Daenerys And Drogon Through The Years

AARON TAYLOR-JOHNSON as Archie Reid / Lancelot The King’s Man (2021)

Stand for ALL black women

- College Educated black women

- Street Educated black women

- Poor black women

- rich black women

- Gay black women

- Trans black women

- Queer black women

- Imprisoned black women

- criminal-past black women

- mentally ill black women

- sex working black women

- disabled black women

- old black women

-young black women

- loud black women

- quiet black women

- dark-skinned black women

- Light-skinned black women

- fat, skinny, curvy, muscular, athletic black women

- agnostic, Muslim, Buddhist, Christian, Wiccan, Pagan, Bruja black women

- black women that are artists

- black women that cosplay

- black women that feel out of place

- black women out of work

- black women on welfare

- black women working two jobs

- black mothers

- black sisters

- black women choosing to exist in a world that doesn’t care if they exist.

All black women.

I CAN'T HELP NOT FEEL SORRY FOR HIM! 😭 Poor man, they took all his humanity away and he couldn't even keep his voice. I'm so curious why, is there a sensor for his voice in the cabin? Does something get activated if he speaks? Jesus! I believe he doesn't feel tastes like someone normal, but even the sensitivity of putting mayonnaise for her is something for me, he has something inside him. The way he is so distressed that he wanted to inflict pain on himself for hurting her? maybe he really thinks that the abuse is not hurting...

Mission Control 17

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, blood, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Captain Hydra

Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

When you come too, the pain is dull. Yet, the pulsing in your foot and leg is near excruciating. You whimper and clutch the blankets. The smell of your sweat clings to you and the bed. 

The bed shifts subtly and you look down to the end. He sits with his back to you. He raises his head and turns it as he hears you. He brings his hands up to rub his eyes then rises. He struts up to peer down at you. 

You groan as your head lolls to the side. You don’t have the strength left to do anything but languish in the agony. You grit your teeth and squeeze your eyes shut. You just want to keep sleeping. 

His weight creaks in the floor and his steps scuff around the room. He returns and looms over you as you flatten yourself to the mattress. He pokes your shoulder and grunts. You open your eyes as he holds up the notebook. 

‘You need?’ 

You would be annoyed if you weren’t in so much pain. What you need is for him to take you home and leave you alone. That’s not going to happen. As it is, you’re certain you’ll be dead of infection soon enough. 

He taps the page impatiently. 

You sigh and let out a shaky breath. “Hurts...” you murmur. “Something to... make it less.” 

His eyes search you and his blond lashes flutter. He turns and grabs a bottle from the side of the bed. He shows you the label. You squint at the small letters. 

“That’s an antibiotic,” you mutter. “Still...” you suck in air sharply, “pain.” 

He tilts the bottle to examine then puts it back. He shakes the notebook at you again. You sniff and cross your arms over the top of the blanket. You can’t really ignore him or tell him to go away. You could die without him and you hate that you have to live with him, but you’re scared. 

“Anything.” You say. “Just... something to do. There’s nothing here.” 

He makes another noise. Almost like a hum. You bring your hands up and rub your temples. 

“Why don’t you talk?” You hiss. 

He dips his chin down and turns the notebook around. He slides out the pen and scratches onto the paper. He shows you. 

‘No.’ 

“No? You won’t, or you can’t?” You huff. 

His brow furrow, he holds up two fingers.  

“You can’t,” you say. 

He nods. 

You don’t know if that makes it better. You thought it was a game. That he wanted to terrify you with his silence. He could be lying but what’s the point in that? 

He flips the notebook again. He writes slowly. You read his scrawl; ‘food’. 

You look at the ceiling and swallow, “yeah, I should eat.” 

He’s already moving as finish your first syllable. He puts the notebook down and marches out. You stare after him, slightly agitated and just as much perplexed. He set the trap, he can’t be surprised that it went off. 

You put your arms straight and as you try to sit up, the tug in the muscles of your leg throttles you. You have to smother a scream as you stop yourself. You press your hands to the bed and force your leg limp. You drag yourself up to sit with your upper body alone. 

Your tears leak out and you mop them away. You look down at the white nightgown, much like the one you wore the first night there. You reach behind you and move the pillow then lean back. Your foot is on fire. 

You can hear him through the open door. You look over at the notebook and reach for it. You drag it off the night stand and examine his jagged writing. You flip the page back. It’s a list of all the things he brought back before. It’s crooked and all over the page. 

You shuffle back through the pages and stop at the cross hatching of ink. Your likeness stares back at you. It’s you on the bus, watching through the window, looking almost peaceful. You frown. There’s a word sliced through the scene; ALONE. 

You don’t understand it but you’re starting to wonder if he does. There’s something not connected in him. He’s fractured. You should feel bad for him but you can’t. Not after all the pain he’s caused you. 

You close the notebook and drop it back on the night table. You slump and your vision hazes. You gaze endlessly at the wall. 

He returns, his shadow breaking through the blur. He has a plate in hand. He stops beside the bed and offers it. You take it and without thinking, you thank him. You could cringe. Thank you... for what? 

The sandwich is in one piece, meat and cheese juts out from beneath the crusts, and the bread isn’t aligned. You guess it’s the effort that counts. You rest the plate on your lap and brace yourself to sit up higher. He’s quick to bend over you and help pull you upright. 

You groan and let out a whine. He retracts and stands over you, watching. You try to ignore his ominous presence and focus on the food. You’re hungry even if it doesn’t look the most appetizing. 

You take the sandwich and bite into the crust. The rye is rich and the filling isn’t too bad. He even added mayo. A small thing but you can’t help but be relieved it isn’t just dry bread and meat. You chew and look up at him. You hover your hands over the plate. 

“What about you?” You ask. 

His eyes round and he blinks. He looks down at his chest then lifts his chin again. He doesn’t offer any response. 

“Right,” you nod and take another bite. 

His fingers twiddle at his side and he moves his weight back and forth on his feet. You eat in silence, hunched over the plate. When you finish, he scoops up the plate. Before you can react, he’s stomping out. 

Jesus. He’s so damn abrupt. He returns. He had a glass of water. You accept it and drink deeply. The coolness is a relief. 

He grabs the notebook and opens it. He angles the tip of the pen then writes again. He shows you as you sip from the glass. 

‘Not for you.’ 

You shake your head, “not... the food?” You asked confused. 

His mouth slants and he turns the book up. He puts the pen to the paper but doesn’t move it. Not right away. He finally scratches into the paper then turns it back to you. He’s drawn the spike. Your foot thrums at the memory of flailing on the cold ground. 

“The trap isn’t for me,” you say. His eyes cling to yours. “But you didn’t tell me.” 

His gaze drops and his cheeks tauten. He scribbles another word. ‘Stay’. 

You puff out and nod. “I’m supposed to stay. Got it. My fault.” 

He clucks and frowns. He points to himself. He hits his chest hard then wags his finger at you. He thumps his chest again. You stare and he stretches his hand wide, staring at it. You gasp as he smacks himself hard across the face. He brings up his other hand and lays another strike across his other cheek. He starts to beat himself frantically. 

“Stop! Stop!” You squeal, horrified. He doesn’t seem to hear you. You don’t know what to do. You grip the glass and splash what’s left of the water onto him and holler again, “stop!” 

He stills and drops his arms. He looks at you, his cheeks red and scratches, a cut around his eye socket. You shudder up at him. 

“I can’t do anything. Not like this,” you gesture to your foot. “So I need you... to do it which means you can’t beat yourself up.”  

You sigh and suck your teeth. It’s exactly what he wants. You are stuck with him. You need him. 

like, I constantly think about his hair and his face at this time

what are your favourite, extremely underrated chris looks? (outfits/hair/just overall look)

i really liked the 2011 bafta(s?) because i’m a sucker for 2011 chris!!

she is so me! I fully understand your lack of love for and total devotion to him. i think he the only thing he would really love besides his son is someone who would worship him like a true god

Daddy Issues II (Homelander x Reader)

WARNINGS: eventual DUB-CON, grey!reader, traumatized!reader, slight violence, stalking, mentions of abuse, power imbalance, fanatic behavior

➥ banner by @maysdigitalarts​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ ​​​​​​​​|  ➥ divider by @silkholland​​

➥ series masterlist

summary: One year ago, Homelander killed your entire family…and you’ve devoted your life to him ever since.

Keep reading

I just want to emphasize how intimidated I feel while I'm reading, the way I feel her pressure and uncertainty about him.

Mission Control 13

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Captain Hydra

Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You stand shivering in a towel. The door is open to the damp chill, a grey sky peeking in. He appears again, marching through with a worn canvas knapsack. He drops it on the rug and goes back to shut the door. You hear the gears whirring as it locks on its own. 

He’s all in black again. At least his clothes are clean. The turtleneck has a hole in the elbow and the cargo pants are missing a flap along one pocket, but they don’t smell like iron and mud. His blond hair is still sleek with moisture and droops down his forehead. 

You wrap your arms around yourself and watch him. He lifts the bag over the couch and drops it on the cushions. He points and looks at you. You nod and go where he wants. 

You tuck in the top of the towel. You pull back the zipper. A bundle of clothing pushes the bag wide as it bulges through. You pull out a plaid flannel shirt. It’s thick. You peek up at him and hold it up. He jams his finger towards you. 

“These are for me?” You ask. He lowers his arms and tilts his head. “Thank you.” You look down and lay out the flannel on the next cushion.  

You pull out two pairs of rolled jeans, some tee shirts, and a pullover sweater. Each piece is plain and practical. None of it matches. You won’t complain. Only the last piece is less than utilitarian. 

You drag out the dress and it flows free. The yellow is speckled with green vines and white flowers. You grimace as you note the red splotch on the bodice and the way the trim on the neckline is separated along one side. 

He grunts. You wince and look him in the eye. You blink nervously and turn the dress around for him to see. He frowns and snatches it from you. He touches the bloody stain and exhales deeply. He balls it up. He stares at you again. 

You pick up a tee shirt and give it a sniff. It’s a bit dingy. You can manage. 

“Maybe I’ll do some laundry? You can show me where?” You suggest. 

His eyes narrow. 

“I’ll do yours too. I don’t mind. I’d like to have something to do,” you offer. You’re trying to fill the silence as much as you’re begging to distract yourself from the dread. “If that’s okay with you.” 

His eyes drift. He puts his chin down and examines the dress again. He rents it in two and stomps away. 

You pull the tee shirt on over the towel then slip into the jeans. You loose the towel and button up the flannel. It’s better. 

The door clatters open again. You go to hang the wet towel from the bar in the bathroom and as you return, he carries in a pile of white birch logs. He kicks the door shut and takes them to the fireplace. He lets them roll over the floor. He grabs one and splits it in half with his fingers. You gape. 

“Can I help?” You stay a few feet back as you watch his shoulders. “Are you hungry?” 

He clacks several pieces onto the embers and stokes the fire until it roars. He stacks the rest before he gets up. He faces you and stalks over. You shuffle back frightfully. He points to your stomach then makes a fist. 

“Not all of it makes me sick. I was asking you though.” 

His brows furrow and he snarls. He shakes his head. He’s frustrated but you don’t know why. 

You warily move back to the couch and fold up the leftover clothing. He strides into the kitchen as you place the knapsack and clothes aside. He comes back in with a large metal bucket with handles on the wide brim and a scrubbing board. You only ever saw those in museums. He drops it and it clanges as the board bounces to the other side. 

“Thank you,” you say to conceal your fear. You feel his temper mounting. You want to keep him calm as long as you can. “Will you sit down?” You ask gently. “I wish I could make you some tea. It’s the perfect weather for it.” 

He inclines his head and watches you. His cheek ticks and his eyes flick up as if trying to remember something. He moves towards you and you lurch but don’t back away. He brings his hands to the sides of your face. His thumbs stroke your cheeks and he holds you for just a second before he releases you. 

He brushes close and moves to the couch. He sits with a groan. He doesn’t show the pain but you saw the splotched bruises and the slice along his knee. 

“I’m going to boil some water,” you explain. “Is there a drying rack for me to hang the clothes?” 

He sniffs and stands.  

“You can point and I’ll find it,” you say. “I saw a closet near the kitchen?” 

He blinks and flicks his finger in that direction as he sits back down. You turn and flit towards the door you were too afraid to open. You look inside at the broom; that would have been useful before. 

You drag out a rusting folding rack and bring it to the front room. You put it in front of the fireplace. 

“Is that okay?” You turn to him. 

He waves his hand indifferently. 

You nod and go back to your task. It’s not as terrifying when you have little steps to follow. You find a pot in the cupboard and fill it with water. You put it on to boil then retreat into the bathroom. You gather up his clothes and add them to the heap of the others. 

You take the bar of laundry soap from the bottom of the tub and set it aside. As you wait for the water to boil, you find a cloth and wet it. You wipe the front of his body arm. Black and red mingle on the linen. 

You glance over at him. His eyes are closed. The fire crackles and its glow flickers over him. You put your head down and continue your work. There’s an eeriness to the sudden peace of the cabin. You only then notice how the storm has quieted too. 

A year full of amazing Black women part 1.

#BlackGirlMagic #BlackExcellence

SAM REID as Lestat de Lioncourt

Interview with the Vampire 01.06 | "Like Angels Put in Hell by God"