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tropes-and-tales · 1 year

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Five Times Vigilante Definitely Does Not Have Feelings (and the One Time He Does)

Characters: Adrian Chase/Vigilante x f!reader

CW: Crude language; yearning.

Word Count: 3982

Adrian Chase will tell anyone: he doesn’t have emotions like people do. He doesn’t feel sad or angry or embarrassed. When Peacemaker gave him the nickname “Thimble,” he certainly didn’t cry. When Peacemaker was sent to prison, he certainly didn’t feel lonely.

Not having emotions is what makes him a more evolved human.

And yet, when ARGUS springs Peacemaker and sets up a black ops outfit in Evergreen, Adrian finds himself toeing the line of feelings. He doesn’t have emotions like people do, but he comes awfully close a handful of times…until he crosses the line entirely.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Vulnerable

As the Vigilante, Adrian gets hurt all the time. He’s become proficient at stitching up his own wounds. His body is littered with the scars of his own handiwork.

But when Goff tortures him for information, and when the ARGUS team comes to his and Peacemaker’s rescue, he finds himself missing half of a pinkie toe. It’s the most important toe on the human body, and he’ll probably never walk again…and no one seems to care.

Except for you. In the van as they return to headquarters, you sit across from him, watching him as he studies his mangled foot. You murmur something that sounds sympathetic, but he barely hears it over Peacemaker laughing at him.

At headquarters, you look at him and jerk your head in the direction of the back office.

“I can stitch you up, if you want,” you offer.

He starts to shake his head, but the mean blonde woman—Harcourt, her name is—makes an offhand comment about your superior patch-up abilities, so he accepts your help. He limps painfully behind you, follows you into a room that has been converted into a rough sort of exam room and budget clinic.

“Hop up on the table,” you tell him, and even though he doesn’t trust you—or any of your team—he does as you say. It’s clumsy. He hurts in a hundred different places: his half-amputated toe, his electrocuted crotch, all the scrapes and bruises from the fight with Cobra Kai.

“I won’t take off my mask,” he warns you. “I take my secret identity very seriously. If you saw my face, I’d have to kill you.”

“Duly noted,” you reply dryly. “But I only need to see your foot.”

He pulls off his boot and regards his mangled half-pinkie toe sadly. You pull on a pair of latex gloves and turn on a bright lamp, angling it at his bare foot.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” you say as you prod the wound gently. “In fact, you really didn’t lose anything but a couple layers of skin.”

“The blade was as dull as fuck,” he replies.

You wheel your stool over to a cabinet, then pull out some supplies: needle and thread, disinfectant, gauze and tape. Then you wheel back over to him and set to work.

The mean blonde woman was right—you’re quick, efficient. He looks down at your bent head as you stitch him up, and he sees that your needlework is better than his own. He doubts he’ll even have much of a scar once it heals.

But it’s the strange feeling that creeps over him: makes his vision waver, makes him feel a little light-headed. Your hands are deft but also gentle. Adrian can’t remember ever being touched so gently. Maybe when he was really small. Maybe his mom was gentle like that when he was so small that he can’t remember it now. It makes him break out in goosebumps. He shudders at the touch of your warm hand bracing his foot, and you misunderstand the involuntary gesture.

“Almost done,” you murmur, and a moment later you tie off the last stitch and snip the thread. You wrap his toe in gauze, pat his knee softly in a reassuring way. Then you straighten up and ask if there’s any other injuries he needs patched up.

“Goff electrocuted me,” he blurts out. “With a car battery.”

You look at him, level, but the corner of your mouth quirks in a near-smile. “You want me to look at that for you?”

“Oh, no. No. No, I just wanted to mention it. I’m not asking you to look at it.” He’s grateful for the mask; he can feel his face heating up at the idea of taking off his suit in front of you, and the sudden flush confuses him. Irritates him. Something about the thought of being exposed makes his stomach churn in a way he doesn’t understand.

You hum thoughtfully, then turn back to the cabinet of supplies. You rummage around, then pull out a small white tube that you hand him.

“Antibiotic gel for cuts and burns,” you say. “You can put a cool cloth on…well, any burns you may have. If there’s blistering, don’t pop them.”

“Okay.”

“And, you know…if you have any lingering side effects of being electrocuted, you should see a specialist.”

Vigilante reaches down and pulls his boot back on, but already his toe feels better. “What sort of side effects?” he asks.

He looks up at you in time to see that same half-smile. You peel off your gloves, toss them in the trash.

“I can imagine where you were electrocuted,” you reply. “So if those parts don’t typically work the way you’re used to, see a real doctor.”

Adrian Chase is not good at nuance or subtlety. “Huh?”

You blink at him before you say, “if you can’t get or maintain an erection, see a urologist.”

“Oh.” He blinks too, behind his visor. “Okay.”

You turn to leave the room but then glance over your shoulder before you do. “Thanks for your help tonight,” you say. “The mission was a success because of you.”

Neither Vigilante nor Adrian Chase ever get any thanks. He flushes even hotter under his mask, and he grumbles in reply, uncomfortable to be seen, to be recognized for the first time.

To be vulnerable.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Embarrassed

The next afternoon, he’s at Peacemaker’s trailer, helping him clean up from when the police tossed the place. They are blasting Guns and Roses, drinking beer…it’s like the old days, almost.

A knock at the door then, and Adrian has only a second to pull on his mask before you stroll in.

“Hey, Chris. Vigilante.” You nod in greeting, then reach into your bag to pull out a thick manila folder. You hand it to Peacemaker.

“Murn wanted me to bring this by. It’s the latest intel we got from Goff’s place.”

You stand there as Chris takes the folder and sinks down onto his couch, already paging through the information. Vigilante stands there too, awkward, so he crosses his arms to keep from fidgeting. There’s a long stretch of silence once the Guns and Roses record ends, and Vigilante struggles with silence.

“I got hard last night,” he tells you. “And this morning too.”

“Dude, what the fuck?” Peacemaker sputters. “She doesn’t want to hear that!”

“She mentioned it last night!”

Peacemaker scoffs, twists his face into an expression of disbelief. “Yeah, I’m sure she mentioned your dick last night. Sure. Okay. Fantasize much?”

“She did!”

“You seriously need to get laid, dude. Stop making shit up.”

“He’s not lying,” you tell Peacemaker with a sheepish shrug. “Though I mentioned it in the context of his injuries and not…some other context.”

“See?” Vigilante says, and Peacemaker rolls his eyes, makes a jacking-off motion with his hand.

You don’t linger. You beat a hasty retreat, waving over your shoulder as you leave the trailer, and Peacemaker gives him more hell—calls him weird, calls him annoying.

“No wonder you’ve never had a real girlfriend, dude,” he says as he turns back to his folder of intel. “You say the creepiest shit the minute a cute girl is around.”

Vigilante doesn’t think about it much more until later. That night, in bed, he lies awake for far longer than he usually does. He replays that moment, tries to understand why he just blurted that out.

He wonders if you would have stayed at the trailer longer if he hadn’t been creepy. His face burns in the darkness of his bedroom, and his stomach twists painfully as he replays the moment over and over. He replays his stupid blurting out about his dick, and he has no idea what it means. He never obsesses over his stupid mouth like this.

If he had feelings like other people, he’d recognize the emotion as embarrassment.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Despondent (and Comforted)

Adrian gets himself arrested on purpose. It’s the best way he can help Chris: get arrested, get booked into the same prison as Chris’ racist supervillain father, then kill said racist supervillain father.

Easy enough. It’d set Chris free and make his life so much better. Allow him to move forward and not be bogged down, like Adebayo said.

Adrian fails. He only manages to make things worse—clues Auggie into his plan accidentally, possibly points law enforcement in Chris’ direction. So Adrian doesn’t just fail—he fails miserably.

He’s released that night. He’s surprised at first, but as he changes back into his clothes and collects his personal effects from the guards, he realizes that ARGUS has its sticky fingers in all sorts of things and probably sprung him with just a few keystrokes.

When he leaves the prison, you’re sitting out front in your car. You lower the passenger window and call out to him.

“C’mon,” you say. “Harcourt sent me to take you home.”

He’s too upset to even feel bad about his cover being blown. He climbs into the car.

“I think I made things worse,” he says, and he tries not to cry. He only wanted to help his best friend (even if he’s not Peacemaker’s best friend). Somehow he messed up, and it could ruin everything.

“Okay,” you reply softly. “It’s okay.”

You drive him home. He doesn’t give you his address, but you know it—another screw-up, he thinks, getting tangled up with people who easily cracked his secret identity. You know his name, his face, where he lives. Some instrument of vengeance he is. You probably even recognize him from his job at Fennel Fields.

Outside of his apartment, you park, then turn to face him. In the half-light from the streetlamps, he can just make out your soft smile.

“This entire ops is nothing but mistakes,” you tell him. “And yet, we’re doing okay. We’ll figure out how to handle Auggie Smith. Don’t worry about it.”

He nods, and something about the barest bit of comfort—paired with your smile—makes him turn to face you too.

“I’m Adrian,” he says, even though you know his name.

Your smile broadens and you say your name, even though he knows it. You hold out your hand and after a beat he takes it.

“Good to finally meet you, Adrian,” you reply as you shake hands.

For whatever reason, as low as he feels, he falls asleep that night with a weird lightness in his chest—because he doesn’t dwell on his failure at the prison.

Instead, he falls asleep with the memory of your smile, your kind words. Your warm hand in his.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Protective

The attack on Goff’s house yielded some leads, and the team travels three hours away to take out a nest of Butterflies. Everyone is exhausted, filthy, and bruised up.

It’s in the van—you sitting beside Adrian—when you start to nod off. He catches it the first few times, the way your head dips forward, the way you jerk back awake. It’s cute, the way you fight sleep, and then it happens.

You fall asleep and you don’t wake up. Your head drifts towards him, then settles against his shoulder.

Adrian freezes.

He and Peacemaker—they used to go out together, looking for crimes or bitches or both. He’s no virgin. He fucks. He’s no stranger to touch, and he’s certainly no stranger to women. And yet…this feels different. It feels new.

Peacemaker notices. “You got a new girlfriend, dude,” he points out with a laugh.

Harcourt rolls her eyes at the teasing. “Leave her alone. She puts in way more hours than you, asshole.”

“I put in plenty of hours,” he replies, defensive. “It takes a lot of time to maintain this impressive physique. Do you know how long I work on my small muscle groups alone?”

Harcourt rolls her eyes again, then returns her attention to her phone. Peacemaker turns back to where Adrian sits, rigid, as you sleep against him.

“If you get hard, just don’t tell her about it,” he advises the younger man. “You’ll creep her out again.”

It’s strange, the feeling of your head against him. It’s not sexy at all, obviously—in fact, it’s a little uncomfortable. He doesn’t want to move you, doesn’t want to jostle you and wake you up. Harcourt said you’re tired, and you took a hell of a beating as you fought the Butterflies.

Adrian has always approached his work as Vigilante from a perspective of vengeance, not protection, so the feeling is strange: how he wants to let you sleep, how he wants to protect your sleep. How he wants to make you comfortable.

A quiet falls over the team; the swaying of the van lulls everyone into comfortable silence. Adrian breathes in carefully through his nose, then shifts his body. Slowly, carefully. He leans away from you, allows you to lie against him more. He changes the angle enough that he can get his arm out from where it’s trapped between your body and his. He shifts again, gets his arm around you. Gently moves you—changes it from your head awkwardly pressed against his hard molded shoulder pad to your head tucked against his chest.

You wake, a little, as he moves you. You blink up at him sleepily, say his name—Adrian, not Vigilante or Vig or V—and your voice is husky with exhaustion. There’s a questioning lilt to how you say his name, so he shakes his head softly.

“Go ahead and rest,” he says, quiet. “Everything’s fine.”

You nod, then settle back against him. It takes only a moment until he feels your breathing slow down, deepen. He feels your body go heavy and lax against him. Tucked against his chest, his arm holding you against him, he can smell you, feel how warm you are. If he moves his head just a little, he can press his cheek against the top of your head.

Go ahead and rest, he thinks. Everything’s fine. I’ll keep you safe.

Vigilante has always been an instrument of vengeance, but this is the first time he’s felt protective of anyone.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Fear

The 11th Street Kids have one chance to eradicate the Butterflies forever: if they can kill their only food source, the so-called cow, they will eventually all die off. When they make their final assault on the farm, the team splits up: Adebayo and Economos stay back, while the warriors—Peacemaker, Vigilante, Harcourt, and you—charge into action.

Whether the cow is killed or not, Adrian doesn’t find out until after the battle is over. He fights off the onslaught of Butterflies, but for the first time, his attention isn’t entirely on his own fight.

His attention is on you, now, too.

He manages to keep you in his sightline for the beginning of the fight. He sees you, admires the sight of you when you’re in your berserker mode: furious and deadly, well-fitted black suit, guns flashing as you empty clip after clip into the skulls of the Butterflies.

Then he loses sight of you.

His chest clenches in an unfamiliar tension, and when he finally catches sight of you again, that tight-chest feeling cedes to something else, something worse: an ice-cold shard of fear that lances through him, settles in his gut where it sits like a stone.

When he finally catches sight of you, it’s the exact moment you are shot by a Butterfly.

One shot hits your shoulder, spins you around.

Another shot hits you square in the chest, makes you stagger backwards as the force is absorbed by your vest.

The final shot hits you low in the belly, and Adrian (who has studied your gear closely) knows you have little protection there. The icy fear blooms in him, fills up every bit of him until it feels like it’s in his veins.

He screams your name. He barely even feels the bullet that hits him (“oh, shoot” he mutters, and tosses a knife behind him to kill his own attacker), but then he stumbles and falls, and he loses consciousness.

He wakes a moment later. He has no idea how much time has passed, but he manages to get to his hands and knees, then to his feet. He makes his way to where you fell and he finds you.

It’s bad. It’s so bad that the icy fear turns acidic in his veins, makes him burn with fear. With terror. You gaze up at him but you don’t seem to see him, and each breath makes a fresh pulse of blood trickle from your mouth.

Adrian has never been very good at social situations. He never knows the right thing to say and if he does, he doesn’t know the right time to say it. He wishes these things came more easily to him; if it were Chris here right now instead of him, Chris would know the right thing to say. He’d know how to keep you awake, how to give you comfort.

All Adrian can offer is what you told him the night he got out of prison, when you drove him home. Now, as you lie under the night sky, dying in front of him, as he presses one hand against the worst wound to try and staunch the bleeding, he repeats your words back to him.

“It’s okay,” he says, and he says it over and over and hopes you believe it. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

The Time Vigilante Definitely Feels Love

You have no memory of the fight at the farm. The last thing you remember is the drive there, but everything after is a blank. Adebayo stops by when you finally wake up and fills you in on the salient details.

She tells you how Vigilante—who was also shot, who had been blown up earlier in the day—carried you to safety. How he kept you from bleeding out, how he held your very life in his hands and kept you from dying. How hospital security had to separate him from you, once you were laid out on the gurney and being wheeled into surgery.

How he still tried to fight to stay by your side, and how he only failed because of his own injuries and blood loss.

“That man is stupid crazy about you,” Adebayo chuckles with a shake of her head. “I don’t even think he’s really a psychopath.”

You chuckle with her, wince when the action pulls at the thousand stitches and staples that are keeping you held together. “He’s not bad, right?”

“We’re literally the Island of Misfit toys,” she replies. “But yeah, he’s alright.”

-----

Adrian is hospitalized too, and once he’s healed up to a point, he starts sneaking into your room to visit. It’s not really sneaking—every time he undoes his IV and heart monitor, it sends the nurses into a panic—but after Adebayo’s press conference revealing the existence of Task Force X, the hospital staff is pretty tolerant of his harmless shenanigans.

He helped ward off an alien invasion, after all. You both did.

You have to agree with Adebayo. You’ve never quite believed that Adrian is a psychopath or a sociopath or whatever. You certainly never believed him when he said he didn’t have feelings or emotions. The guy is nothing but a walking ball of emotions: obvious love for his friends, a yearning to belong, a sweet desire to be liked and included. Sure, he kills without compunction, but he seems to love in equal measure, even if he doesn’t believe he does.

When he visits you, he doesn’t talk about feelings. He chatters endlessly about his and Peacemaker’s exploits—criminals they’ve busted, ways they’ve destroyed old appliances in the woods behind Peacemaker’s trailer. He talks about how it was when Peacemaker was in prison, how he kept calling and leaving voicemails to make it seem like everything was normal. He talks about his job at Fennel Fields, all the terrible customer service stories he has.

He discharges himself against the advice of the doctors (he’s healed enough, he tells you), and you think he’ll stop visiting, but he doesn’t. He visits every day still, and when you start physical therapy to build up the muscle tone and endurance you’ve lost, he sits in a nearby chair, watching you. Cheering you on.

Adebayo wasn’t wrong. You know Adrian has feelings for you. You’re more socially adept than him, and you’ve had relationships before. You’ve had crushes and been the object of them. You guessed his infatuation early on, and you can guess that it’s only grown for him since then.

It probably confuses him, you guess. You know what love feels like. What a crush feels like. All that feeling, in so many places: the fluttery stomach, the pounding heart, the thoughts that just circle ‘round and ‘round about a single person.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t have similar feelings for him. He’s easy on the eyes, sure—but he’s earnest and sweet, a brutal killer with a heart of gold.

You can also guess that Adrian might never make a move. This has to be unfamiliar territory for him. You know he’s no virgin (he’s chattered endlessly about his and Peacemaker’s exhaustive threesomes too), but he seems to have no relationship experience.

But your entire short working relationship with him has been give and take. You stitched him up, comforted him when he was feeling low after his failed attempt to kill Auggie Smith. He let you rest against him, held you gently as you slept after a mission. He saved your life, kept you from bleeding out.

Give and take. The best kind of relationship, in your opinion.

“Hey, Adrian,” you say one afternoon after PT. You’re exhausted and sore, but you’re quickly approaching your own discharge. You are healing up nicely. You have things to look forward to.

“What’s up?” he asks, and he bounces over to your bedside like a Golden Retriever puppy, eager.

“Doctor says I’m good to go in a few days.”

“That’s great!” His face breaks open in a wide grin that transforms him from nerdy-handsome to downright gorgeous. “That’s good news!”

You swallow, push down the nerves that flare up. “I thought maybe we could celebrate.”

“Yeah!” He grins at you. “I can call Chris—”

“I thought maybe just me and you,” you cut in, clarifying. “Just this time. Maybe we include Chris some other time.”

“Oh.” The smile falls from his face, and he looks at you. His brows are knit in confusion.

No sense in backtracking now. “Like a date. Would you like to go on a date with me?”

“Oh.” A beat. “With me? Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

What you’re asking him finally sinks in—a beat longer than it might with someone else, but that’s just part of Adrian’s charm. The smile returns to his face, brighter and wider than before.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Hell yeah, dude. I’d love that.”

#adrian chase #adrian chase imagine #adrian chase x reader #vigilante #vigilante imagine #vigilante x reader #peacemaker #tropes-and-tales

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thackeroy · 4 months

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Finally got my mitts on a pair of oil slick stork scissors! Last time I tried to get a pair they were sold out so I got regular rainbow ones, now I finally have more than one pair of scissors that actually work for my needlework XD

#my content #craftblr #crafter #trans crafter #needlework #queer crafts #cross stitch #embroidery #blackwork #sewing supplies #scissors #stork scissors

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peppermintcandiesshop · 4 months

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Needle minders for the cross-stitching person in your life or for you

Needle minders are cute handy little magnets to hold your needle.

No need to stick the needle into you project, saving you from pokes or damaged fabric!

Simply put one magnet under your fabric and the other half the cute side on top then just place the needle on and Ta-da it stays (as long as the needle is metal)

usable on pretty much and needle work project, and they're

SUPER CUTE!!!!!!

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ladystarksneedle · 6 months

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In attendance

Summary: A lady at court finds herself in a predicament as she's called upon by the Prince one evening.

Word count: 1k

Warnings: suggestive themes

Next>

"The Prince has requested your presence in his chambers, my lady."

She looked up from her needlework in attendance, as the ladies around her watched in bewilderment and thinly veiled contempt. She knew they whispered insidious tales in her absence, wishing to further tarnish her reputation, already hanging by a thread. The needle in her hand felt heavy as she placed it down and followed the guard out the door. She could hear their chatter well before she'd crossed the threshold.

It was a strange arrangement she'd happened upon with him, something she'd never wished to enter into the first place. He'd been nothing but courteous upon their arrival in the capital, as was expected of him. Her father had brought her with him to attend to business with the other neighboring lords, hoping to present her to the court as well, having reached the age of eligibility to be courted. It was by sheer luck she'd been noticed by the Queen, something out of one of those bedtime tales she used to read as a child. Clad in green from head to toe, she had addressed them with a solemn curiosity, her gaze lingering a bit longer on her. She'd curtsied deeply in response, humbled by the attention. Their introduction, albeit short, was followed by an invite to the royal chambers in quick succession. Her presence at court had been noticed. The Queen had apparently been impressed by the manner in which she had conducted herself and wished for her to be a companion to her daughter, the Princess Helaena. Whether it was a political maneuver to strategically gain their family's alliance or an altruistic offer on her behalf, she had accepted readily, not that there was ever a true choice offered to her in the matter. Her fate was decided the moment she stepped through those doors much like when she stepped through the ones ahead.

He sat in his usual place, staring deeply into the fireplace, drumming his fingers on the armrest near him. To an onlooker he'd cut an imposing figure, calm and fierce. She'd come to know him far better given the short duration of their acquaintance.

"What took you so long", he asked, his cool voice cutting through the silence.

"Their gossip ran late today. It is rumored Lady Blount has found herself in a thorny predicament, one she can no longer drink her way out of"

"Hmm, how she found herself in that position begs the question in the first place. That woman is too insufferable to be looked at, let alone bedded."

"Oh hush, she isn't that displeasing."

"I have one eye and I'd rather gouge it out than suffer her presence"

She stalled sorting the supplies in her hand as she gazed at him in shock. He merely cocked his head in response, raising his eyebrow in question, eliciting a giggle from her.

"Does it bother you that much today, you seem fussier than usual."

"I am not fussy", he grumbled "I simply speak the truth and you are late."

"I told you I got held up, I tried to escape them earlier but I must keep up appearances"

"That is none of my concern"

"I thought my concerns warranted yours too" she whispered sitting on the armchair near him.

"Not ones as trivial as these."

She leaned over him silently deciding to drop the matter as she nodded her head gesturing to him. He removed his eyepatch and placed his hair to the side as she leaned over him, careful not to apply too much pressure as she lathered the salve in her hands generously across his wound.

"Do not put stock in the opinions of sheep. They merely bray and bleat wherever the grass grows fresh. They'll feast on a new rumor, come morrow."

"They seek to malign me. I've heard them when they think I'm not listening. It is only a matter of time before the news reaches my father."

"It shall not. I'll have their tongues removed before it does."

"You'd cut out a dozen tongues?"

"I'd mute the entire capital if it meant you'd stop fretting" he whispered, half in annoyance and half in an almost misplaced reverence.

She smiled despite herself as she continued cleaning and dressing his angry wound.

"That would leave us in quite a fix, you're hardly the conversationalist my prince, I'd be bored soon enough"

"I do not recall needing only my mouth to please you, my lady"

"Ah but it is your best asset"

"I thought my fingers sufficed," he replied with a smirk.

"Oh they do, but I'd prefer your pretty mouth with it" she replied cheekily as he winced. The wound near his cheek was deeper than the rest, running across his face and also the most sensitive.

"My apologies. It is almost over"

He hummed in response, closing his good eye and leaning back.

She continued to work in silence, interrupted only by the sound of the flames crackling in the hearth ahead.

"Sing to me" he whispered as she reached for another vial in between.

"You wouldn't like it"

"That is not what I asked"

"And what shall I sing about, Lady Blount and her permanent entanglement"

"Would a mocking tribute suffice for the Prince you serve"

"The Prince I serve would rather prefer it" she smiled looking up at him.

With his eye closed and hair swept to the side he looked almost at peace as he nodded in response. Even the darkened socket facing her seemed less angry at the moment. She wondered how she'd managed to warm her way to the man before her, cold and ethereal, beautiful yet devastating. The words she sang for him rang with admiration despite the jests they held. The corner of his mouth twitched up in response and she knew then, for all the insults flung behind her back, for every blackened mark tarnishing her standing at court, there wasn't a moment where she'd ever wish to leave.

Taglist: @witheredoffherwitch @arcielee @chompchompluke @barbieaemond

#house of the dragon #zae's fics #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond imagine #aemond targaryen #aemond fics #secrets of the keep #aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond targaryen x reader

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honeybeezgobzzzzz · 3 months

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🗡️ Something Dread, Something Red: Chapter Eight

Something Dread, Something Red: Stuck in a proposal to a Marine Commodore, you escape minutes before your wedding in one last ditch effort to avoid getting married to a tyrant. Barely making it to the port of your town, you stumble across a ship just starting to leave and beg for passage off the island. You fail to notice that the people you beg for help, are pirates.

Warnings: None.

To Note: “Red Haired” Shanks x FemReader

Word Count: ~2.5k

Previous | Masterlist | Next

It was the last day the crew would be spending on the island and the men had left you in the bar while they got the supplies loaded onto the ship. You didn’t mind as you were mending some torn clothes of theirs while chatting with the woman who owned the bar. Her name was Cerise and she was well informed on the Red Haired Pirates. At least that is what you had surmised, she and the crew were on good terms and joked with each other. The Red Force had stopped on this island before and their faces were well known in these parts.

Setting Yasopp’s now mended sash, he’d torn it while getting into a scuffle with some vagabond down at the docks he’d told you, you moved on to Lucky’s favorite striped shirt. The cook owned many striped shirts as you had found out doing the laundry, but how he’d chosen this one to be his favorite was beyond you. Perhaps it was because of the stain at the bottom. None of his other shirts had a stain like it, or perhaps it was the most worn in and felt nice upon his skin. You couldn’t figure it out, no matter how long you pondered on such topic and simply deduced it to be a male thing.

Or perhaps a pirate thing?

“Certainly not in my repertoire,” You softly said, reaching for a string color in the set you’d been provided that best matched the stripes. Lucky Roux was lucky that his shirt had ripped at the edge of one of the stripes, you could easily hide the repair with your skill set. At least your mother’s intensive needlework lessons were finally coming in handy. Something about repairing clothings was far more therapeutic for you than mindlessly stitching on a circle loom in some fancy design that would never see the light of day. You liked feeling useful around the ship, it made you feel less guilty about being there in the first place. “I told them I only needed passage, not a place to live on board their ship.”

“Oh they’d never give passage to a woman in distress and then just drop her off at the nearest port,” Cerise commented, walking over while drying her hands with a towel. “I’ve known those boys for twenty some odd years. Shanks isn’t setting you go free because he knows you still need help.”

You paused in your mending, lowering your hands to your lap while contemplating her words. She had a point, Shanks was an honorable man and wouldn’t just ditch you the moment he’d completed what you had asked of him. He hadn’t even wanted to take your pendant as payment! Yes, he’d taken you on board and had kept you with him and his crew for three weeks without asking for a single thing.

“I feel like I can take care of myself,” You stated, your eyebrows pinching ever so slightly. “I am not well versed in living by myself but I am not an invalid nor am I entirely naive to how our world works. All I needed from them was safe passage off Kuri Island, nothing more.”

“You are under the assumption that you have to do everything yourself, Aria,” Cerise wisely informed you, observing you sitting regally on a barstool. Your posture stood out and clearly marked you as someone who didn’t belong in her bar. “Do you want some advice from an old woman who’s seen a thing or two.”

“I would be honored,” You replied, giving her your full attention. If anything, you knew that Cerise’s words were both law and religion to be heeded by everyone in Ingles. When she spoke you listened.

“The Red Haired Pirates are pirates at heart, the sea is their calling and they will never be tied down by anything or anyone.” Cerise started in a frank tone. “They’re fully capable of taking care of themselves, cleaning up after their messes, and mending their own clothing.” Her chin nodded to the shirt in your lap. “The only reason why they’re lettin’ you clean up and take care of them is because they want you to feel comfortable on the ship, and if that means you’re doin’ their laundry and mending their clothes so be it.”

“They’re… letting me…?” You repeated, trying to control your tone and voice so you didn’t show off how upset you were to know this. You wanted to pull your weight on the ship! Not do things because they let you!! Cerise could see the way your eyes flashed in anger and teeth ground together. You were quite good at controlling your emotions but she had decades to read people. Leaning against the bar, she pat your hand gripping your water glass.

“Don’t take that the wrong way, missy. They might be pirates but they are gentlemen and no woman is going to be cleaning up after them because it’s a societal expectation.” You pursed your lips and breathed out through your nose, reigning in your temper.

“I’m essentially freeloading abroad their ship, eating and drinking their supplies, using their facilities and bed… and the only reason why I think I’m pulling some of my weight is because they are allowing me to do so?” Your face was painfully hot and mind was seething. It wasn’t quite betrayal material to you, but your heart was very much injured by this knowledge. Was there anything in your life that you were doing because you wanted to and not because someone else was allowing you to do it?

“Now don’t be getting upset that the gentlemen want to be gentlemen,” Cerise tutted at you sternly. “Besides, it won’t do to have you jump right into an independent life. You’ll get overwhelmed and get yourself into trouble. Sea Lord knows you’ve got the beauty for it. They’re easing you into your knew life in a responsible way. You’re lucky to have encountered as honorable men as they are.”

“I just wanted to be treated like every other person,” You said dejectedly, dropping your head into your hand and pushing your nails into your scalp. Cerise hummed at you and went back to cutting up slices of lime and lemon for the night rush.

“Oh dear, they are,” She stated. “They treat everyone with the respect that is expected and earned. It is nothing personal to you and your situation. Let them help you, and sneak in things to help them. Just don’t get caught.” You eyed the older woman at her last comment.

“Are you telling me to sneak behind their backs?” Cerise shrugged and waved her paring knife around.

“They’re men, not always the brightest in situations and can be too stupid to take care of themselves at times.” You could agree with that statement. You had watched Hongo argue with Lucky Roux over a cut he’d gotten trying to juggle knives. It’d taken three days before the cook had finally relented to putting a simple bandage on it so it didn’t get infected. “It’s also our job as woman to mother them, make them remember that they aren’t invincible and having someone take care of them is just as rewarding as it is for them to take care of us. Give and take, girl, no one has to do everything by themself.”

“You have a point, but the most I can do is sew.” Your skills with sewing were actually pretty well honed… but where did sewing have a place on a ship besides mending clothing? “I don’t even know how to cook.”

“Well that’s a place to start, learning to feed yourself,” Cerise mused, eyes flickering to the faded oak clock hanging above the bar. It’d seen its fair share of drunk bar fights and revelry. Had even weathered through being knocked off the wall a time or too. “Tell yea what, Aria,” Cerise started, head tilted to the side in contemplation. “Dinner rush isn’t for another two hours, you come back with me and I’ll put you through my mothers ringer,”

“Your mother’s ringer?” You repeated in confusion.

“Aye, culinary boot camp.”

Tears were streaming down your face, welling from your eyes and dripping down your cheeks as you struggled to continue with your lesson. But your eyes were stinging so bad! You were fairly certain at this point that what Cerise had you doing could be utilized for torture, not cooking purposes. Who knew simply cutting this root vegetable would cause so much pain and tears?

“Ow,” You weakly muttered, rubbing your watery eye for the thousandth time with the back of your hand. Even with your eyes watering so heavily that it looked like you had been sobbing, you were still persistent in finishing cutting up the onions Cerise had planted in front of you and ordered to chop.

They all had to be cut a certain way, she had told you. Showing you the basic knife skill with the first onion of your lesson. It hadn’t looked hard, you actually felt comfortable holding the knife, that is until the sting in your eyes bloomed and the tears came. Oh how it burned and oh the look Cerise had given you when you paused in your chopping. A strict teacher she was.

“The faster you cut, the quicker the tears will leave,” She had told you, standing across the table from you and chopping vegetable after vegetable without so much as a stutter. You were in awe at how fast she could chop vegetables, barely even glancing at the produce she was cutting. On the bar menu tonight was an Ingles town soup made from vegetables and lamp, the staple meat on the island. According to the Bar Mistress, a large batch was made and once it was gone, it was gone.

It was quite the popular soup among the regulars, meaning the bar was going to be packed and the drinks flowing. So you were going to continue cutting these damn onions until you had no tears left in your body, and then continue cutting. She might be teaching you how to cook, but you were eager to contribute and pull your weight for once… and that apparently meant cutting an endless amount of onions. You’d get good at cutting onions by the end of this at least.

Additionally you could learn to wield a blade by learning how to cook you wouldn’t be entirely defenseless before you learned how to defend yourself. Not exactly a sword but a knife was better than a hair pin. Blinking several more tears away from your eyes, you focused back on the onion you were currently chopping. Chop. Peel. Slice. You had to constantly remind yourself to focus where your blade was going. The three nicks you had on your fingers were proof of that.

Shifting your grip on the knife, you finished chopping the onion and gathered the slices to drop into the large bowl next to you. Grabbing the next onion, because Cerise happily dumped another basket of onions next to you, you repeated the same process as you had before.

“Not to be rude, but how is this teaching me how to cook?” You asked, your head tilting to the side as you peeled the halved onion in front of you. Cerise chuckled at your words and lifted a large bowl full of cut vegetables to dump it in an even larger pot.

“Chopping vegetables is a large part of cooking easy meals on ships.” Cerise explained. “Get you comfortable with knives and that’s one hurdle that won’t hold you back. Prepping ingredients is also a good idea, keeps your kitchen clean and saves time. I’ve got a soup and stew book I’ll give you. I taught you every thing you need to know to cook the recipes in the book earlier and I’m sure that by watching Lucky Roux, you can pick up more skills.”

“Well I think I can manage to cook scrambled eggs,” You admitted, wondering how many eggs you had cracked by now. At least you’d gotten good at doing that. “Lucky lets me crack the eggs in the morning before Shanks is up, sometimes let me cook the pre cooked breakfast sausage. I burned myself on the cooktop once and he forbade me from going within three paces for a week after that.”

“Aye, told yea the men were protective. You just have to be firm with them and they’ll eventually see reason.” Cerise said while lighting the giant stove beneath the equally giant pot. The kitchen was soon filled with the soft crackles of vegetables sautéing. While the older woman fussed over the cooking vegetables, you finally cut up the rest of the onions without further incident, much to the relief of your fingers and eyes. You carried the bowl of onions over the large pot and dropped the sliced onions into the pot to be cooked as well.

“So I understand everything you’ve taught me about soups and stews, and you’re going to give me a few books to read… but seasoning is a large part of cooking and I don’t even know what half the spices are in Lucky’s cabinet.” Your nose wrinkled at the picture of Lucky’s spice cabinet. He kept it meticulously organized and alphabetized. That was helpful when learning but it didn’t help you in using such spices. “Do I just taste them raw and see what goes well flavor wise?”

“If yea like bad flavor,” She answered dryly before turning to face you. “In your case, I’d suggest following recipes, note what spices are in it to develop the flavor profile. Then, when you are comfortable, you can start dabbling. Like mint goes well with artichoke, and cumin with chicken. It’s about what you like, what did you like to eat growing up?” Your brain froze for a moment.

Freedom of food choice was still a novel idea to you. You didn’t know what you liked or disliked because your mother fed you what she decided. You had a few food items that you positively loathed due to your mother, but you’d never had the luxury of deciding to eat or not eat something based on flavor and like alone.

“I… don’t really know,” You admitted with a soft shrug of your shoulders. “My mother controlled my diet until I left three weeks past. I don’t have many memories of foods that I enjoyed eating. It was mostly out of necessity.” Cerise hummed in understanding and paused to think. She had a basic understanding of your situation thanks to a quick word from Shanks, Hongo was trying to ease your stomach into new foods so you didn’t get sick like you had the first week on board the Red Force. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t have small bites here and there.

“I’d suggest that you try bites of food from different dishes to see what you like and don’t like then, Aria. Not big bites mind you, sneaky ones so you don’t get Shanks or Hongo on the up and up… but just enough to taste.” That was actually a good idea. Nodding your head in agreement, you smiled, pleased that you had a plan for once. You felt better about staying on the Red Force now. The idea of leaning on the men for help was still difficult for you, but learning to cook put wind back in your sails.

Date Published: 1/20/24

Last Edit: 1/20/24

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#shanks x you #shanks x reader #red haired shanks #one piece shanks #shanks

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artnew8 · 1 month

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💍💍The chain end clip is used to close the end of the rope 💍💍💎

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palmofafreezinghand · 5 months

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twilight advent calendar - day eleven: Besides painting, what art forms does Esme enjoy? How do you imagine her art room/setup looks? (prompts here)

Art forms Esme enjoys, and a little bit of her history with art:

There are very few mediums she has not tried at least once.

As a child she doodled on every scrap of paper she could get her hands on. As she got older she found the small details portraiture required particularly enticing, she’d nervously slip someone a portrait she had sketched of them or their loved one. Her grandparents were the ones to purchase her half-used paints at a church rummage sale, she rationed them as if they were gold.

She never considered what she made art. Her mother found her little hobby frustrating beyond belief. The woman had tried to teach her daughter the finer hobbies expected of her, needlework, knitting, the piano, anything that would stop Esme from donning her paint-stained too-short dress and climbing to the top of a tree to “sketch the birds.” Esme did not take well to knitting or cross-stitch as she grew. Her grandmother had barely taught her to sew and only after Esme ripped one too many of her handmade dresses did her mother force her into sewing her own wardrobe. (This backfired when Esme discovered how to sew pants).

When introduced to an eternity of free time she did not revisit these art forms, in fact, she had barely remembered how much she once enjoyed art. She only picked up a pencil again when Edward forced her to, desperate for her to find a hobby and stop bothering him.

She swore Edward to secrecy, knowing Carlisle would run out and buy far too many supplies. He kept her secret but bought the supplies himself. After her initial irritation wore off she was quite grateful for the gift and needed more paint quite shortly after.

Her love of interior design and architecture made itself known when she found a dollhouse in the attic, left dusty and broken by the previous owner. She renovated it in secret, compelled to finish the project for some reason she could not quite place. Turns out she had a knack for that too.

At first she thought her skill was one nonexistent but two nothing more than vampiric ability. Carlisle and Edward spent one afternoon attempting to paint a simple still life with her help and she dropped that second suspicion.

Oil painting is her first choice when it comes to paints. She loves the ability to jump back into a painting after a few weeks. Nowadays, in her scarce free time, she has been experimenting with water soluble oil paints, much to Carlisle’s amusement who had only just become used to the constant smell of linseed oil. Although he will not lie and say he mourns the constant worry her rags will start a fire, again.

She sculpts and brings an at-home kiln with her on most moves, although she has to be cautious because she has also started a fire with one of these. She enjoys sculpting people the most. She has made countless ceramic renditions of her husband’s nose, face, hands…

She has experimented with 3D printing and glass blowing but is still new to the medium.

Miniatures are still a constant in her art, but these days they look more like architectural models than dollhouses.

There is a camera with her almost all the time. The rest of the family likes to sneakily take photos, knowing she won’t discover them for a little while. They all know better, Emmett learned the hard way, not to go through any of her SD cards.

On the few rare occasions she has showed her art in galleries she prefers to exhibit installations rather than collections. Her personal favorite she managed to convince Edward to write and record a score to play throughout the gallery.

She eventually found her way back to knitting and crochet, but never had the passion for it.

When Renesmee was born and in her growth spurt Esme sewed constantly, building in growth tucks into every garment, knowing any dress would need to be let out within days.

As Renesmee grew up Esme picked quilting and needlepoint back up. While she no longer had any memories of her own grandmother teaching her to thread a needle and the importance of a thimble, but it makes her feel closer to the woman she doesn't remember as she is asked to be a grandmother herself.

A few details about her workspace:

In her dream world, she would have a stand-alone studio and a space to create in the house. Her family is inspiring and simultaneously a huge hindrance to creating. She naturally gravitates towards picking properties with an old gardening shed, carriage house, and dilapidated guest house/cottage she can renovate to have perfect natural lighting, ample soundproofing, climate control, and ample storage. (Until she has to very quickly renovate a guest house as a ‘welcome to vampirism’ gift). If she has a stand-alone workspace she will settle for working in the family library or at the kitchen table (which are all specially designed to convert into drafting tables when needed).

The walls are white and the only art hung on them are her current work in progresses. There are a couple of framed photos on her desk: one of her and Carlisle, a candid of her and Edward taken by Carlisle in 1931, one of the entire family, and a print of the first painting of hers she thought truly resembled her son. She is very particularly about lighting and has OttLites scattered about both her workspace and the house.

Everything has a place, but that place changes frequently. She reorganizes any time she is stuck on a piece. The family knows to keep their distance if they hear her vacuuming out drawers and moving dozens of paint pots.

#technically it was the eleventh when i finished this #I had hoped to finish a fic for this but am trying to quilt on a deadline #so we got this because I couldn't miss this prompt #esme cullen #twilightadvent23

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