local judge to be wed; this is where you come back to yourself and start protesting and denying that you're the girl he's waiting for

Price then says something about how "if you're not her, then who are you?" and brutally interrogates you about your identity (he thinks you're lying and he's just trying to make the truth come out) but you're still too nervous to say anything about who you are and where you're from because, remember, you just left a city where you killed someone. you have no idea how much information has been disseminated or whether you're a wanted woman. at one point you make up a lie about being "elizabeth smith from Rhode Island" and he challenges that by saying "we'll contact your kin then and have them confirm" (essentially saying you're under house arrest with him / in the town until someone related to "elizabeth smith" telegrams from R.I. or sends a letter)

you never actually give in and just go "fine, i'm the woman you've been corresponding with" but Price sees all these holes in your story as evidence that you are her and he's convinced that "your guilty heart brought you here to me anyway." There's basically nothing you can do to avoid being married off to him.

you're basically shell shocked the entire time at the court house and then on the trip back to the inn to collect your belongings to bring to Price's house.

the first night at his place is rough. you're basically like a feral cat the whole time - still insisting that he's got the wrong woman, indignant and furious when he thinks he has the right to put his hands on you and touch you (Price just lifts his brow at that because like...you are his wife now so really it's a moot point), and locking yourself in his bedroom the second the two of you are home.

Price finds all of this very amusing. he has stuff to do around the property anyway, so he lets you lock yourself in the room for a couple hours.

eventually he does just unlock the door with a key he has on top of the doorframe (you thought you were safe in there but oops nope). there's some conversation about "wifely duties" that has you screaming and spitting at him before he threatens to put you over his knee again, so you clam up and get a bit teary, which makes Price soften. (good excuse for me to write a soft but firm version of Price shushing you and drawing you into his embrace)

anyway, the middle of this story would be all slow, tender sex and you having to get used to being Price's wife while always keeping one eye out for any news of there being a warrant out for your arrest. you get spooked once by a man in town asking about any newcomers (maybe you're in a shop and you overhear him ask the cashier while you're behind a shelf) and try to flee, but Price tracks you down and he's sooooo mad when the two of you get home. like sex is rough that night.

events i'd want to have happen:

someone comes sniffing around town for you (bounty hunter maybe) and you try running away (unsuccessful, but you're mildly reassured when you hear the man has left town by the next day because everyone thinks of you as Price's wife so no one thinks to mention that a woman arrived in town the other week)

there's an incident on a farm on the outskirts of town that Price has to go to - he makes you promise to be good and you spend the next two days wrestling with whether to take the opportunity to leave or not. you end up staying. Price comes back and he's so happy to see his little wife still home after a few rough days of work. probably the first time he makes you sit on his face to reward you.

your luck finally comes to an end when the same bounty hunter finally comes back (your marriage announcement may have been in the local paper and somehow word got to him about a girl matching the description of the woman he's after) and somehow manages to trap you. the climax of this fic is that he manages to get you on a horse speeding away from town and you're heartbroken/terrified/desperate for John but your situation seems hopeless)

John catches up with the two of you and he, uh....deals with the bounty hunter that took his wife from him. before he "deals" with him, the bounty hunter does basically reveal who you actually are, and there's a moment where you see that John believes him. he looks at you in a strange way for just a second and there's this glint in his eye that says "yeah I either suspected this or this is new information to me but now everything makes sense" and your heart just stops because it's the first time where you actually don't want him to know that you aren't the woman that was supposed to be his wife

then he kills the bounty hunter and takes you home :) and he never ever acknowledges what the other man said. because you're his wife and that's all that matters.

suuupppperrrr tender loving sex that night LMAO probably out in wilderness because you're far outside of town and the two of you are exhausted (plus, John just buried this man's body so you had to diverge from the route home for a bit)

at some point in time, a woman does show up at your doorstep claiming to be John's wife. you slam the door on her face.

ok now i wanna write this again FUCKDJGHSJGVSD

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netherfeildren · 7 months

Text

Austerlitz

Pairing: Simon (Ghost) Riley x F!Reader

Summary: The day he left for his hideous war, the dream changed. The house was still there, but now neither of us lived in it anymore. And when he finally came back, if that’s what you could even call it, he was nothing but a Ghost.

-OR-

Ghost goes away, comes back in a maybe dream.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: I know very little about COD so AU I guess; Heavy Angst; Unreliable Narrator; Is Ghost a ghost or a Man? Who tf knows; More feelings than fucking sorry about that; PWP; Rough Sex; Creampie; Grief Study; Mean Ghost; Size Difference; Complicated Relationships; Dom/sub Undertones

A/N: Wanted to post and then got pissed off and didn't want to post and then got pissed off that I was pissed off.

So anyways, here's my Ghost.

Word Count: 4.2K

Read on AO3

[AUSTERLITZ]

The first time my mother had the dream, it was our engagement.

They were always the same—the dreams—the house, our home. Sometimes I was there, sometimes it was only him, but the house remained. Always the image of him inside that place that belonged to us. Even if I wasn’t all the time there.

They went on for years, this idea living inside my mothers mind; different variations of our togetherness or not, parties, children, him, him, always him there. Once, he was even there with another woman, and amidst her sleep she knew it was wrong, that I should have been there but was not. It didn’t birth mistrust, that already lived between us in different ways regardless. It didn’t send me running home to him demanding answers, but it birthed fear. Fear of what could be lost—of what there was to lose.

A lot, it turned out.

It was like this fear that lived so painfully sentient within me, the fear of losing him, the fear of how much I loved him was so strong and so powerful and so pulsating that I'd given the infection of it to my own mother. She worried for me and for us the way I worried for him.

And there was guilt then—for me, from me. I felt guilty, I felt like I was doing this to her, making my own mother afraid. Sending her these dreams with my own worrying mind of a perfect life that could have been so easily lost, of all my happiness and wants and desires of him and how easily it could have all been destroyed.

The last time she dreamt of the house, months after he’d gone in my real waking life, the house was alone. Abandoned. Falling down on its own bones. A bad omen. And there was something so– I couldn’t say… but that was my confirmation, really, more than the years or the silence or the reports of missing, unknown, no answers or responses or clues to what could have happened, it was that dream of hers that told me it was all over in a real way.

She said she’d walked through the dream house, and all the ghost memories had been there: him and I, an engagement, a marriage, a happiness, losses and family and life. But everything was falling down around the past, and it was all alone, and she knew in her heart that he was gone and that I was alone now.

My real fear had gone to her dream fear had come back to my real life, and there was no true abandoned house, but there was an abandoned I.

You’d begged—before he’d gone the last time, on your knees, hands clasped, tears—wrought. You’d begged, please, Simon—don’t go, please. Please, don’t leave me. You said last time was the last time. Please, don’t go again—I have the worst feeling about this one. He’d not listened. Chasing a mission, a tour, the salvation of the world or the loss of himself, not me, which was the only distinction that mattered. But he’d gone, and the bad feeling had swelled and swelled swollen until it’d burst. Until there was some uniform on your doorstep speaking words of missing in action, comms gone dead, Simon—maybe dead, maybe not, just gone. Unfindable, but come along with a sick sort of satisfaction that you’d been listed as his next of kin when he’d never even been able to tell you that he loved you. But these were the words now, said with tongue and teeth not belonging to him, not my wife but the woman I love, the woman that’s important to me, my kin.

Simon Riley, code name Ghost: missing in action.

It’s been such a long time now, and you don’t know if that man you loved, love, is still alive or dead or missing or gone or just nothing.

All he is—is not—

—Here. And the before—it’d been complicated. Real and not real, hard, good, never easy. The complicated nature of a thing born from a complicated man such as he was. Occlusive, reclusive, reticent. But so good. So much, that it never really mattered if it was all growing pains, or just pain. How could you know? But when you were in the thick of it, it didn’t actually matter, that answer. It felt good, that was the only focus. Even when it didn’t. You loved him, that’s what mattered. He loved– war, being a ghost, fucking you, having you, maybe you.

You’d had certainty in some ways, that he wanted you, that he was closed off and silent and serious, and that he’d come back because he always said he would, and he always did the things he said. That he was a creature of habit. But everything else—uncertain.

Your mother hadn’t had the dream in years. Memory had become hard to reach, murky, but the sound of his voice, that remained. The only one that did, only because you held onto it with vapor fingers. And it was so clear, the baritone of it, the way it sounded when he was calling you his sweet girl, the way it sounded when he was telling you he was going or telling a lie. That had stayed no matter how far out to sea you’d tried to toss it.

Your last conversation: don’t be a stranger, you’d said. And it was in jest, or desperation, you can’t remember anymore. Something like please, please, don’t go away forever, please, don’t turn into someone I don’t know anymore.

There are things you remember very clearly. Others you’d been granted the mercy of forgetting—the way it felt when he slid inside you, no mercy there.

How do I know if these are growing pains or just pain?

The memory of him is distorted now, preserved under glass, entirely untouchable; just there, and the stopping point is invisible, but it’s still just there.

And you still love him because it’s impossible to let go of a ghost. A thing like that haunts you.

You’d left the home you’d become a woman in, left your country and your mother, after he’d gone missing; found somewhere far and cold and nothingful, and it all reminded you of him in a way that let you know you’d never outrace this feeling. But you’d needed to run and disappear the way you told yourself he’d had to. That excuse, blame, you placed on him, Ghost, leaving that last time, despite the way you’d begged him to stay, please, Simon, don’t go. As if the idea of him just not wanting to be with you at all was more comforting than the reality of, well, he did, but just not more than he needed to chase his duty to violence.

[When they’d come to tell me he was gone—but not really gone for sure—no one has died, they’d said, and I’d thought, just me, and violently. It was the last slap in the face, punch to the gut, fist down my throat and all the oxygen gone through a vacuum—stolen.]

Years: you’d lived with the vertigo of heartbreak, your whole life muffled. And you’d wanted to be alone with the enormity of your devastation and the Ghost shaped hole that’d been left in your body, so you’d come here, to this place you were in now, and you’d learned to be cunning like a fox, a cold that burned. You were not yourself anymore, something else, but something that didn’t hurt as much. A new version that fit that final dream image of an abandoned, forgotten home.

You walk all the time now, through the Ždánice and along the wet meadows and towards nothing. In lieu of doing something else, now you walk.

You find it on one such—it’s just like the dream—walk. Circles and circles around the Slavkovský rybník, back into the trees you go, and then it’s just there falling in on itself, eaten dead by the green overgrowth; the dream house. Your mother’s voice within your ear, I had a dream about the two of you, he’s yours, he was your husband, he was your fiancé, he was the love of your life, I had a dream about it all. There is a house.

He’d liked to smoke, when he was stressed or angry or happy or sad or just. Cloves because he could be a jackass sometimes, like when he was buying cigarettes. You smoke them now too—a griefful jackass, even still. Obviously you’re trying to hold on without saying it out loud, like being kin. Tongue slick, sucking on the stick until it’s all gone, just a stub, and standing there in the waning gray light—the sun doesn't come out much now, it’s wonderful—you watch the house.

You wonder if your mother sent it to you with her own missing. You wonder if he’ll be in there if you go inside. You feel like if you do, you’ll die in there, find something real bad, real real.

When you’re done with the lie of the cloves, you exchange the butt for a leaf, feel the smooth, dry edges of it. Folding it slow and careful between your fingers, thinking, trying to follow the path of veins, trying to decide if this is the dream house or not, trying to decide if you’ll really die in there or not. There are no more sounds, there haven’t been in a long time, and so you can't tell if it’ll really matter or not.

Recently, or years ago, you’d watched a video of a trio of swans doing battle, a rarity, the fact of three. They’d mauled each other, first two overtaking the third, and then the co-conspirators, turning their violence on each other. This is how you feel, at battle within yourself; your past, present, future, all fighting to leave you dead and bloodied, floating bloated in the water.

Horrible thoughts.

[We’re fighting a war on three fronts: me, him, fact.]

But there’s only dream here now. No Ghost.

You decide on the house—walk inside.

It’s only bones within, guts on display, covering ripped away. And very sad, very familiar.

You pass through it slow and floating, not looking where one foot goes in front of the other. You’re inside your mother’s dream just like she’d seen it so many times, returned to the womb, and like she’d said: there’s your engagement, a rarity of happiness, glorious intimacy, possibility, there’s your Ghost.

You’re not paying attention when your foot goes through the floorboards, to the knee first, jarringly painful, then the rest of your body gone through the rot. The only thing fizzing through your stupidly shocked mind is that you knew this would happen before you’re hip smashing, skull bashing ten feet down onto the basement floor. Cement ground, laying on your side and gasping like an eviscerated fish. The fist down your throat pulling all the oxygen out is back.

And all you can think, as you lay there, only a wink before pain that knocks you into sleep, is—and really, get a fucking grip, get your priorities straight—I tried to fuck so many other men to wedge the memory of you out, bring the sounds back. I’ve tried other people and other tastes and other lives, and I can't. I can't. I want you so much, I miss you so bad. I dream of you, of the way you felt inside of me, of how wet I get for you even still, wet for a maybe dead man, and how much my cunt hurts because it is so wanting. How much it hurts to love a thing that’s gone and how the physical pain is almost as bad as the one in the heart.

And then an ice blue, cold that burns. “Wake up, darling.” He’s always had the bluest eyes that’ve ever been.

“Ghost?”

“Simon.”

The jut of his chin, it’s the same. The one you missed. You come awake or alive. “Simon, you’re not really here. How did you find me?” Your body doesn’t hurt the way it should.

“Been lookin’ for you,” he says, runs his big thumb up the curve of your cheekbone, and you turn your face into his hand almost involuntarily. He even smells like a ghost, and you can’t remember if you actually ever even fell or not.

“Ghost?” You ask again—confused, full of sleep and someone else's dream.

But he shakes his head slow, and you can’t see his mouth behind the mask, but you see the smile in his eyes, joy above the skull. “No, baby. Simon,” he says again.

“You were looking for me?” His hand moves into your hair, cupping the small bowl of your skull in the big pool of his palm, the other coming to your neck, thumb at your pulse, just to feel, just to hum along to it.

“I was.” His accent is different, and you can’t hear sounds anymore, but this sound is different—you can tell.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Told ya—lookin’ for you.” Jut of your chin propped against the jut of his palm, pads of his fingers against the ledge of your orbital bone. He presses soft, probes gentle, lets himself be tickled by the fan of your lashes.

You close your eyes and tell the truth, “I wish you wouldn’t. I might hate you now. I wish you’d let me go. It’s been such a long time.”

“I know, baby.” But he doesn’t know, not really, not how bad.

You’re laying on something soft, no more hard basement you can’t really remember, and you let yourself slump into it while he touches your face. “I can’t believe I’m still here,” basement or with him or someone else's dream, you can’t tell which you mean. “I can’t believe I'm still here all these years later. You’re like a ghost.”

He agrees, “I am a ghost,” and contradicts himself.

You open your eyes again, swallow the blue. “I thought you said you weren’t.” No answer—but he hunches over you, large and brutish and falsely undiscerning, without any answers ever. “You’re not a ghost. You’re a real man, and you have to stop haunting me.”

“Not haunting, only looking.” He bends, reveals his mouth, kisses you for the first time since he’d gone, and it’s the same as before, but not. Always a beautiful, hidden mouth that he’d had.

There is nothing that Simon Riley does that is gentle, even when he is being gentle.

It’s always with a punch behind it, always with a scream behind it. Always with the certainty that he does not know how to be gentle, but that he’ll try to be so anyway. If only for you.

He tastes like cloves and ghosts. Lips warm, dry and smooth, tongue slick and demanding. He presses his big thumb bone between your molars, pries your jaw open so you’re mimicking the dying fish again and licks inside of you.

Ah—so this is how it’ll be, you think, mean.

The inside of your cheeks pinch hard enough between his grip and your teeth that you’re sure the mouthful of come he’ll be giving you soon’ll be seasoned with blood. You moan into him, take his breath on your tongue, the dream flips and switches in your mind. Rolodex of memories and unrealities. Where have you been? You ask again because the demand feels necessary, the answer, life-hinging.

He shoves you belly back, tells you, “Sometimes you talk too fuckin’ much,” and swings one tree trunk thigh over your middle so he’s straddling you, caging you, crushing you. A fist twisted in your hair so he can pull and handle you as he pleases. “Open your mouth,” so that he can lick inside again, taste you again. “It’s all just the same,” he whispers, and you can’t tell what he means. Doesn’t he see you’re the fox in the marsh now, cold enough to burn? Nothing’s the same since he went away.

You try and scratch at him, shove the behemoth away, mountain versus the moth, yank him closer—too. You bite his tongue, and then it isn’t only your own blood in your mouth, but his too. It only feeds him more. When he lets his weight fall heavier on your belly, ribs compressed, you feel the ridge of his hard cock.

You couldn’t ever keep him, but you could always make him hard.

“Ghost.”

“Not a ghost.” He tells lies now.

“It’s not all the same,” you gasp when he comes up from the well, hand at your tit, hard and punishing. “Can’t you tell?” And you say it angry or affronted. “How can you look at me and not tell? How can you look at me and not care?” About what you’ve done to me, is what you don’t say.

This makes him pause, even as he mauls you, and the blue is not ice but not warmth either. Jagged, perhaps, even though it always is a little bit so, but punctuated in a different way. Only discerning now, nothing un– about it.

“How can you look at me and think I don’t?” His words have teeth, and you want him to chew you up and spit you out. Maybe then he’ll recognize you better.

“You’re always going to choose something else over me,”—an accusation. “Because I wanted you to come back so badly,”—an explanation. You don’t remind him how he didn’t, and he doesn’t say that he wanted to. But he’s here, and maybe that’s all that matters, maybe it’s enough for you to let him slip his fingers up beneath your shirt, nipple punished between his thumb and index, mean and nasty. Other hand down the front of your jeans, sliping against your wet, fingering your cunt.

He doesn’t work hard at making space for himself in your too tight hole, merely tugs your pants down to your knees, tangled and trapped in him the way you’d always been, and with a hand on his cheek you find purchase to turn yourself over, shoving at his jaw roughly as you go. “No—like this. Like this,” you demand, belly down, ass up. “I don’t want to look at you when we do it. I don’t want to do it looking at your face,” you tell him even though you do love him.

He’s quiet for one victorious second, big hands wrapped around your hips, fingers flexing, swallowing it. “Are you trying to hurt me?”

“Yes.” He shifts, hooks you over his arm across your belly, hips up, cunt presented, swollen, needy sex like a wound. “Is it working?”

You listen to the drag of his zipper, the shift of his clothes. You close your eyes, enjoy the return of sound.

“Always.” And then it’s the warm, blunt press of a cock that’s going to hurt, and you feel very calm, entirely hungry. The pain in your cunt will be the kind you’d ask for in a few seconds; he notches, swipes, presses mean again at your clit.

“Let’s not pretend we’re something we’re not—you’re not—real.” And when he wedges himself into your too-long-untried cunt, it hurts. It hurts in a real way. Like he’d rip you in half and not care if he could. Hurts in a mean way.

He starts off hard, unforgiving, like he’s taking the pound of flesh he feels he’s owed for being made into a Ghost right here, fucking you on the dirty, cold floor.

Hunched over you, bulging arms braced around your head, wrist clasped in a death grip, breath in your ear, and he fucks you like an animal. A groan and a spit, and he’s telling you, “You’re so fucking good, best cunt in the whole goddamn world.” The wet squelch, the splash, splash, the moan like a whore agrees with him.

“It always hurts,” you tell him, whispered between a sob for more or harder.

“You like it,” and it’s a pant ending of a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth where a tear rests. Something gentle to remind you that even as a monster, he’d never hurt you in a way that couldn’t be turned back. Maybe.

“What if I don’t anymore?”

He swings his hips back, cunt dragging, when he pushes in again it’s to batter against your womb. “Don’t you?”

“Don’t stop,” is all you can say. You press your hips back, spread your knees as far as your tangled jeans will let you, back arched like you need it more than you can even say. Bent and pummeled to defy nature or some such other thing, and his balls slap heavy and stinging against your clit, cockhead at your womb again, again.

“Come on my cock, be a good girl.” Like he knows you’re just there already, pulsing and throbbing and ready to soak him, wet cheek fucked raw against the ground with every one of his pounding thrusts. His fist is so tight in your hair, around your wrist, it burns almost worse than your knees against the old wood, hand gone to numbness.

But it’s so hard to give someone so much when they never give anything in return, and it pains you to do it now. Your stomach pulls tight, heat all swirling in your pelvis. “You’re never good for me,” you moan, cunt twisting into a knot. And then you come, fluttering around his pouding length, the slap of his thighs against your ass. He shoves your shirt up so that your breasts are naked to the cold air, fingers digging too hard to be for anything other than his own vindication. It makes you come harder, cry harder.

And then like a switch, soldier on display, he flips, goes slow and soft and languid. Long deep thrusts, pressing your belly down into the ground and stretching out on top of you—longer than a river, broader too, similarly overpowering. His whole too heavy weight pressing all the air out of you, prone and caged and power stolen. He slams into you, but it’s slow and punctuated and precise now. Tip at the front of your cunt so that you know exactly what it is he wants from you, another one.

“Do you ever wish I was a better man?” He asks between thrusts.

You can’t lie. Look at you—fucked and frozen. “No.” The hurt hurts good, you like it like this. You like that he’s a Ghost.

He kisses your mouth now, gives you his tongue to taste. Cloves and you love him so much and it seems so unfair that it be so short, the love, when the forgetting is so long.

“Can you tell me that you don’t love me?” It’s a begging, it is. “That you never did—so that I can forget.” He pulses and throbs inside of you, thrusts get harder. He’s about to fill you full of come. “So that I can move on. Force me, please.”

He presses his mouth to yours again and with teeth, the bunch of his mask suffocating you. “Can’t lie to you, darling. I never could,” —not the lie you want.

And you should’ve expected it, he’s never been the merciful sort. When you beg please, please, you’re not sure if you’re asking for more of his come, for harder, for mercy, for the lie. Like so many other things now, it doesn’t really matter. He sends you into another orgasm, and he’s lazy about letting you milk him. Mouth slick against your own, breath panting hot against your cheeks, white blond lashes, too long and too pretty for such a beast, tangling with your own.

He lets it be slow. He lets it last.

And one more time is better than a last time—the once more negates the lastness of it. Now, it only exists in perpetuity. This is the lie you’ll tell yourself as he throbs and spurts once more, whispers your name into the shell of your ear, asks for his back. I got one more time. I got one more time. Now it all lives on forever, Simon. Now the house is no longer abandoned. Now we’ll exist here in this memory like so, forever.

He’s gone when you open your eyes again, sleep or unconsciousness, maybe he never was. And as you right yourself, your clothes and the thick leak from the overwrought place between your legs—no, he was, or was he?—your body doesn’t hurt as it should, only cunt-sore, looking at the dark you shaped hole in the floorboards next to you. You can't tell if the hurt now comes from the want or the truth, sound is gone again.

Outside, there’s snow on the ground. When you look up, it’s falling from the sky, against the surface of the pond, lost to the dark. A celebration happens somewhere, across the distance, in the town, you don’t know for what—or can’t remember. There are fireworks in the sky mixing with the ice.

You realize, or you think, or you hear someone say—does it really matter, it comes off the wind or the trees—a reminder that you’d come here to mourn something. To this place you lived in now. To the dream house.

[I’m mourning all the things that happened to me. I’m mourning the way I’ve been, the way I was. It was terrible, I hated how I’d been, but I still have to grieve her. I have to not hate that poor girl I used to be.]

The barium, copper lights go off and off and off, and it’s bombs dropping, pyrokinetic shelling, your life imploding, the end of everything. Him—a ghost.

Once there was only dark. If you ask me, the light’s winning—now.

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog!

#vic fic #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley fanfiction #cod ghost #call of duty fanfic #simon riley smut #call of duty #ghost smut #ghost fanfiction #cod fanfic

157 notes · View notes

anhonest-puck · 1 month

Text

hellooooo!!! this is intro post v.3 :)

general info!!

name: neil, but ralph/ralphie works too :)

pronouns: she/he

age: MINOR!!! just be aware of that when talking to me please :’) (any1 can talk to me just don’t be odd)

birthday: may 14th

myers briggs type: ENFJ-T (the protagonist)

poetry blog: @nightskies-and-sweetnothings

fun facts!

i have a cat named ester jo

i’m part of the student council for my school (overachiever….)

i make jewelry/accessories (keychains, etc..)

i adore poetry and literature!!!

i’m a cheerleader

ocd and adhd!

tags!

#rambling on and on: literally just rambling. about what? who knows :’)

#neil’s tweaking hours ™️: tweaking and freaking out or something i thought it was funny

#my stuff: my art or other things!

#reblogging 🖌️: i’m honestly lacking on this tag recently but it’s just stuff i’ve reblogged :)

interests!!

dead poets society, lord of the flies, maxxxine, gravity falls, horror (i’m such a wuss but i love it sm :’) ), fantastic mr fox, halloweentown

music stuffs!!

the velvet underground (after hours, i found a reason)

the cure (friday, i’m in love, a night like this)

the smiths (how soon is now?, half a person)

joost klein (offline, PTSD)

lana del rey (doin’ time, fuck it i love you)

hozier (nobody’s soldier, angel of small death & the codeine scene)

mitski (carry me out, working for the knife)

tyler, the creator (answer, peach fuzz)

david bowie (lady grinning soul, heroes)

matt maltese (intolewd, curl up & die)

chris thile (falsetto, you’re an angel, and i’m going to cry)

nickel creek (where the long line leads, helena)

kin list!!

neil perry (dead poets society)

ralph (lord of the flies)

maxine minx (X, maxxxine)

lovely people!!

@noctilucaa @wilsons-three-legged-siamese @neil-perrys-suicidal-tendencies @lv3buzzz @yourfavvgal

@ace-misplaced @xxcherryberriezxx @sweaty-toothed-mad-woman @1mlostnow

@pingunaa @todds-diary @basementcorelingo @vessel214 @mikeru-funzies

@toddandersonsblog @neilperryismine @y-a-w-p @poetsinnyc @richardcameronshusband

@desire-mona @chaoticamberr @neil-perrys-reincarnation @sillypoetssociety @hyacinthi-mortem

@lefthandedspaghetti @grungelvrr222 @star-laboratory @vampjro @rubeslovesthesmiths

@ra1nc0at @persona5striker5

(if you’d like to be added/taken away from this list feel free to DM me!!)

if i ever talk about one of the dps boys and DO NOT tag the character in the tags, then i’m most likely talking about one of my irl friends!! i might tag if it fits but ill always say that too so just thought id specify 😸

please do ask if you’d like to be mutuals!!! i’m always open to new friends :) i don’t bite i swear.. maybe.. /j

#introduction #introductory post #intro post #dead poets society #dps #lord of the flies #lotf #rambling on and on

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summertimeroses · 9 months

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just came across a fic where aithusia is still a dragon but is disguised? can shapeshift? into a human form (smol child) with merlin as her father and now i’m obsessed with the idea of this dynamic, so consider:

- dragonlords all have dragon forms. merlin has a dragon form

- dragons all have human forms. kilgharrah as a man, bitter and cryptic and scarred from the purge, angry for being chained. aithusia, a young child, bone-white hair flowing long over her shoulders. her arms bend wrongly at the joints and tiny, paper-thin scars cover her body, from her time with the sarrum of amata

- there’s a distinction between the magic of dragons and the magic of dragonlords. the markings of dragons are different. their eyes in human form are all amber-gold, something in their teeth not-quite human. dragonlords are the natural leaders of the dragons, often more powerful in certain magics, especially in human form.

- in books of magical creatures and sorcery, dragons and dragonlords are put side by side, but categorised separately, for the difference in their appearance and abilities in magic. the sketches all show men with a beastly shadow, enormous and scaled and expressions set equally angry.

- the dragons are all kin, so culturally they all have a responsibility over the young. this counts doubly for dragonlords, protectors of the dragons. this makes merlin the natural guardian of aithusia.

- merlin, after rescuing her from the sarrum, returns to camelot with a tiny, fragile girl in his arms, bundled in rough blankets. the only explanation he gives is my daughter before he’s pushing past arthur to take her to gaius, get her injuries seen

- alternatively, merlin approaches arthur asking for time off to go retrieve his daughter, the same way he asked it for his mother. he’s pale and shaken but there’s a steel in his expression that arthur doesn’t know what to do with

- also, merlin sired a child. his manservant.

- there’s about a million different magic reveals in this. too many to list, but the ideas are exploding in my brain. arthur, clocking on to the fact that aithusia is so obviously a magical child. arthur, heartbroken that merlin didn’t trust him. arthur, initially scared of what he sees as a beast. arthur, in awe of the dragon form, realising the power merlin has.

- the angst of merlin trying to hide her magic in camelot when she’s such a powerful child. the angst of him bringing her to camelot and revealing her existence to arthur only to immediately make plans to send her away to someone trusted, maybe hunith, and arthur doesn’t understand what he means by ‘she’s not safe in camelot’ until he does.

- gwen being so gentle with her. arthur being scared to break her. leon picking her up and letting her curl into the crook of his neck as he carries her back from somewhere she’s wandered off to.

- all the knights being doting uncles (most especially gwaine)

- arthur learning of what the sarrum did to her and why, and rethinking his stance on magic. arthur thinking of all the magical children killed too young, first tortured or persecuted. thinks of all the fear and grief they did not deserve to carry.

- merlin educating arthur on magic after the reveal. taking him to lessons with aithusia to teach her control of her magic, the pair of them watching her fly free in her natural form in the woods for a while. her injuries are healing, slowly, with the help of gaius and merlin’s magic.

- mordred, despite merlin’s suspicions, working hard towards earning trust he isn’t sure how he lost, and starting with proving he can be trusted with aithusia. he is, admittedly, really good with her and she loves him, so merlin can’t completely begrudge it. it leads to conversations that change all their fates.

- aithusia’s first language being the tongue of the old religion. the language of spells. she knows not to speak to avoid getting caught (merrlin tried his best to explain) but once, she slipped up around arthur. all of them freezing, even though arthur knows. the guilt he feels at her terror.

- kilgharrah’s anger at camelot manifesting again somehow. an attack of some kind. arthur being confronted with the question of the magic ban repeal and how to balance keeping his people safe from magic and reparations for decades of the oppression of magic users.

the fic that fuelled this is called The Darkest Dawn by spacegirl7 and quite a lot of the above takes elements directly from the fic, so definitely go read and check it out, it’s so good. i have been thinking about it and its premise for days.

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mactavsh · 2 years

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Watching Over

Synopsis: Price tries to keep you awake while captured.

Relationships: Father Figure!Captain John Price x Female Reader, John “Soap” MacTavish x Female Reader

Word Count: 1.5K

Warnings: violence, swearing, mentions of blood/injuries

Note: Debated posting this one because it is quite self serving, but maybe someone else needs their fictional father figure to tell them they're proud of them too. The title was inspired from this song.

Masterlist

If it was an Intel mission that required a certain level of finesse, Laswell always knew who to send. You and Captain Price worked seamlessly after the many years of training he'd given you. He scouted you early on in your career quickly becoming a mentor in your eyes. He had also easily fallen into a paternal role, unbeknownst to him.

However, Laswell knew how Price had a habit of adopting kids. As a joke, she kept a running list of his “next of kin”. It started with you and has grown over the years to include Gaz, Soap and Ghost.

The mission required the two of you to go completely dark, Laswell was sending you to Mexico at the behest of Alejandro. You would both have to be in zero contact until the mission was complete. You both understood the gravity of the situation - there would be no backup.

You were given a month to track down an emerging cartel that was responsible for a rise in weapons trading. Los Vaqueros couldn’t yet make a move against them so Alejandro reached out to Laswell and Price for assistance.

When you landed in Mexico you had a brief meeting with Alejandro and Rodolfo to learn what they knew. After that you and Captain Price set out to see what you could find. By then end of your first week you had figured out the names of the higher ups and the locations of a few meeting spots.

However, when you had gone to infiltrate the meeting, there were more men than expected. The two of you certainly made quite a dent in their numbers but were eventually overpowered. You had been knocked out by someone who snuck up behind you. Price heard you fall and was distracted just long enough for someone to sneak up behind him, subsequently knocking him out next.

When you woke up you were both chained to metal chairs. You were situated on opposite sides of the room but facing each other. The cold metal dug painfully into your ribs with every breath. There were no windows, no way to tell how long you had been there.

Hours blurred into days then weeks. The daily torture had worn the both of you down. They gave you just enough food to keep you alive and looking at how Price’s features had grown sunken in you assumed yours had as well.

They had learned early on the dynamic between you two as much as you both tried to remain stoic, so they focused their torture on you hoping it would get Price to talk. What they didn't realize was that both Price and you would sooner die than tell them anything.

You were sure the check-in date Laswell had set had long since passed and you could only imagine the hell Soap, the 141, and Los Vaqueros were raising trying to find out what happened.

Your captors had just left after another bout of torture trying to get information out of both of you. Bruises began blooming on Price’s bare chest, emerging blue and red tones mixed with already yellow spots. Your arms sported new deep gashes atop barely healed scar tissue. Blood slowly trickled down your arms as your chest heaved. Your mind was dizzy from the pain and it was taking everything in you to stay awake.

“Stay with me, kid.” Price spoke from the other side of the room voice even and calm as it always was.

“I refuse to die at the hands of some random fuckin’ cartel member.” Your voice was firm despite the exhaustion you felt.

“That's my girl.” Price's chest swelled with pride that turned to worry as your head lolled downward. “Tell me about why you joined.”

You groaned and slowly brought your head back up to squint over at him. “Haven't I already?”

“You like to call me an old man.” He smirked, ”I forgot, tell me again.”

You huffed, if your brain wasn’t so foggy you would have immediately realized it was a tactic to keep you awake. “My dad served, his dad served, felt like I had to keep the legacy going. My grandfather also said I’d never outrank him so I had to prove him wrong.”

“That why you’re my youngest Staff Sergeant?”

“You bet your ass it is.”

Price forced out a laugh. “Out of spite, eh?“

“It’s how I do most things.”

“He still around? Your grandfather?”

“Passed a year or so after I was promoted.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

You shrugged as best you could with the chains restricting your movement. “He lived a long happy life.” Price didn’t press further about your family, he knew your parents were also passed and you didn’t have any siblings. The 141 had become your found family and he was happy that you were no longer alone.

“You remember the day we met?” Price pressed, trying to keep you awake.

“Yeah,” You breathed out, exhaustion dancing in the corner of your eyes. “you called me a muppet.”

Price smiled recalling the day. “You looked bloody ridiculous under all that gear. Five feet tall wearing gear in Ghost’s size.”

“My CO did it on purpose when we got word you were coming to scout recruits for some secret spy shit. He wanted his golden boy to be picked.”

“Bastard's plan failed. When I saw you running the course like that I knew you were the best for the job.”

You looked down at your feet, you weren’t sure you could ever put into words how thankful you were for all he's done for you. “Thank you, for choosing me. You pulled me out of a dark place that day though I didn't see it at the time.”

“You’ve got nothing to thank me for. Hell, you’ve saved my life more times than I can count. I’m proud of you, Y/n. You’re a whole lot more than you give yourself credit for.”

You weren’t sure if it was the praise or the blood loss but tears began to well in your eyes and you were powerless to stop them.

“When we get out of here we are going on leave.” The Captain’s voice was firm, an unofficial order.

“That so? Don’t think my husband would let me go on holiday with another man.” You joked half-heartedly, the day you told Price you were officially dating Soap he had called the sergeant into his office. An hour passed before you saw either of them again and for a week after that Soap could barely make eye contact with the captain. When you and Soap had gotten married it was Price who walked you down the aisle.

Price rolled his eyes. “All of us. Been too long since we had a day we weren’t fighting for our lives.”

“Would be nice.”

“Thinkin' a lakeside cabin deep in the woods. I’m going to teach everyone how to fish-” Just then the sounds of distant explosions rocked the room you were in. Concrete dust fell into your lap and you stared at it for a moment.

“I hope that's our favorite demolitions expert.” You spoke as you looked back up at Price.

“Wonder how they found this shithole.”

“Alejandro?” You proposed as another explosion sounded, this time closer.

“Maybe. These idiots probably got cocky and sent some bloody ridiculous ransom note to Los Vaqueros.”

The sound of gunshots grew near, gradually getting louder until they stopped altogether. Price looked at you then you both looked at the door. What felt like an eternity passed until the door was broken open. A familiar masked face entered, gun at the ready until his eyes settled on the room’s occupants.

“Bloody hell,” Ghost said as he dropped his weapon and pressed the button on his communication device. “I’ve got Price and Y/n. Second-floor northwest corner.” He grabbed the bolt cutters off his back and moved towards you, quickly snapping the chains that were holding you in place. He put a hand on your shoulder and you grabbed his forearm, both gently squeezing the other before letting go, a silent reassurance. He then stood and moved toward Price to free him.

You stayed seated and rubbed your wrists, you knew if you stood now the blood loss would likely make you pass out. The sounds of footsteps in the hallway made your body tense before Soap’s frantic form stepped through the doorway.

“Thank fuckin’ Christ.” Soap spoke as he ran toward you. He kneeled in front of you, gently placing his gloved hands on either side of your face. He rubbed his thumb along your cheek, careful of the small cut there. “You alright, love?”

You stared into his eyes for a moment, basking in the blueness that had come to feel like home. A tired smile crossed your face as you leaned into the gentle touch. “Better now.”

Soap smiled back and you and then slowly helped you stand. He kept a gentle hold on your arm as you regained your equilibrium. After you were sure you weren't going to pass out you walked over to Price, immediately wrapping your arms around him.

“We made it, old man.” You spoke into his chest.

Price placed his chin on your head and gently rubbed his hand along your back. “Knew we would, kiddo.”

Bonus:

“Should I be jealous?” Soap whispered jokingly to Ghost as they watched the exchange.

“Shut the fuck up, Soap.” Ghost rolled his eyes before swatting the back of Soap’s mohawk.

#captain john price #john price #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #john soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish #soap mactavish x reader #mactavsh

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monsterkin-culture-is · 1 month

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10 Monster & Mythological Kintypes You Might Not Have Kinsidered!

Quick intro! I want to do some more monsterkin related original blog posts & content to make this blog more of a community hub for the monsterkins of tumblr. I'll be using #thebitingblogger for these posts! TW for some very mild mentions of gore in the context of mythology.

10. Haunted Dolls: There is definitely a large dollkin community on Tumblr but I haven't seen many haunted dolls/plushies. They're such a staple of horror media & spiritual subcultures - I'm so surprised by their absence!

9. Werecats & Other Werebeasts: The werewolfkin community on here is already limited but the werecat tag is tiny (and I don't think there even are tags for any other werekintypes)! Maybe the concept just hasn't been explored enough yet but given the popularity of other feline kintypes I wouldn't be surprised if there were some undiscovered werecats. I'd also like to add on about hellhounds & hellcats! Plenty of mythology there but a rather empty part of the kin community.

8. Revenants: Revenants are reanimated corpses revived to haunt the living. They're most prominent in Western European & Norse folklore. I can see some similarities to ghost & zombie kins but given we already have other subtypes & related kins (phantomkin etc) there is definitely a place for them in the kin community. Honestly as I'm writing this I'm starting to kinsider whether my skeletonkin might be a revenant...

7. Headless Horsemen: I suppose this is technically a human but I'd consider them a potential type of undead or spirit! The headless horseman is a recurring myth in a lot of Western Europe & America. My favourite version is the Dullahan from Irish folklore. The Dullahan is a mysterious omen, causing death whenever he stops riding. He carries his head in his arms and wields a whip made of human spine. The most famous media depiction is probably Disney's "The Adventures of Ichabod and Mr Toad." I think you can tell I'm a little bit in love with the horseman mythos...

6. Minotaurs, Centaurs & Fauns: I'm not sure I'd consider these monsters but they fit with the themes of the rest of the list! A minotaur is a man with the upper half/head of a bull, a centaur is a man with the body of a horse and a faun is a man with the legs of a goat or deer, often accompanied by horns or antlers. Man is being used without gender here. I originally was only going to write about Minotaurs as I've seen plenty of centaur & faun kins but there's no harm in including everyone! I'm not going to type out the entire mythology of these creatures but a fun fact for you is that the Minotaur of Crete's real name was Asterion!

5. Selkies: Again, not sure if these would be monsters but they fit the list & some retellings portray them as such! Selkies are humans (by appearance, not species) that can take the form of seals using their fur coats. If their coat is stolen, they can be forced to marry the person who has it.

4. Gorgons: Just talking about these as a species rather than their specific Greek mythos. Gorgons are humans with hair made of snakes. Often different interpretations give them patches/designs of scales, snakelike markings and/or fangs. My favourite modern depiction of a gorgon is Viperine from Monster High!

3. The Grim Reaper: I'd be lying if I said I hadn't been kinsidering this for a while! There are hundreds of personifications of Death throughout the history of humanity but the Reaper is probably one of the most recognisable in modern times. The Grim Reaper is most frequently depicted as a skeleton in a cloak, suit of armour or robes, bearing a farmer's scythe (it harvests souls like crops). I've been talking about media interpretations of these throughout so shoutout to Discworld Death, one of my favourite comfort characters! I love the animated version of Soul Music.

2. Shade: Finding information on this one was a little challenging! Shades are the spirits, ghosts or apparitions of someone currently residing in the underworld.

1. Custom Monsters: Got a bunch of phantom limbs that don't match a different kin? Have memories of being/feel like a cryptid that doesn't currently exist as a legend? Be your own monsterkin. Be a kin of your own species. I have one! I just need to actually draw them...

That's all folks! 10 more niche monster & mythological kintypes for you to kinsider! Please send me an ask (anon is enabled) or reblog or whatever if you're any of those kintypes, I'd love to hear from you! As always, please do your own research on these species & their folklore, I've only done some brief googling to add some more context to this list. This blog is for entertainment purposes, not educational! Let me know if you guys like seeing this sort of content though, I've really enjoyed researching this so I might start doing some more in-depth and well-researched posts on some of these.

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willowed-wisp · 3 months

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HER KNIGHT, HIS HEART- part two

previous | next

| Ser Harwin Strong x female!OC/reader insert

WARNINGS: violence, swearing, abuse

She had forgotten about Rhaenyra's fly about- it was Harwin Strong's fault, lecturing her about not angering her father. Putting aside her unattainable ambitions- at least he possessed the balls to properly counsel her, hence she chose him of all people.

Not a lot had happened in those two days, though her father was more emotionally challenged.

Apparently Prince Daemon with the City Watch had mutilated and murdered petty criminals.

Elspeth had never had too many dealings with the dark horse of the Targaryens but had enough to distance herself from the rogue.

The woman had also had no interaction with Ser Harwin Strong. She didn't know how to feel about that- having an innate desire to search among a sea of faces hoping that she'd see his. Elspeth shrugged that off as an aversion technique, but the anguish when she didn't find him spoke otherwise.

She had always envied Rhaenyra for the primary reason that she could ride dragons- be in the wilds if she wished. Just as she held hatred of man's freedom to fulfil any role they desired while women were made to battle in bed chambers and birthing chairs.

The woman felt more kin towards the Targaryens than her own. She loved seeing her princess in the clouds - what a rush that would be. It wasn't foretold for Elspeth, thankful she hadn't been roasted alive by

Having missed Syrax's flying session, she was glad a tourney was taking place- maybe it could provide the rush always wanting in her veins, "I missed you at the Dragonpit," proper and upfront- that's why they got on so well. Rhaenyra stood in a blood-coloured frilled gown- exiting the carriage.

"What was keeping you?" Elspeth had to stifle her amusement. Not that Rhaenyra looked ridiculous.

"Did King Viserys pick this out for you?" Brow quirked, lips in a smirk. Her best friend returned the sentiment.

"What made it obvious? The frills or the patterns?" Bunching it up by the mid hem.

Rhaenyra eyed what the Hightower wore. "Are you sure you don't have dragon blood?" Referring to the black and gold gilded gown the woman wore. Its neckline was high and crossed, sleeves short- nothing too fancy. She needn't impress the councillors nor onlookers.

Elspeth tutted, "None hold more disappointment than I, Princess," they walked- the older assumed she would receive an earful from her father for being late. "You should have a sibling by the end of events." Rhaenyra smiled, it was a momentous occasion for her. She seemed excited for the company of a brother or sister- Rhaenyra convinced it will be a little girl called 'Visenya".

"Yes Visenya is on her way. I can't imagine going through labours- I’m not in a hurry," Elspeth nodded, her younger siblings provided a strong deterrent to following her 'wifely duties. Others seemed to enjoy the deed committed to be with child, not that the girl of nineteen knew personally. "So... what kept you from the Dragonpit? Syrax missed you- she's quite fond of your presence. Soon she'll be able to bear two riders..."

A purse of her lips, "I fear the dragoness would send me to my death if I saddled her. I don't possess your lineage, Rhaenyra, and Hightowers would make the worst dragon riders. You and I both know that." They started to ascend the steps, up to the entrance and where the most powerful people in Westeros watched the events.

Their laughs quieted down, hushed by the cheers from around- only the king audible and able to translate.

"I know many of you travelled long leagues to be at these games. But I promise, you will not be disappointed. When I look at the fine knights in these lists. I see a group without equal in our histories. And this great day has been made more auspicious by the news... that I am happy to share: Queen Aemma has begun her labours!"

They had sneaked to their seats- sat either side of Alicent in the front row. Rightful cheers ensued-Elspeth one of thousands in attendance. She knew Rhaenyra never wanted the fate of the kingdoms in her hands - she wanted to fly around on Syrax for the remainder of her days. A male heir would make sure that happened. "May the luck of the Seven shine upon all combatants!" An eruption of applause. She found herself politely clapping.

"Who's first?" Directed at no one in particular.

Calculating by sigils on armour.

Somebody beat them to the punch, "Opening this wondrous tournament. Ser Casten Tully," a streak of blue and silver, "His opponent- the strongest knight in the Seven Kingdoms, Ser Harwin Strong!" Something leapt inside of her- head perking. Navy, forest and carmine flashed and glimmered with armour.

In a blink of an eye, Ser Casten was in a bundle on the floor- his beige steed a few feet away.

Cradling his shoulder, a broken collarbone maybe.

Her focus on the man was short lived. Ser Harwin trotted over on horseback- helmet lifted and his eyes were straight on her, "Lady Elspeth Hightower, I stayed true to my word." Eyes not daring to roll, as she stood from the stool.

She draped her hands over the boundary- elbows rested on stone. "I'm afraid I haven't made a wreathe," Elspeth was dismissive. Stifling that guilt deep down in her chest.

"You could give him your necklace..." Fucking Rhaenyra. What was she playing at?

Oh, he looked oh-so amused with himself. "Are you going to deny a knight his favour?" He was lucky he was handsome. Fingers fiddled to undo the clasp of her golden chained, emerald encrusted piece of jewellery. Sliding it down his lance. "No kind words?"

"Don't push it, Strong," she spoke through gritted teeth. Gods above she was in trouble. Especially when he wore the necklace- smuggled with his chainmail and chest plate.

Then he was gone.

She returned to her seat. Alicent and Rhaenyra sharing looks of amusement, “Was that why you were absent from the Dragonpit?” The answer as clear as her silence was loud. Chin up and observing the next rounds of the joist. Gwayne was on the lists, but Ser Criston Cole was the cream of the crop. Fairly unknown but his reputation from the Stormlands had preceded himself. And he didn’t disappoint, she overhead Westerling’s information as he spoke to the Princess.

For every other knight she didn’t pay attention. “Ser Harwin Strong!” But him, eyes trained on him while he took a lap around the list field. He seemed to notice, bowing on his horse at her- that smile prominent under the helmet. Alicent gasped as Rhaenyra laughed in a quiet manner. Elspeth didn’t know how that made her feel, although her cheeks felt warm.

The woman maintained her composure. “His opponent, Ser Gwayne Hightower!” Her arm was touched by a concerned Alicent. Harwin had a reputation for near killing his competitors- it was a worry. Not that she had control over the events.

“Gwayne will be fine.”

Elspeth was pissed off. So much so she had left the royal balcony, storming down to the knights’ village. Finding exactly who she was looking for, “You let him unhorse you,” the dishevelled hair didn’t help her unexplainable infatuation. While he stood there, unlinking his armour.

“Your Lord brother was better than me, that can be changed with more training,” He remained so calm and gentle. As he always had and she presumed would continue to be; riling her up even more.

She paced ever so close to the man, chin up attempting to look more foreboding, “Why did you let Gwayne beat you?”

“Ser Gwayne is a fine knight.”

“He may be a fine knight but he can’t unhorse you,” her chest met his; heart skipping, maybe that wasn’t hers. He hadn’t looked away- staring into Elspeth’s eyes as she did his.

That harsh edge to her melted as he dipped his head down, “Did you want me to win, my Lady?” Ending at the shell of her ear, Elspeth sucked in a breath.

The woman sought to maintain her composure, “I trusted you wouldn’t sully my honour, Ser Strong,” faces mere inches away, “But I’m sure you won’t repeat that mistake next time…” She took a few steps back- aware of prying eyes of tourney goers and those of knights.

Nothing could hide his look of bemusement, “You wish to give me your honour again?” The woman nodded.

“You are the strongest knight, in the Seven Kingdoms. You’re one of the best there is.” A wave of pride on his face but something waged sincerity.

“I didn’t know you to be capable of such flattery, my Lady.” He was too happy with himself.

“Don’t push it, Strong.” Deja vu as she walked away- turning back to witness that intent look on Harwin’s face, “Never forfeit another tourney.”

“Don’t you want your necklace back?”

She waved him off, “For next time. Don’t want you forgetting about me,” maybe she winked, maybe she didn’t. Elspeth was not ready to admit she winked at Harwin Strong. Or that she had given him her most treasured possession.

Those eyes of blue watched the girl, “Are you sure, Elspeth?” She was weak at her knees. Yet she held it- a weak, timid nod. How had they gotten so close again? Whatever the reason, Elspeth just wanted him to disappear and let her thoughts remain pure and allow for her to go about her usual day.

Not constantly think about him.

The woman just couldn’t figure the knight out. She couldn’t fathom why in the Known World would he align himself with her? The eldest daughter to the Hand of the King and the most outspoken Lady that the court had known.

Murmurs fluttered the air, a blur of orange came into view. “Ser Harwin,” The unmistakable voice of her brother. He had to look twice at his sister being in the knight’s village, “Sister, I think you need to return to your Princess.”

“Does being a stickler ever get old, brother?” Unamused and unyielding. Until that look emerged on his face. “Gwayne, what’s wrong?” Wide green eyes met his calmed blue.

“The Queen is dead.” Drums thundered around her- only a figment of her imagination but they pounded stronger than her own heart.

Fuck. “Rhaenyra. I’ve got to go.”

Without a second word, she found her best friend and held her tight despite declaring she ‘didn’t need’ Elspeth’s sympathies. That didn’t prevent the Princess from melting to the floor in the Hightowers’ arms. Both Elspeth and Alicent cradled her that day. Not speaking a single phrase, just sharing each others’ despair.

Queen Aemma was the perfect mother to them all. Never thinking herself to be above any subject. She was a true Queen. And a true Targaryen.

What was the Seven Kingdoms to do without her by Viserys’ side?

And her death was in vain- Prince Baelon only saw the living world for a mere few hours. Elspeth didn’t need a lesson from her father to understand what this meant. The succession of Viserys’ throne was in question. Unless he remarried and produced a male heir or two.

It also meant her father would be in a more ridiculous mood- which meant more suitors in the coming days.

The days went fast and her sanity broke at a quicker rate. She felt Rhaenyra’s pain- that agony. The Princess was there for both the sisters when their Lady mother passed, and now they would return the favour. Though, Alicent had been stealing her and their mother’s clothes as of late. And had been around the Kings chambers. The woman just hoped Alicent wasn’t being forced to play an adult game at the age of fifteen.

But knowing Otto Hightower and his schemes- that most certainly was the truth. And it made her blood boil.

A crash of doors, “What is the meaning of this?”

“Are you so power famished that you’re going to exploit your youngest child? Your daughter?” She sat on the desk he was working on- closing the book that kept his focus even while she spoke. Her stare was that of rages- not surprise, “You’re rotten at your very core, that throne... Please don’t drag Alicent into your games!”

“Well you certainly won’t do what’s best for this family… Alicent has a keen mind for the way things work in this world.”

“She’s a fucking child who has a misguided idolisation for her father! Mother would never forgive you for this…” Her breath taken as the man she called ‘father’ had his fingers wrapped around her throat. Nails digging further- a crushinh hold. It wasn’t fear running through her. It was pure hatred. “Do it. Kill me. Show them the monster you’ve always been.” It was a struggle worth the pain- he released her from his grip.

Elspeth didn't know what lurked behind those eyes before. Now she did. A coward and a kingmaker. Her throat felt the construction still, coughing to realign any part of her windpipe as soon as slumped outside of the door- not caring what the Kingsguard stationed outside thought. Before their worried faces asked, she had charged halfway down the corridor- passing by with steeled manner.

“Lady Elspeth, whatever is the matter?” The master of laws, Ser Lyonel Strong. One of her father’s peers that made sense, she was quite fond of the man. He often checked in with the woman, almost like an actual father would. Not that she would know.

She shook her head- politely, “Ser Lyonel, you are in good health?”

“Child, I have known you since you were knee high,” Arms crossed, “Your Lord father?”

She nodded, “I have to attend, her grace. I will see you in court, Ser.” Elspeth had been wholly unaware of the bruises circling her throat- however, the master of laws had not been so ignorant.

Lady Elspeth had not gone to Rhaenyra- a blatant lie so she could venture down and out of the castle. Kings Landing was a much better crowd than Oldtown ever had been.

The woman found herself on the bar counter - wooden and bulking - singing her tunes as somebody tickled the ivories and picked at the strings. A tankard of ale raised in her hand, that would be her fifth. Not that she paid for any of them. She knew Bert the owner, but vagrants had been stockpiling her in alcohol since she strutted in.

She was among the clouds- unaware if it were the ale or the brute slinging her over his shoulder. Not that the girl argued, she was too far gone to walk- it was nice being carried around.

Until her back crashed into a wall, “You are foolish for coming here, my Lady,” so polite yet so gruff at the same time. It ignited something in her.

Anger… lust… Elspeth couldn’t rightly say which, “Ugh, not you, Ser Breakybones…” Eyes rolled, taking a step she wasn’t ready to take in that condition- falling into his arms. And she felt safe, secure. The woman found herself in the clouds again. So she giggled, looking into his stern face. “I’ve always fancied you…” his hand swept away the hair, unable to resist sweeping in behind her neck. She couldn’t help but wince.

She felt this man of all men tremble, “Who did this? Was it one of those pigs inside?” He let her go for a moment- about to absolute havoc to the patrons until they gave him answers. But a hand on the side of his face stopped him- everything in the man. Eyes widened as if his own heart ceased to beat when he saw her composure unravel and the tears break down Elspeth’s soft skin.

All but shattering. He held her snug while she bawled. Elspeth barely noticed when he carried her, all the way to the Red Keep. She’d have appreciated that in consciousness or told him to fuck off.

#house of the dragon #ser harwin strong #harwin x reader #harwin breakbones #harwin strong #ser harwin #house hightower #house strong #house targaryen #hotd

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lavenderfluorite14 · 7 months

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A Taste of Plums | Astarion x Female!Tav

Chapter 4: Confession

Summary: Another companion makes a bid for Tav’s heart. Astarion wrestles with what that means.

Chapter Warnings: Canon compliant fantasy racism. See A03 for Full Tag List.

1. 2. 3.

@ambi-chann

In the end, Lae’Zel wins. Her argument is indisputable. They could ceremorphosize at any moment and every minute they waste traipsing around the forest is another nail in all their coffins. Tav begrudgingly relents, motioning for Astarion to come with them. Lae’Zel drags their group back to the Emerald Grove in tense silence.

“So, you know a lot about these parasites? Will we survive them?” Astarion asks hopefully, trying to break the tension.

“Only if my people extract them. The only other cure is the blade,” Lae’Zel replies tersely, offering no further explanations.

“Wonderful,” Astarion blanches.

“So how do they extract them?” Tav presses further.

“They will do so with a zaith’isk. By covenant I can say no more,” Lae’Zel snaps. They descend back into uncomfortable silence. Lae’Zel has such a way with words.

But there had to be another way. Ceremorphosis should have begun days ago and yet here they are, completely untentacled. There must be something special about their tadpoles, Astarion can feel it. And if they are special, then maybe there is a way to control them and stop the transformation altogether. Asatrion could be free, for good.

Free for good. He doesn’t care how it happens. He would take any help he could get, even from mindflayers. The proximity of true freedom spurs him fiercely onward, even as a second death looms.

Lae’Zel hunts Zorru down with meticulous precision. Although, he really wasn’t that difficult to find. Most people eye them with polite curiosity as they pass, but the tiefling called Zorru immediately begins cowering at the sight of Lae’Zel.

“By Mordai’s Eyes, another one? My friend’s blood not enough?” Zorru accuses. “Come to rip me open too?”

Lae’Zel crosses her arms, looking down her stubbed nose at him. “In Crèche K’liir, a formal greeting begins with a bow,” she says. It’s not a suggestion. Astarion feels a thrill of excitement ripple through him. How promising.

Zorru rounds on Astarion and Tav. “Is this monster with you?” He demands.

Tav crosses her arms too, moving to stand by Lae’Zel. “Yes. And I suggest you do what she says,” she warns sternly. Well, well, this was certainly another side of Tav. And not an unwelcome one, he thinks. Astarion crosses his arms as well, scornfully staring down Zorru. Zorru balks, waffling lamely. When neither Tav nor Astarion move, he folds at the waist, inclining his head in a bow.

“Lower,” Lae’Zel commands imperiously. Zorru looks to them for help, dark eyes wide and begging.

“She’s serious. You’d better get on your knees. Fast,” Tav warns again. Zorru hesitates, then sinks to the ground, his face reddening with shame. Astarion thrums with glee. He had suffered similar humiliations at Cazador’s hand for centuries. How fun to be the one commanding and not the one kneeling. Ah, how the other half lived.

Lae’Zel unfortunately concludes her business swiftly and with frustrating efficiency. She shoves their map in Zorru’s face and he marks a point in the west corner where Lae’Zel’s comrade, Kin, had slain his friend. With no more use for him, Lae’Zel orders Zorru to stand, announcing loudly that he may keep his innards.

“You’re not going to eviscerate him? I was hoping for a show,” Astarion pouts.

“Cool your blood. I’ll indulge you soon enough,” Lae’Zel promises. Astarion grins. He certainly hopes so. He should adventure with Lae’Zel more often. Tav unfolds her arms, exhaling audibly through her nose.

“Well…..you are quite the interrogator,” Tav finally grimaces. “We may have to use those skills again.” Astarion notes that she doesn’t seem pleased at the idea, which is a shame. Lae’Zel still preens.

“A shell so thin it was easy to crack it. The teef-ling was clear-“

“Hold on, did you say teef-ling?” Tav smiles, despite herself.

Lae’Zel pauses, confused. Astarion could swear that she was blushing. “I am unfamiliar with the, well I shall not say culture. Custom, perhaps. You shall educate me on matters of this Fay Run,” Lae’Zel orders, confident again. Tav chuckles, sighing.

“Well then, your lessons begin immediately. It’s Faerûn.” Lae’Zel chks quietly, pushing past them towards the exit. Tav catches Astarion’s eye and they both burst into a fit of quiet laughter. Tav quickly trots back up alongside her, Astarion in tow.

“So, Lae’Zel. What would you like to know about Faerûn?” She asks. “I’d be happy to-“

“I have a confession,” Lae’Zel interrupts, suddenly halting. She stops at the upper entrance of the grove where the land levels out into pleasant greenery. She turns squarely towards Tav, who freezes on the spot. Astarion slows to a stop a few paces away. He has to hear this.

“I was too hasty to judge you. I thought you witless, gutless, unimpressively bland,” Lae’Zel begins. Tav frowns, her brows knitting together in confusion, and Astarion quickly presses a hand to his mouth to stifle more giggling. “But now you have earned my respect, and more still.” Lae’Zel takes a step towards Tav, who takes a step backwards. “My yearning,” Lae’Zel confesses. She continues advancing. “You’ve proven your wits.” Lae’Zel takes a step, Tav takes a step. “You are efficient and dominant in and out of battle.” Lae’Zel takes a step, Tav takes a step. “You’ve proven your courage. I swear you would tear the horns off of one dragon for plunging into another.” By now Lae’Zel has backed Tav against the rock face of the grove. “And you are hardly bland. Your scent alone is enough to make my neck sweat and my hairs stand on end.” Lae’Zel murmurs softly, placing an armored hand against the cliff, much too close to Tav’s face. Astarion isn’t laughing anymore.

“Hold on, are you coming on to me?” Tav asks.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Lae’Zel mocks. “I want to taste you. Perhaps tonight. Perhaps later. But I want it all the same.” Her voice is a warm, sultry rumble as she leans in closely. “Do you?” Lae’Zel’s golden eyes gleam with carefully controlled lust. Tav’s eyes flick over to Astarion, who has schooled his face into careful neutrality.

“I’m deeply flattered, Lae’Zel,” Tav says carefully, “but I’m not sure.” Lae’Zel withdraws. Something like relief fills him.

“You’re not sure?” Lae’Zel jeers. “Well then. Your loss, I fear,” she says breezily, righting herself. “One day soon you will wonder how my lips might have tasted, how my fingers on your skin might have felt. And you will wish you could return to this lost moment.“ As she turns away, she boldly looks Astarion up and down. She quirks an eyebrow at him, as if in challenge. Astarion quirks an eyebrow back.

“We must find this crèche. Only there can we be purified. And only then will this be over.” She strides forward purposefully, leaving Astarion and Tav to trail behind her. Astarion curiously watches Tav out of the corner of his eye but she pointedly ignores him, staring ahead as they pass beneath the heavy stone gate of the Emerald Grove.

They swing by camp to grab Gale, then spend the rest of the day fruitlessly scouting. The roads beyond are swamped by knolls and goblins, making peaceful passage impossible. They will have to fight their way through no matter what they choose. Which is good, because Astarion will need to stab something soon.

He had been so absorbed in his own plan that he had not considered whether any of his companions might also have designs on Tav. Obviously they would, look at her. She was witty and cute, she defended her comrades, she was a fierce fighter. She was bound to be someone’s type. He had the advantage of course, he was the most attractive one in camp. He assumed. And Lae’Zel had still tried to claim Tav as her trophy.

He hadn’t thought that Lae’Zel of all people would approach Tav. So far she had been utterly single-minded in her pursuit of other Githyanki and deeply disdainful of any unrelated suggestion. It’s not that he didn’t like Lae’Zel, quite the opposite in fact. She was strong, fierce, capable. Ready to kill at a moments notice, no questions asked. He respected her, which was a strange feeling. He was also afraid of her, which probably had a lot to do with it. Astarion should really sleep with both of them. Then, he could have two allies instead of one.

He imagined Lae’Zel would be as indomitable in bed as she was out of it. She would probably be rough, bruising. That could be fun on the right night. But Astarion suspected that Lae’Zel would abandon their camp and rejoin her people as soon as they found her crèche. He doubted Lae’Zel could or would protect him from the Astral Plane, which defeated the purpose of sleeping with her.

And what would Tav think? Would this liaison alienate his best and only ally? Would Tav be hurt if he slept with Lae’Zel, or would she just move on to the next warm body, so to speak? Tav obviously wanted him. What he didn’t know was whether or not Tav wanted only him. Who was his competition and how worried should he be?

For a moment Astarion considers whether or not he is out of his depth. This would have never happened at Cazador’s palace. They had never interfered with each other’s hunts, there was no need to. Why compete for one specific prey, who you would never have anyway, when there were ten more around the corner? He eventually dismissed this ridiculous idea. He’d been toying with and breaking hearts for centuries. He knew how to play this game. Just nights ago Tav had been grinding in his lap begging for more. He was the one on the right trajectory. A trajectory he had interrupted, he thought angrily. He had completely forgotten that there were five other people competing for her attention and every moment that he spent twiddling his thumbs was a moment when someone else could swoop in and steal his prize.

He didn’t know what he would do if that happened. He supposed he would suggest a threesome. He could easily enthrall them both with a range of sexual delights. And if that was not enough? Astarion didn’t want to think about it. He would just have to be the most beautiful. The best in bed. Once Tav got a real taste of him she wouldn’t want anything else.

Astarion was growing hungry. He debated leaving camp to hunt down some juicy, woodland thing, but he still held on to the hope that Tav would come to him tonight. He was slowly tasting more and more creatures and while each held their own particular appeal, Tav still remained his favorite.

He wondered if there was actually something special about her blood or if it was purely sentimental. She was his first. She was willing. Had he known she would be so amenable he would have approached their first time completely differently.

He wanted to scoff at the idea of “their first time.” It made him sound practically virginal, a truly hilarious joke. And yet, it was true. She was the first thinking creature he had ever drunk from. Not a rotting carcass nor an animal he had hunted and killed. A living being who had offered herself to him. Who continued to offer herself to him. It made him feel good, powerful. Warm.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Tav rounded the corner and approached his tent, raising a hand in greeting. Perhaps she really had been summoned by his thoughts. Sometimes his tadpole squirmed in a way that made him curious about all its ignored potential.

“There you are! I was just thinking about you,” Astarion called lightly. Tav raised a teasing eyebrow.

“Oh? Only good things I hope?”

“Naturally, darling.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “I was just remembering that delicious moment we shared the other night.” Tav snorted.

“The one where you bit me? Which time?” She shot back, not unkindly.

“The first time, actually.” He’s glad she’s here. He’s glad she makes time for him, even though there are five others she could seek out instead. “I’ve had this condition for two centuries but, truth be told-,” he pauses briefly. Telling her felt right. “You were my first,” he confesses softly.

Tav blinks at him. “You’ve really only ever-“

“In all these years I’ve only fed on beasts. Drinking the blood of thinking creatures is another thing entirely.” He remembers how their minds connected that night. He knows she knows.

“How different is it?” She asks quietly, her expression softening.

Astarion sighs. “Like night and day. Like nothing I had ever tasted before or since.” He holds her gaze. “You were positively delectable.” A small smile plays upon Tav’s lush lips. He hungers for her even now, the sweet thing. She has created a monster. He’s had a taste of good blood and now he’ll never have enough of it. “And now I can’t help but wonder how the others taste,” he admits. His eyes flick around their camp, watching the others’ unsuspecting movements. Tav shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t know if they’d be as open to the idea as I was,” she reminds him.

“Oh, I don’t think they’d volunteer, of course. But it doesn’t make me any less curious,” He glances back towards Tav, who has crossed her arms over her chest. Her face creases in a frown. “Take Gale, for example,” he continues, in spite of her. “His blood strikes me as rich, refined, like a well aged brandy.” He can’t help but salivate, just a little. A glass of Gale must be so satisfying after a long day. Tav’s gaze drifts over to Gale, who is reading a book in his tent. She chews her lip.

“I could see him as a smooth whiskey. Something classy and expensive,” Tav agrees, playing along.

“But the gith? What in the hells would she taste like?” He says it casually, but he watches her closely for her answer.

Tav cocks her head, her eyes far away as she imagines it. “Something unique, for sure. Some kind of liqueur that you have to sip,” she suggests.

“Ooh, that sounds very appealing. Perhaps a cordial of some kind.”

“I could see that,” Tav says, They both angle slightly towards Lae’Zel, watching her as she sharpens her sword. “Definitely something strong, that’s for sure.”

“And what about Shadowheart?” Astarion prompts. They watch silently as Shadowheart meditates peacefully in front of her tent, her eyes closed to the world.

“Something that really packs a punch, but not right away. Something that sneaks up on you.” Tav is silent for a moment. “An absinthe?” She offers. It’s Astarion’s turn to snort.

“There’s nothing subtle about absinthe, darling. But yes, something with an intense flavor.” He points to Karlach. “Do you think dear Karlach is spicy?”

“No, she’s a beer,” Tav says decisively.

“Ugh, no. Karlach does not taste like foamy piss,” Astarion grimaces.

“Don’t be gross!” Tav exclaims, elbowing him.

“It’s just the truth, darling. I think she’d have a peppery finish.”

“I disagree, Karlach has a sweetness about her,” Tav continues.

“Well beer is not sweet,” he says haughtily. Tav elbows him again, but there’s no real bite behind the jab. He nudges her back, just a little.

“Wyll is definitely fresh and crisp,” Tav says, completely ignoring his comment.

“Like a cider. Far too much sugar for me,”

Tav eyes him. “Thought about that one, have you?” She says.

"I’ve thought about many things,” Astarion counters. “We have a very enticing group on our hands.” He stares at her, eagerly.

“We certainly are an attractive bunch,” she agrees, her tone even. She’s crossed her arms again. Good. Let her wonder what he means by this exchange. He hopes by now the possibilities have made her well and fully jealous.

“So, if you had to take a bite out of one of them, who would it be?” He asks. Tav bites her lip again, scanning the camp. She considers the question for far too long in Astarion’s opinion.

“Honestly, I’d be curious to see what vampiric blood tastes like,” Tav slowly admits. Her eyes meet his, boldly. Astarion can’t help but beam. Got her.

“Darling, I’m flattered,” he teases. “Who knew you had such taste?”

“Has it gone sour and necrotic? There’s only one way to know,” she parries back.

“Indeed. Well, all this talk has made me hungry,” he pointedly looks at Tav. “I’d better find something I can actually sink my teeth into,” he prompts.

“Good hunting, then,” she says, almost airily. It’s not the invitation he had wanted.

“And how will you spend your night?” He asks. Only the barest hint of distress graces his words. “Will you take our gith friend up on her delightful offer?” He tries to wrap the words in velvet, tries to make it seem enticing so Tav will tell him her thoughts plainly now. Instead, she looks away.

“Ah, no. At least, not tonight.” Tav says, embarrassed. “I just need time to myself. To think about everything that’s happened.” She can’t meet his eyes.

Tav is slipping away from him. He could double down, pursue her desperately. He bristles at the idea, despite the needy flame that has ignited inside him. Never again. He would never beg again. It had always been more effective to get them to chase him anyway. He still had many cards to play. He could wait.

“Well, don’t think too hard, darling. Your second thoughts always spoil the fun,” he says silkily. Tav laughs.

“Sweet dreams, Astarion.”

“Sweet dreams,” he says smoothly from behind lowered lashes. Tav retreats to her tent and Astarion slips off into the night, needing to kill.

Astarion returns in the early hours of the morning, long after anyone reasonable has gone to sleep. Yet there’s someone still awake, warming themselves by the fire with a goblet of wine. When she senses Astarion’s return, Shadowheart turns and approaches his tent.

“Find anything out there as tasty as our mutual friend?” She asks.

Astarion smiles perfunctorily. “Nothing out here, no.”

“Do you speak Elvish?” She asks.

“Obviously,” he replies, perking up. Centuries of torment had taken many of his early memories, but Astarion would always remember his first language.

“So what really happened this morning?” Shadowheart asks as she settles down before his tent.

“As Tav said, the tiefling gave us the location to the crèche. Whatever else could you mean?” Astarion replies, sitting beside her.

“Don’t play coy. You, Tav, and Lae’Zel all leave on some Githyanki errand, then when you return not an hour later, Lae’Zel is frowning despite the good news and Tav looks like her heart is going to explode. Then she grabs Gale for a scouting mission and you spend the rest of the day brooding by yourself.” She swirls her wine as she watches him. “So. What really happened?” Astarion swipes her goblet and takes a long sip. Wine still tastes sour, but the buzz is undeniable.

“Lae’Zel made a pass at Tav,” he confesses.

Shadowheart gasps. “Really? What did Tav say?”

“She let her down gently. She said ‘I don’t know,’” Astarion enunciates Tav’s words bitterly.

“Oh, don’t do it, Tav. Can you imagine, with a Githyanki?” Shadowheart groans into her drink.

“I’m sure you’ve never thought about that before,” Astarion quips. Shadowheart shoots him a stunned glare, a beautiful flush rising along her neck.

“Well, that explains your bad mood,” she retorts.

“Excuse me?”

“Please Astarion, you’re about as subtle as a peacock,” she says. “I don’t know what is going on between you and Tav but if you like her you should just say so.”

“That’s rich coming from a Sharran,” Astarion lashes back.

“Look, I’m trying to help you.”

“I don’t need seduction tips from a cloistered nun, my dear.” Astarion’s tone is clipped and biting.

“You’ve clearly never been to a Sharran cloister, then.” Shadowheart rises. “Fine, your feelings are your own. But don’t string Tav along too far. For some reason she actually cares for you,” Shadowheart lowers her voice unnecessarily. They are the only ones awake who can understand Elvish. “Even if she didn’t invite you to her tent tonight.”

“Goodnight, Shadowheart. A pleasure, as always.” He dismisses her in Common, rising to his feet as well.

“Goodnight, Astarion. Sweet dreams,” she calls as she walks away, a saucy echo of his earlier conversation with Tav. Astarion slinks into his tent, tying the laces of the flap tighter than he strictly needed to.

Tell Tav how he feels? What was there to say? “Please help me, I’m so desperate and pathetic, you can have any part of me you want!” Or perhaps, “Despite knowing what I am, you are still so incomprehensibly kind to me that it makes me ache?” Now that was unattractive. This was not some schoolyard crush. Shadowheart would never understand.

Assuming he isn’t banished from the group, he knows he won’t immediately die if Tav chooses someone else over him. If he’s really honest, his plan doesn’t even hinge on being exclusive with her. She just needs to like him enough to keep him around, which he can earn by fulfilling any and every fantasy she has about him. It doesn’t need to be more than that. She could still fall in love with someone else afterwards. Or before. Astarion isn’t picky.

But it would still be a very long adventure if he had to hear her flirting with someone else, see her kissing someone else, know she was fucking someone else. He had experienced many, many tortures throughout the years but that would be a brand new kind of punishment.

Chapter 5: Doubt

#astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion fic #Astarion longfic #background Shadowzel #Astarion and Shadowheart will be mean girl elf besties #A Taste of Plums #the night shift

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yaeggravate · 3 months

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hi i'm back with more crack theories about kaeya and everyone's favorite purple crystal 🥰

warning: this is just for fun, something to keep us entertained during another kaeya lore drought

a while back, before we knew who the sinner was, i suggested he was a fallen angel who gave kaeya his vision. kaeya's vision is pointedly missing two wings which may symbolize his clipped wings.

since there are some parallels between vision givers (archons) and vision bearers i assumed that the circumstances around kaeya's vision (fighting his brother after a betrayal) might hint towards the sinner also having gone through a sibling fallout.

fast forward, and while i was off about a few things, vedrfolnir does indeed have a sibling, one he betrayed pretty badly 🤭

Dainsleif: The Sinner you wish to know about... His situation is different. He and his fellow sinners have long betrayed me, and long betrayed their nation. Dainsleif: His name is Vedrfolnir, "The Visionary." Dainsleif: I'm loath to admit it, but... He is also my kin. My older brother.

who knows, maybe vedrfolnir witnessed the fight between the two brothers and saw himself in kaeya. (there's also something deeply funny about vedr losing his little brother dainsleif and replacing him with a cooler younger brother who also wants nothing to do with him).

Since that day, Kaeya and Diluc have gone their separate ways. But he never discusses it, just as he never discusses the origin of his Vision.

alternatively, perhaps vedr had to keep kaeya alive at all costs and hastily gave him a vision. he just so happens to be a Visionary, a powerful prophet who can divine the fate of the world and apparently see through time itself. ...like some kind of all seeing eye.

you know where this is going.

whether kaeya is a seer or not remains unclear. but there are enough oddities to suggest he knows and sees more than is normal. just look at his hangout! i'm not going to list all the instances but bennett even called him an "omniscient big brother" in an old official blog post. turns out, vedrfolnir is quite literally an omniscient big brother lol.

Kaeya: My dear audience, I ask you this: Do you believe in fate? If fate decreed that your life was to end in tragedy, what would you do?

Kaeya: Fate means to send the machinations of war to every corner of the land, to fan the flames of conflict till they engulf the entire world... Fate would see my sword tainted with the blood of innocents, that the bright banner of my homeland might fly in every nation known to mankind.

Kaeya: Perhaps there's an inept god out there deciding everyone's fates... much like the Akademiya student drafting Darbil's scripts.

how does he know this? is someone dropping spoilers in his ear or does he really have the gift of prophecy?

so imagine for a second kaeya's vision is from vedrfolnir. maybe this created a connection between them which allowed kaeya to catch glimpses of vedr's divinations... this might explain why kaeya was there during the caribert quest. kaeya waited every day for the traveler to show up which to me suggests he was desperate to talk to them. maybe he knew what was going to happen and wanted to warn them. (and then vedr's brother showed up which put a dent in those plans.)

another fun coincidence is that vedrfolnir means "storm pale", "wind bleached", or "wind-witherer". kaeya has many references to storms and wind. (frostwind swordsman, glacial whirlwind, he even came to mondstadt during a storm etc etc). no, this does not mean kaeya is vedr, but hey if child can inherit surtalogi's legacy why can't kaeya inherit vedrfolnir's, who has a history of "helping" the alberichs.

foul legacy is "demon king armament (魔王武装)" in CN, and in fischl's cn voiceline about kaeya, she questions if kaeya has the "demon eye (魔眼)". (it's no coincidence childe's foul legacy form looks like a fucked up seelie)

About Kaeya (CN) Fischl: The reality that cannot be seen through, the karma that cannot be discerned, the mad interweavings of reality and illusion... Perhaps that person and I are alike, shouldering the fate of the "demon eye"...

the sinners are using a power they acquired from the abyss. if the power comes from a demon, who are fallen angels, then it does not kill the fallen angel theory. moreover, the traveler specifically compares venti's upside down statue to the sinner. i think the abyss order are trying to create a mechanical angel; because who else can weave and control ley lines if not the descendants of fate itself? the mecha god might even be used to house vedr himself...

this is not without precedent. i recently found out deshret's mechanical triangle boss, abbreviated as ASIMON, is a reference to the aasimon in dnd, who are angels.... these mechas are imbued with jinn fragments, who are the descendants of the seelie. so essentially, deshret used angel juice to power up his machines.

remus also used the golden seelie bees to weave his symphony. ....sensing a worrying trend here.

i won't lie, it's not looking good for kaeya.

but it gets better

"sinners" and "fishers" in french are almost identical: pécheurs and pêcheurs. this is important because kaeya's ancestor anfortas is named after the fisher king from arthurian legends which was originally written in old french. he's the sinner AND fisher king.

Amfortas is a character from the Grail Romances: the Fisher King (le roi pêcheur) and the Sinner King (le roi pecheur).

kaeya's connections to fishers has been foreshadowed from the beginning; his birthday falls on november 30, which is the feast day of st andrew, a fisherman. his eyepatch in official art has a trident, which was used for spearfishing. (there's also fischl's entire existence aka fischer.)

he even has a hangout pic where he catches a fish. in that same route he went by the alias of albert rich, which might also be a reference to the fisher king being a "rich fisher". it's a double pun!

if kaeya is the new "fisher" or "sinner king", what would he be the king of? khaenri'ah seems like the most logical route. yes, khaenri'ah is gone but it's possible the kingdom can "grow back" just like fischl's immernachtreich.

Oz: "Really? So how do we make your homeland grow back again? Oh, pwease tell me, pweeease, pweeeeease!" Fischl: "Since you inquire so earnestly... give unto me a tranquil haven, promise me eternal admiration, lend me both time and wind, and one shall revive one's homeworld."

...or perhaps kaeya's future "kingdom" is simply mondstadt, which may be a pun on monsalvat, the fisher king's realm.

OR, even crazier, sinner king is literal, and the power the sinners are using belongs to a branch of kaeya's mysterious family... (not necessarily the alberichs).

we don't know yet if anfortas was born an alberich; for all we know he might have been adopted or married into the family. if this is the case, anfortas's lineage could be anything... we also can't forget kaeya's mother, who is an even bigger mystery than kaeya's father.

About Fischl (CN) What? You're saying that Fischl hiding one eye is very fitting for her image as "Prinzessin der Verurteilung"? Haha, by this logic, I should be a descendant of a last generation of royals, right?

😒

#.txt #lore bytes #i didn't mean to type this much there's just a lot on my mind sigh #kaeya alberich #vedrfolnir

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