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arabellasleopardcoat · 3 months

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Young Gods (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: History has a way of repeating itself. Much like another pair before you, Aemond and you make each other worse.

Requested: Yup. Hades!Aemond with a not so literal twist. Strong!Reader. Requests still open!

Warnings: Dark fic? Rape is mentioned a lot. People in their underwear, non-consensual touching and nudity. Beheading. Kidnapping, duh. Plenty of self harm threats. Detailed TW after the whole work.

STORM’S END IS cold. As you dismount, the wind snaps your braid back, forcing you to grab it with one hand. You are careful to fix the flower shaped pins attached there. They were a terrible choice for today, as was your dress. It’s made of a fine red linen, bodice shaped like leaves hugging your body.

You favor botanical patterns, but it seems this keep is not the place for it. Sensing your distress, your dragon whines.

“Everything it’s alright, girl.” You shush her, affectionately. She is a lovely dragon, although on the small side. The guards don’t seem very impressed with her, and it vexes you. She may not be what people think of when they picture a dragon, but she had been with you since you were only a couple of days old.

Her youthfulness is seen by many as a hindrance, but not to you. Just as your brother’s dragons, your Green Lady is a daughter to Syrax. She had hatched when you were a babe, and shared your craddle until she got too big and needed to be moved to the dragonpit. The bond you shared was stronger than what older dragons could ever hope to have with second or third riders.

Perhaps because of your derisive thoughts about older dragons, there is a sudden, loud screech. Vhagar. Of course. That was why the guards were so unimpressed with your dragon. You chuckle, out of sheer frustration. What else could go wrong today?

The tensions in your family had always been more on the male side. Both Helaena and you had been left out of it, both deemed too queer to truly engage in clever quips and insulting toasts. Your uncle, in particular, had never paid much attention to you.

There had been some japes about your bastardy, but Aemond had been more focused on Luke and Jace. He preferred to single them out, take his frustrations out through humiliating your siblings.

Some of it, you guessed, had to do with the loss of his eye. Luke had taken it from him, after all. But a secret, resentful part of you thought it had to do with the fact they were men.

Thank the Gods your mother had sent Luke to deal with the Arryns. You shuddered to think the face Aemond would make when he saw you, but had you been Luke, you feared that he would have snapped. He would probably have ended up doing something unforgivable.

You tell one of the guards your name. “I bring a message to Lord Borros from the Queen.”

The man looks at you, pity in his eyes. He knows as well as you that your mission is doomed from the start. If you had beaten Aemond there, if you had something more substantial to offer…

Thunder cracks. Rain seems about to start. You square your shoulders, and smile at him.

“… Daughter of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.” It chafes, that the knight doesn’t refer to your mother by her proper title. You bet that when he announced Aemond, they named him brother to the King.

When you enter the hall, your eyes do not linger on any decorations or the people there. Your eyes scan over them, searching for a tall figure, dressed in all black. Aemond is looming to the side of Lord Borros’ throne. Next to him, stands a girl with a no nonsense expression, dressed in Baratheon's colors.

“Lord Borros.” You address the man on the throne. He is big and broad, with a long beard. He is also wearing a tremendous scowl. You give him your sweetest smile. “I brought you a message from my mother, the Queen.”

“Yet earlier this day, I received an envoy from the King.” The man gestures at Aemond, tone dripping with condescension. “Which is it? King or Queen? The House of the Dragon does not seem to know who rules it.”

Some of the guards present and the Baratheon girl laugh. You keep your expression pleasant, unaffected by the mockery. Having grown as an unusual child, you are used to it. It had endeared you to your aunt, but unlike her, you were adept enough with social cues to know you were being laughed at.

I’ll tell you a secret: Humiliation still tastes the same, even when you are expecting it.

“What is your mother’s message?” Borros asks, when it is clear you will not react. You step closer and hand him the letter. “Where is the bloody maester?”

You watch as the maester reads the letter aloud, whispering into his lord’s ear. You don’t notice how Aemond steps closer.

“Remind me of my father’s oath. Bah.” Borros scoffs. Despite knowing your mission had been doomed from the start, you still feel disappointed. As silly as it sounded, you had been harboring a secret hope that he would change his mind. “King Aegon at least came with an offer: My swords and banners for a marriage pact.”

“If I do as your mother bids… Which one of my daughters will you wed, girl?” He mocks, and you see red. You wish to tear him to pieces, this smug man, Daemon, Jace. It comes down to that, once again. The fact that you are not a man.

Your mother had yet to name her heir. She always excused herself by saying her throne was not yet secure, the succession issue would be settled in time. But you knew her true thoughts. Her sweet girl, she called you. The strange firstborn, who liked flowers and dressing up as a forest nymph. The one that was not fit to rule.

There is no succession issue, you wanted to scream, sometimes, as you watched Daemon pat your twin in the back, give him secret smiles. He assumed he was to be King. The bond they had was one you envied, sometimes. Daemon had never looked at you as a daughter, having two of them already. But Jace was his first son.

It wasn’t fair. You had come out of the womb first, wailing, before even Jacaerys was pushed out. Your mother was doing to you what her own father had done to her, refusing to recognize her as heir. But unlike what had happened to her, you doubted she would change her mind.

“I would wed one of your sons, my lord.” You say, smoothly. The anger, the fire and blood that make you a dragon, threatens to burst through. “But I do not know if I am free to marry, for my twin brother heads North to offer my hand to Lord Stark.”

Offer. As if it were not yours to give. You are not sure of how you will lay with a man when you despise them this much. The mere thought revolts you, tales of the birthing bed and the consummation making rage bubble up under your skin. You wish you had been born a man.

Your brother rides North with tales of your beauty and fertility, the same you must have inherited from your mother. As if you were a breeding bitch, of impeccable stock, to produce more pups for the northern wolf. They do not see you as a person, so why should you see them like one, too?

“So you come with empty hands. Go home, girl. Go back to playing with your flower crowns and dolls.” It stings. A hand goes to your dark hair, held back in a braid adorned by marigold pins. You feel like such a silly little girl, and you hate him for it. “Tell your mother that the Lord of Storm’s End is not some dog that she can whistle up at need to set against her foes.”

You smile at him, coldly. You give him a curtsy, back ramrod straight, jaw hurting from clenching your teeth so hard. If you were a man, you would be allowed to be incensed at the insults being thrown your way. Hell, if you weren’t, they would call you craven. But as a woman, if you show your anger, you will be called hysterical.

“I shall take your answer to the Queen, my lord.”

You begin to exit the hall, hands tightly clenched into fists.

“Wait… my Lady Strong.”

You recognize that voice. You would know it anywhere. Despite it, you keep walking. Aemond moves to intersect your path, bodily placing himself between the entrance and you.

“Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?”

You stare at him, eyes full of hatred. You wish you were wittier, that you could give him a scathing quip about using your proper title and being half cunt, as Daemon says. But you are not. Instead, you try to evade him, but he steps into your path again, smug little smirk on his face and hands clasped behind his back. The picture of confidence.

“I will not fight you. I come as a messenger, not a warrior.” You say, voice firm. Despite it, your hand lowers to the folds of your dress. Against your thigh, you carry a dagger. A last resort, and a precaution, Daemon had said, when giving it to you. Men were cruel to beautiful maidens all the time. His eyes had lingered a tad too long when you strapped it to your leg. More than what a father’s should.

Despite your unfortunate coloring, you still were Rhaenyra’s daughter through and through. The similarities weren’t in the bone structure, but in much subtler details. The tilt of your head when you laughed. The way you walked. How your cheeks dimpled. Enough that men noticed.

“A fight would be little challenge.” Aemond mocks, hand coming to grasp at your jaw. Something odd crosses his eye. Almost… Wishful. It scares you. You jerk out of his grip so fast your cheeks ache. “No. You love your brother, don’t you? Luke.”

You stare at him, unmoved. Aemond stares back. His gaze feels full of disdain to you, as it draws a path from your light red skirt, to the crown of flowers in your hair. He makes you feel small and trapped, and you hate it. You are not less because your father is not Laenor Velaryon, you remind yourself.

“I want you to put out your eye, as payment for mine. One would serve. I would not blind you. Mm. Plan to make it a gift to my mother.” His eye looks crazed, face dangerously close to yours. His expression is close to the lust you have seen in Daemon’s eyes, and it terrifies you. Because Aemond doesn’t admire your resemblance to his wife. His lust is for blood.

“No.”

“Then you are craven as well as a traitor.” And he lunges at you again, and you can’t help it, really. You shriek, rushing towards the doors and avoiding him as best as you can.

“Not here!” Borros interferes, for the first time. He sounds worried. You would be, too, if you saw a man stalking behind a woman in the way Aemond is going after you. Your heart is in your throat, you fear it might leap out if you speak.

“Give me your eye, or I will take it, bastard!” And this time, he does grab you. Your hands go to cover your eyes, and you keep screaming, shrill and high, terrified.

“Not in my hall!” And there are hands tugging at you, tugging at your dress, getting Aemond away. You open your eyes to see Borros’ knights dragging him away. “The girl came as an envoy, and I will not have bloodshed beneath my roof. Escort the Princess to her dragon.”

You can’t believe you are still alive. Aemond looks enraged, body positioned forward as if to lunge again. He struggles against the grip the guards have on him. There are at least four holding him down. He is a man possessed.

You do not hesitate. You hike up your skirts and run.

BY THE TIME Aemond leaves Lord Baratheon’s hall, it has already started raining. The guards release him only after you are out of sight, but rage still flows through his arteries, warming his blood.

His face feels hot. He is no doubt blushing. Aemond is unsure if it is from fury or shame. Holding you against him, soft skin yielding like butter under his fingers, smelling of flowers, he had gotten struck by a memory. That smell…

You had been a girl. No older than eight. You had sat in the gardens, surrounded by flowers, their perfume lingering in your hair and skin. Searching for fairies, you had explained, with the most serious face. Helaena was searching with you, giggling in excitement. The two of you had invited him to join, but Aemond had refused, citing fairies didn’t exist.

For a moment, he felt as the rude nine years old he had been, sneering down on silly girls who smelled like flowers. The memory had hit him with the force of a war hammer, dragging him out of his thoughts of getting his revenge on your siblings through you.

He had been jerked out of it when you had started screaming your lungs out. It was not that you dared be sweet, with your flowers and childish dresses. Nor that you had grown into an objectively pretty woman. It was that you had dared push him off you when he had only wanted to gaze upon your eyes, that you had made his stomach swoop with uncomfortable feelings, that he found you so damn irresistible.

Some fools in the realm called you the prettiest maiden in Westeros. Once, he had thought them exaggerated tales, to please your whore of a mother. Aemond despised agreeing with the masses, and yet, he now had to admit there was a certain truth to it.

His grandfather was right. Bastards were treacherous creatures, made only out of lust. There had to be some sorcery at play. Aemond was sure of it, and he was going to end you for daring to use your tricks on him.

“My Prince, are you sure you must leave?” His betrothed gives him her best cow eyes. Aemond is sure they are supposed to be seductive, but he is too annoyed to care. Besides, she seems as daft as they come, and conniving too. Nothing more dangerous than an ambitious fool. “The weather is so terrible, and all of that with that wretched girl…”

“Dragons care not for rain.” He answers, striding towards Vhagar regardless. Hearing you being called a wretched girl only serves to rile him up more. It was not Floris’ place to criticize you, she was forgetting her position. A whore and a sorceress you might be, but you were half Targaryen. This one was plain whore. “And mind your tongue, less you bite it and poison yourself.”

Vhagar was agitated when he mounted her. Seeing your dragon had excited her, perhaps. It encouraged her to fly faster, more daringly than usual. It meant Aemond caught up with you in no time.

He sees your back first. Your braid is whipping against the wind, most flowers gone. The few that remain look askew. Your red dress is absolutely drenched, clinging to the curves and dips on your body in an indecent manner. It makes his blood boil. You must have worn it to attract attention. Harlot.

Your smaller dragon is having trouble keeping up with the weather. The wind hits against her wings, and she doesn’t have the experience Vhagar has when flying in adverse conditions. Your voice is carried by the wind, sharp commands in High Valyrian, ordering to fly lower, avoid the clouds. The poor thing tries, but not even your attempts at helping her are making a difference.

“Riiñaa…” Aemond taunts, trying to reach you. At first, you don’t hear, his voice covered by the noise of wind and rain. “Riña!”

You jump on your dragon’s back. Unlike him and his siblings, you don’t ride chained to the saddle. You look back at him, brown eyes panicked. The rain sliding down your cheeks looks eerily like tears.

“Adere.” You order your dragon. But Aemond will not allow you to escape that easily. Not when he has you so close. He orders the same to Vhagar.

“Jemēla gēlȳni enkā!” He shouts at you. A debt. For the eye your brothers had taken, and the trick you had played on him mere minutes ago.

“I don’t owe you anything!”

It’s all a blur when he later reflects on it. Some things happen too fast to be stopped, and you can only watch in horror as time seems to pause before the disaster happens.

Vhagar screeches, excited by the thrill of the chase. Her jaws snap towards your dragon.

“No… No… No! Vhagar, serve me! Serve me, Vhagar!”

But she ignores his commands. No matter how hard he tugs on the reins, Vhagar won’t budge. It is both the foreboding crackling of distant thunder, and the desperation he feels at being powerless, what makes him reach forward, and grab your arm, tightly.

Your dragon ducks. One second you are sitting in the saddle and the next you are not. Aemond can’t feel his hands. You are screaming so loud his ears ring, and Vhagar is roaring again. There is a sickening crunch, your green dragon roaring in utter rage. You cling to his arms, grip slippery and cold, rain still pouring over the both of you.

He pulls up, as his shoulders crack in protest. Were it not for the fact that he is chained to his saddle, you might take him with you in your fall into the abyss. Your nails dig into his skin, painfully. You are howling like you are the one being murdered, but you climb, bravely placing a foot on Vhagar’s scales and helping Aemond get you in the space between the saddle and Vhagar, in front of him.

You start to wail.

“No, no, no!”

Aemond doesn’t dare look. His own hands are shaking. But as you start to try to throw him off Vhagar, slapping him everywhere you can reach, he has to. He needs to know.

Your dragon is covered in blood. It is sprayed along her belly and wings, as if Vhagar had not only bitten her, but also shook her as a dog with a bone. Her front paw is missing, and she howls in agony with every turn. But she has the same bravery as you do, and she is trying to defend her rider, about to slam against Vhagar in a suicide mission.

“Call her off!” Aemond orders you. “Call her off, she is going to die.”

He knows how painful the loss of an eye is. He cannot imagine losing a limb. But the great beast, your Green Lady, as you call her, is still fighting. Her devotion must be stronger than the pain she is suffering. She doesn’t seem to care that Vhagar is much bigger and could eat her whole.

Vhagar licks her chops. Aemond shouts something. He is not even sure what is coming out of his mouth any longer, but you sob, and peer to the side.

You had not noticed she was still alive. You howl. Your dragon responds to your cry, roaring at Vhagar.

Aemond looks at your face. He sees the calculation in your eyes, deciding if to call your dragon off or not, if it is worth the risk. If you could jump from the saddle, from Aemond’s front and into your own mount. It’s risky.

“Lykirī!” You finally scream, and he nearly sags in relief. Your dragon obeys much better than Vhagar, stopping on her tracks. She hovers by, as if unsure why she should not try to kill the threat that took her human and her paw.

Things are about to get nasty. He can tell. No matter how tame she is, she is still a beast, and the urge to protect and fight will surpass her training.

“We need to land, now.” Aemond orders, and without waiting for your permission, nudges Vhagar into dropping. But your dragon gets in the way once more, set on headbutting Vhagar. Aemond has to do a swerve to the side to avoid his dragon eating the damn thing.

You say nothing. Your whole body is tense, anticipating the opportunity for a rescue. Your hands let go of Vhagar and instead, start to reach forward.

Aemond snarls. He grabs at your braid and tugs back, sharply.

“Don’t you dare!”

“Lykirī.” You shout. Aemond’s mind is racing. What to do now? He almost killed you, he thinks, and cannot help himself. He laughs, and laughs, and laughs, until you are flinching in his grip.

Seven Hells, what is he supposed to do? He can’t land. Bringing whatever is going on between your two dragons to land is risky. If allowed, Vhagar would eat yours whole. And that is not considering they might as well take to the skies on their own and leave you stranded. There is nothing for miles, not even a Keep.

You have family in the Vale. He could fly there and… What would he even say? I accidentally almost killed my niece? Your kinsmen would slaughter him.

There are a few heath leaves in your hair, pink and glorious against the dark backdrop of your braid. Solitude, Aemond thinks. Are you as lonely as him, or do you simply like pink?

The memory comes back, unprompted. You, laughing in the gardens, smelling like flowers. A crown of marigolds in your hair, running among the tulips barefoot, sun kissing your skin. Searching for fairies.

He has never gotten anything pretty for himself. But maybe… He touches a pink petal, watching how the rain clings to it. It’s almost like dew.

Your mother had sent you away on your own. She didn’t value as she did your siblings, clearly. For any princess, no matter how loyal her dragon, should travel with her guards.

He had wanted your eye. But it would be too cruel, wouldn’t it? To scar such a beautiful face. If he took something else instead…

No one would notice. No one had to know if he just…

“Where are we going? You said we were going to land.” You ask, turning to look over your shoulder. The tilt of your head is enchanting, and he finds himself fascinated by it.

You huff, annoyed by his lack of response. He observes how your brows pinch together, and thinks of the debt your family owes him. His eye. The eye of a prince for the maidenhead of a bastard girl. It wouldn’t even scar you forever, even when it would forever haunt you. It seemed like a fair exchange.

“To the Vale.” Aemond lies, as smoothly as he can. “You have family there, and can no longer be my problem.”

You keep an alert position, but you relax against him. You are too trusting for your own good. It is precisely why a woman, you, shouldn’t inherit the Iron Throne.

When the two of you fly past the Vale, you do not notice at first. Your eyes are trained on your dragon, dutifully flying at Vhagar’s right, slightly behind. Just unreachable enough for you to jump on her, but also just unreachable enough for Vhagar to bite. Freedom in exchange for safety.

You have not said a word during the whole journey. Perhaps you fancy yourself irritated at him.

“Prince Aemond!” You scream, once you notice the terrain under you is no longer the green hills the Vale is known for. “What…?”

“I lied. We are going to the Red Keep.”

You call your Green Lady to you, high and panicked. Aemond grabs your braid, making a fist close to your skull and forcing you to arch your back. You yelp in pain.

“Don’t you dare! Tell her to fly behind Vhagar. One wrong move on your part and your dragon dies.” Aemond warns. You get the same calculating look in your eyes, lowering them to the clouds under you. The fall would be fatal.

“I will never forgive this.” It comes out from behind clenched teeth. Your back is still arched, Aemond’s grip still strong. He tugs a little more, if only to see you take it, pretty little body making a perfect bow.

He thinks of his rage, and how he is starved for death and blood. He thinks of himself as Vhagar, biting down on your paw and shaking his head until his own mouth is covered by blood. Of your dark hair spread over white sheets, a halo. Of a boy’s dark hair, and a knife. The stench of blood, your wet body, your smile, the sinful urges.

Maidenheads were just blood, too.

YOU CAN HEAR your dragon screeching as the dragonkeepers drag her away. They prod at her, as she cries her distress, mirroring your own. Just as Syrax cries when your mother is in the birthing bed, your Green Lady cries with your despair. You scream, trying to get to her, and Aemond’s hands tug at your dress, your thighs, anything he can reach to keep you.

When he tires of you, he throws you over his shoulder, hands digging into your thighs so hard it hurts. You are sure that there will be bruises left in the aftermath of his grip.

You do not stop screaming. All the way to the entrance of the keep, you scream for help. Every servant you see is one you ask to help you, the same for the guards. But while some of them pause in their duties to stare, Aemond doesn’t.

He strides confidently, despite being in wet clothes and with a woman hanging upside down in his arms. You get glimpses of the Red Keep as you pass, tapestries and dragon motifs gone and replaced by the Seven Pointed Star. Gone are the crimson and black banners your grandfather had favored, replaced by green ones. The call to war is not missed on you.

You are familiar enough with the layout of the building to know that the room you are shoved in is his. The door slams after you, Aemond not even caring to check if you landed on your feet. You don’t waste your time looking around, choosing instead to try to force the door open.

“Let me out!”

No one answers. You scream and scream, but no one comes. You are unable to tell if Aemond has walked away or is still in the hallway. After a while, you begin to hear hurried footsteps.

“Was that…?” The usurper dares ask.

“That’s Rhaenyra’s heir! You will undo everything this family has…” Alicent. At least she is being reasonable, you suppose. Perhaps she will convince them of sending you back.

“I have gained us a hostage, you mean.” You can almost picture Aemond’s haughty expression. His tone is cold, as if he finds Alicent’s concerns dumb.

“Your grandfather..!”

“…Just because you are not ruthless enough to do what…”

A slap, hard. Aegon laughs, a bit hysterical. You wonder what Aemond had been suggesting, what Alicent had seen in his eyes to prompt the slap.

“Do not take that tone with me. Dishonor the girl, Aemond and the Seven help you..!”

Dishonor. Oh. Did she think the two of you were involved? You frown. You don’t like this. Anxiety begins to pool in your stomach, a sense of dread so strong it makes you feel dizzy.

“One would think, with how often you called her mother whore…” Aemond argues. Instead of making you bristle, though, it only heightens your uneasiness. You are more focused on his tone than his words, and he sounds wrong. Like he had sounded when he was laughing after Vhagar bit your dragon.

“A highborn woman can be two things: A maiden or a mother.” Alicent cuts him again, and the feeling of wrongness intensifies. Unable to see them, you feel like you are missing half the conversation, but your gut tells you it is bad.

“Are you suggesting..?” Aegon sounds as confused and horrified as you feel.

“No! You will not use rape to terrorize our enemies.”

Rape. Rape. You feel as if you are underwater. Everything sounds muffled, except from the thump of blood in your ears. You can’t breathe. In your mind, rape is not something that happens to Princesses like you. It’s something you read about in your history books, something that happens to servants or lowborn women.

No one would dare touch you, you had thought once. For you were a good maiden, one that didn’t dress too provocatively and who was kind to everyone around her. But most importantly, your mother was going to be Queen. No one would touch you. They couldn’t.

Men’s lustful glances were nothing new to you. As a princess, you were a coveted prize. You knew they lusted after your blood, the Valyrian children and the dragons you could provide. But never had you caught one lusting after your body. You still dressed like a girl, running around Dragonstone with flowers tangled in your hair and no shoes.

If any man had looked, Daemon disposed of them. And while the glances your stepfather gave you were charged, you never thought he would act on them.

“… The bannermen will think us fools!”

Men who raped women weren’t princes. They were commoners, soldiers drunk on power, dirty beggars who pounced on strangers in alleyways. Drunkards in taverns, that smelled like piss. If there were any lords that partook in those horrid acts, you always thought they were cruel ones, like the Boltons, and always on serving girls.

You had never felt unsafe near Aemond. He was a prince, he was part of your family. It had never occurred to you that you could be stripped naked and forced to share his bed, not even imprisoned as you are.

You imagine him, ordering one of the guards to remove your clothes. You imagine yourself, naked, trying to preserve your modesty, and being beaten for it. Aemond’s hands, touching you, forcing your legs apart, hitting you when you do not comply. Your uncle, your uncle who preferred books to people, who was always so quiet, being no different from those terrible men at all.

It's impossible, you think. He is only doing it to rile up his mother, to seem more manly in front of his brother. He has always felt the need to compensate for something. Yes, Aemond is incapable of it.

Your entrails turn to ice. If it is so impossible, you think, why does it scare you so much? Why are your palms sweating, why are there acrid tears burning through your cheekbones, leaving a scorched path down to your jaw?

Where is this fear coming from?

“I could send her back, broken. As a warning.” Aemond taunts. You feel like a giant fist is squeezing your heart, until it turns into a bloodied pulp. You taste the blood on your throat.

Who is this man, that has taken you from a safe world and dragged you into this hell? This man, who talks of breaking you, of sending you back dishonored and beaten. You do not recognize Aemond. Not even after all the years of taunts and resentment you would have expected anything like this.

Like a prey animal, you freeze next to the door, hands wringing together anxiously.

“A lesson.” Another voice joins. Otto Hightower. “But there are more efficient ways to bring down our foes. No. You will take her to wife. Rhaenyra will have to be Queen, of course, but then it shall be her turn…”

It all turns into static in your ears after that. You probably won’t be raped today, but you might still be. Who knows if Aemond will give up his plan because his mother and grandfather say so? Once, when you thought you knew him, you would have thought you were safe. He would never dare disobey them. But he would never dare suggest raping a woman either, right?

“… Running to a brothel no doubt. Essos, was it?”

You no longer care about the conversation, but you guess they are speaking of Aegon. It is a mystery how he will fit in their plans. Be it as it may, you don’t intend to find up. You grab your dagger, and sit on the bed.

When Aemond enters, this is what he finds.

You, still wet, dripping water into his bed. Hand holding a dagger to your own throat.

“Take one step further, I dare you.” You whisper, eyes cold.

Aemond’s expression darkens. He stands straighter, looking every inch the warrior. His eye moves from your dagger, to your eyes, then back at the dagger.

“I could take that from you in a moment.”

“I swear to you, if you step any closer, I will slit my throat and bleed to death right here in your bed.” You tilt your chin up, letting the cold kiss of the blade caress your skin.

You had heard once of a culture where women would jump into fire pits when their men were defeated in battle, to avoid being dishonored by the conquering armies. It’s not a bad way to die, you think. Sounds less painful than the horrors that await you in this bed. You, too, would prefer death to being brutalized.

“You are nothing more than a little girl playing pretend.”

“This is not a game to me.” Aemond steps closer, and you make a slashing motion with the dagger. Blood starts to pool at the cut you make, barely deep enough to leave a mark. You lift the dagger again, set in your grim choice. Death before dishonor. Death before betraying your Queen and becoming a pawn in the Greens desperate bid for power.

“Wait!” He cries out, eye wide with anger and fear. You imagine his heart must be thumping as loudly as yours was when you heard him proposing to break you as if you were an unwilling mare. “Stop! I will take the blade from you, you stupid…”

“I’ll be dead before you reach me.” You taunt, with a vicious smile. It feels good, seeing him feel the terror you had felt mere moments before. The dagger rises again, your hand trembling slightly.

It is not fear. Only an acute feeling of satisfaction, that feels close to sexual arousal, with how good it is. You are under control now. He has taken everything away from you, but he will never be able to take this.

“You wouldn’t dare.” Aemond’s nostrils widen, face twisting into absolute rage. You had thought him a man possessed before, a devil wearing your uncle’s face. But now, he looks beastly, a bull ready to charge and ram anything on his path. You don’t waver. “You are a woman, and you only possess the amount of courage women have.”

You think of your mother, who took six times to the birthing bed. You think of yourself, all the old hurts that made you who you are. The times you had felt less, the times you had felt scared. And you think of how good it will feel, how much it will scar him if you die in this very room.

“Put me to the test, then. If you dare. You know nothing of courage, you might surprise yourself.”

Aemond examines your face. You do not know what he finds there, but it must terrify him, for his hands raise in surrender.

“Fine. You win. You win, my Princess.” He takes a step back, and then another. You do not lower the blade, still holding it against your throat. You fear he is about to trick you.

His hand goes to his belt, where his own dagger hangs. Your body coils, ready to spring up into action, but Aemond merely takes the sheat off it and throws it at you.

“You win. Keep that as your prize.” And he is turning on his heel, and leaving the room. Before he exits, he shouts at you. “I'll send for clothes and a bath, less you catch your death.”

Without taking your eyes off the door, you lean down and pick up the sheat. You catch a glimpse of your reflection on the metal. For a second, you think you see a woman watching you back, eyes cold as obsidian and a crown of dead flowers in her head. Her hair is loose over her shoulders, chopped off roughly. But when you blink again, the familiar brown eyes you are used to stare back at you. Your braid is slowly coming undone.

THE SCREAMS YOU let out as Ser Arryk holds you down are more than enough satisfaction for Aemond. He might not be able to break you fully yet, but it's more than enough of a substitute. He imagines what it will be like, chipping your resistance away little by little, and cannot stop the smirk spreading on his face.

He might not be allowed to rape you, but no one said anything about breaking you. It was fine, really. Rape was nasty business, despite its effectiveness in breaking a person. Aemond could testify to that.

Your dagger had been taken from you early on by the Kingsguard, when you had tried to stab him for holding you down. This time, Aemond wasn’t going to repeat his mistake of allowing you to keep the dagger.

He strips you down to your chemise, just for the sake of it. He takes a good look at your teats, barely covered by the wet cloth, and trusted outwards with the way Ser Arryk is holding you. At the way your poor little buds stand to attention, even if unwilling. At how the white chemise looks obscenely sheer, clinging to all the curves and dips of your body.

“No, please. No. I rather die. Don’t… Don’t… No.” You start to cry when your dress is peeled away from you, terrified. Your eyes are wide as saucers. They glint with your tears, highlighting their offending color. Poor little bastard girl, thinking Aemond will get enjoyment out of your body.

He might. Just not in the way you think.

“You are pretty when you beg, riñitsos.”

“Aemond, please. No. I am still a maiden, I can’t…” You choke on a sob, next words unintelligible.

Ser Arryk looks vaguely uncomfortable. He averts his eyes from the scene unfolding in front of him and stares to the wall, past Aemond, and over your head.

“They call you the most beautiful maiden in the Seven Kingdoms.” Aemond comments, idly. He unpins your braid, letting it fall down your back. With Ser Arryk behind you, and him pressing close on your front, there is nowhere for you to run. It’s delightful, the fear on your face.

Unable to help himself, he pinches one of your breasts, making you yowl like a cat.

“I like your teats best.” He leers, doing his best to imitate Aegon with the serving girls. It’s not that he is actually getting any sexual satisfaction out of this. This is about control and fear, and you have shown this is what you fear most. It would be foolish not to take advantage of it. “Do you think they will call you the most beautiful woman, once I am done with you?”

Ser Arryk looks at you with pity. He leans his head down, perhaps thinking he is being subtle.

“At ease, Princess. You won’t be harmed.” He whispers. If Aemond had not lost his eye, he might not have heard him. But thanks to your beloved sibling, his hearing is more acute than a normal man’s. “Prince Aemond won’t disobey the Queen. He is only trying to frighten you.”

Aemond smirks. He tugs at your hair.

“I am not allowed to dishonor you, of course.” He smiles, pressing the dagger to the part of the braid that lays over your nape. You don’t notice, too busy hiccuping and recoiling in fear. “But I understand nothing done on the marriage bed is dishonorable. We might even call for a bedding, wouldn’t that be nice?”

“I know no other queen but Rhaenyra Targaryen, queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Realm and Lady of the Seven Kingdoms. And she won’t allow her daughter to marry a craven cripple.” You stand up straighter as you speak, no matter that Ser Arryk is holding you. Your words are as much for the knight as they are for him.

The urge to slap you, or stab you with the dagger is strong. For a terrifying moment, Aemond fears he might actually go through it, and ruin his grandsire’s plans. Impudent little bitch.

The dagger is so sharp it cuts through your braid in one pass. You howl when you hear something ripping, thinking it might be your chemise, by how you struggle. Aemond smugly presents it to you, some withering marigolds still weaved into the dark hair.

“Something to send my dear sister.” He says, as he places the two long braids in a silk bag. You cry harder. Aemond wasn’t exposed to you much during your teenage years, but he remembered that as a little girl, your brown, glossy hair had been your pride and joy. A shameful proof of your bastardy, no doubt, but one that everyone complimented.

You had taken to flaunting it, when older. Wearing flower crowns, and embellishments on it, keeping it long. A girl in the bloom of her maidenhood, more forest nymph than Targaryen Princess.

And it was all gone. Packed neatly into a silk bag, along with your dagger and red dress. He hoped the old whore howled with the same agony when she opened it.

When Ser Arryk lets go of you, the first thing you do is reach up to feel your hair. A few locks fall from it still, chopped off badly. It is now about the same length as Aegon’s, cut in a way more suitable for men. Your hands are shaking.

“I’ll never marry you.” You shout. Your eyes are hurt. It doesn’t feel good to be tricked, it seems. “I wish you were dead! I wish Luke had plunged the dagger deep, and cracked open your skull!”

“You will.” Aemond answers, coldly. He hopes to hurt you as much as your words have hurt him. “For what is a girl to the Iron Throne?”

He leaves you to your grieving. He would rather not admit it, but deprived of any blades, your words have still managed to cut him. You can be his mother’s problem from now on.

The next two days are spent into lingering guilt and extraneous exercise. Every time Aemond’s thoughts go back to you, he spars with whoever is available. His whole body hurts by the end of it, and you still haunt him. He might have gone overboard, but he will never admit it out loud.

There is a dark sense of satisfaction in his stomach. It slips past his guilt, sometimes. The terror on your eyes had been exquisite, worth every reprimand he had gotten afterwards. As he hurt you, putting the fear of the Seven in you, he imagined hurting your bastard of a sibling and finally felt peace.

It’s best not to think of you. You bring up conflicting feelings and memories, the girl you once were, kind and sweet and the woman you now were, indifferent to him and easily frightened. The images superposed in his mind, betrayed eyes as he proclaimed he was going to dishonor you, crying at the funeral of Laena Velaryon, worried as Daemon whisked away with your mother, as Lucerys appeared covered in blood.

It is easier to punish keep himself occupied in the training yard. He doesn’t think of you when he spars with the knights or when he swings his sword until his arms feel like they will fall off. Nor when he falls asleep out of sheer exhaustion, bruised black and blue.

Not until his mother comes looking for him.

At first, he doesn’t notice her presence, busy hacking at straw figures until his arms ache. But she clears his throat many times, forcing him to turn. He does so while still holding the sword.

His mother looks odd in the training grounds. She is small, almost dainty looking, a flame of green standing among the mud. Aemond approaches her in four short strides.

“Mother. Is something the matter?”

“The girl is sick.” She says, a troubled frown on her beautiful face. Aemond has always admired her grace and beauty, and even though life has been cruel to her, she has only cultivated it more. She is what she thinks all women should be, gracious and pious. If it had been up to him, he would have married someone like her, he thinks. Her only flaw is her sentimentality.

“Get her a Maester.” Aemond says, annoyed at being interrupted by something so trivial. You probably have a cold, foolish girl that you are, having insisted on staying in your wet clothes and refusing a hot bath.

“I got her plenty. She nearly scratched the eyes off one, and when they tried to give her Milk of the Poppy…” His mother makes a pained face. Aemond doesn’t want to know. Truly, whatever you had done was probably willful and cruel. Gods, why did he have to marry you? You weren’t demure, you weren’t pious and you certainly weren’t gracious. “She is now refusing food.”

“Let her starve off. When she is hungry enough, she will eat.”

“The girl can’t die, Aemond.” His mother grabs his arm, brown eyes filled with mania. “It would mean war. They say Rhaenyra has scoured the Seven Kingdoms each night on dragonback since she disappeared. She has only calmed after receiving the package, but negotiations are not going well.”

He stays quiet. His mother glares.

Aemond hates that his mother is still so attached to his sister, even after all the time that has gone by. He had never intended to be a part of this hare-brained scheme to save them all, much less her. He had not taken you because he had some great political ploy to put in place and needed you as his figurehead.

Aemond had been thinking of something much more simple. Your family owed him a debt, and it was going to be paid in fire and blood. If he couldn’t have Lucerys’ eye, he would have yours. Or your maidenhead. Or any blood he could draw out of you, he wasn’t picky.

If someone had asked him, he would have preferred Aegon as King. It was much simpler and the way things should be.

“What am I supposed to do?” He asks after a while because he is sure you will not listen to him.

“Convince her.” His mother orders, and Aemond sets down his sword and goes to your room.

To get inside, he has to enlist two Kingsguard and a blacksmith. You have not spent your time free from his mother idle, it seems. Instead, you have moved a dresser or some sort of heavy furniture in front of the door.

The blacksmith has to pop the hinges off the door, and only then, Aemond and the Kingsguard get to move the dresser and unblock the path inside. How you managed on your own, he has no idea.

When he steps in, the smell of vomit and old sweat hits his nose. It’s revolting. There are several plates and cups upturned and laying in disarray over the rug, staining what once was pure white fur. A pomegranate, cut in half, has rolled to a corner. It is your favorite, but it lies untouched.

Aemond’s annoyance spikes. He knows you are aware he has you situated on what were his personal chambers. The careless destruction you have left on your wake irks him.

“Lady Strong.” He mocks. “Where are you?”

His bed is unmade, missing the covers. Aemond checks inside the dresser that had taken three men to move and finds nothing. He then checks under the bed. Nothing either.

It is only when he checks the bathing chamber that he finds you, sprawled on the floor. The covers are forming a cocoon around you, and your forehead is pressed tightly to the cold tiles. You only wear a sleeping shift.

Your eyes are open and feverish, face sweaty and tinted red. You don’t seem to recognize him, but your head lifts slightly at the sound of the door opening.

“Seven Hells.”

The looking glass is smashed on the floor. You clutch a shard in your fist, tight enough to bleed as it digs into your skin.

“I will not be drugged again.” You say, voice barely more than a rasp. “And I do not want a Maester.”

“You are in no position to make demands.”

“If you force me again to do something I do not want…” You trail off, clutching the shard more tightly. He should take it from you, but you look half mad already. If he hands you back to your mother like this, war will be inevitable. He doesn’t dare push you farther.

“May I touch you?” Aemond asks, instead.

“Since when do you ask for permission?” You lay your head down, once again pressing it to the tiles.

“Come.” He grabs your arms, pulling you to your feet. Your skin is concerningly hot. Burning up, truly. “I’ll send for a lukewarm bath. And this time, you will take it.”

You stagger. Your movements are sluggish, and your eyes are glassy.

“I do not want anything from you.” But you lean on him, allowing Aemond to take you away from the broken shards on the floor. You are not wearing slippers or socks.

“Let me get you a Maester.” Aemond offers, getting you to the bed. You land on it without any grace, and promptly begin to kick the covers away.

“I do not want a Maester. I want… My mother has a midwife.” It is as puzzling as it is unexpected. A midwife tending to a princess. His mother would have kittens.

“Are you pregnant?” You had thrown up, after all. The room smelled like bile, so much it was upsetting even Aemond’s stomach. He fought the urge to gag himself.

“No. But she knows how to cure other ailments. Upset stomachs, colds.”

“Do you feel nauseous?”

You shake your head. Aemond’s grip on you tightens.

“Don’t lie to me. It reeks of vomit here.”

“Your mother put Milk of the Poppy in my food. I threw it up.” You deadpan.

“You induced…?” Aemond is not sure which one is more interesting. His mother drugging you? Oh, you must have been throwing a spectacular tantrum. The fact that you were ruthless enough to force yourself to retch shouldn't be so surprising, though. You had been ruthless enough to threaten to kill yourself, twice.

“Yes. And I won’t eat or drink anything else after that, you snake. Bitch. Alicent is… Daemon used a word…” You mumble to yourself.

“What do you want me to do?” Aemond asks, frustrated. Why must women give him such grief? First Vhagar, with her willfulness and refusal to heed commands. Then his mother and her hare brained schemes to protect Rhaenyra. And now you. He must be cursed.

You ignore him, eyelids growing heavy.

“Cunt.” You say, after a while. You laugh.

Aemond sighs. He sends for a lukewarm bath and some servants to tidy up the room. It will not be an easy night, it seems.

“PRINCESS, PRINCE AEMOND is requesting entrance.” Ellia says, softly. You turn to look at her, from your place on the bed. You close the book on your lap.

The girl has been your constant companion ever since the incident. To ensure nothing untoward happens, said Aemond, and that you feel safe. She had kept watch over you as your fever broke, her hawk eyes following Aemond as he tended to you.

“Tell him I wish to bathe first.” You decide to test him, once again. Your uncle seems more in control of himself lately, but you still feel on edge around him. Aemond had shattered your trust in him and in men in general.

You cannot bear to look at Ser Arryk. Your shame is too great. To think he had held you, and looked as Aemond…

No. You cannot think like that. Not with the news from Dragonstone. The negotiations are going better, it seems. Your mother has been considering leaving you here, from what Aemond says.

Her betrayal hurts. You have always known Jacaerys was her favorite, but this is low, even for her. She is probably making more children with Daemon, trueborn and ready to contest your claim. Your suffering will mean nothing in the end, not even with Alicent’s plans.

It is beyond cruel, to allow you to hope that you will get the Iron Throne. Not when she is throwing you to Aemond as a sacrifice. Is this what maidens in your tales had felt, when they were used to appease an ancient deity that asks for a price in blood?

Your mother has abandoned you. You are alone in this world.

“The Princess says you cannot come in now, for she wishes to bathe.” You hear Ellia speak, her voice hard. You do not listen to Aemond’s answer, but considering Ellia comes back in and starts getting things ready for your bath, you guess he was not angered.

“He asked that you not get dressed yet. He wishes to examine you.” Ellia says, helping you sink into the water. You keep your eyes on the ceiling, not wishing to look at your reflection. You already know what you will find. Dark circles under your eyes, unflattering haircut, skin waxy and pale. As if all life had been robbed off you.

You try to avoid her, this stranger wearing your face. She looks like the woman you had seen reflected on metal during your first day here. More ghoul than woman, all hail the Queen of the Seven Hells.

That Aemond wishes to examine you doesn’t surprise you. He has been taking care of you since you have gotten sick. You were quite fearful of Maesters, both for being men and for what you had seen them do to your grandfather. Even in a feverish daze, you had refused them.

Alicent hadn’t respected your choice then. But unexpectedly, Aemond had. Considering his uncouth and terrifying behavior before, you weren’t inclined to trust him, but had little choice. The feverish version of you was as weak as a kitten, and unable to resist his tender care. You feel lucky that you survived with your maidenhead intact.

Once you are done with your bath, you dress in another shift, a cotton one that buttons all the way to your neck. You sit primly on your bed, covers drawn up to your waist. Ellia brushes your short hair, making tears well up in your eyes.

Your mother had called it once the crown you never took off. A lion’s mane, for her brave girl. You had never imagined it could be taken away so easily. Gone were the elaborate braids adorned with flowers. You couldn’t even pin it back now.

Aemond knocks. You brush your tears away. When he enters, you look perfectly composed.

“How are you feeling?” He asks, sitting on the side of the bed. He places a parcel down next to you. “I brought you a gift. Thought it may cheer you up.”

You ignore him. Aemond sighs.

“It’s a dress. And a cloak. The dress comes from Highgarden, it has flowers embroidered on it. I got you a brooch to wear with the cloak, too. It’s a silver marigold. You like marigolds.” He explains. Your expression doesn’t change. You stare resolutely at the wall. It is not the first time he tries to bribe you with presents.

His regret is not sincere. Not when he takes advantage of every chance to touch you, and make your skin crawl. Yet again, you have to get used to it.

No way out in the underworld but through. Best to not look back. If he wishes to exercise casual cruelty to feel better about himself, good for him. You would do the same if you were allowed.

“I am going to check your lungs now.” Aemond says, and you tense. His hands slowly open your nightgown, with great care. Your breasts are exposed, so you cross your arms over your chest to cover them.

Shame and fear make you feel like you are about to throw up. You remember his hands, and the way he had cruelly pinched you, as Ser Arryk forced you into position. You jerk your head away.

You will marry him. That is what Alicunt says. You must endure his touch, and provide heirs for the Iron Throne. The thought sickens you.

Aemond grabs at your wrists, pulling them away. To your utter embarrassment, the thought of being restrained makes you freeze with fear, and begin to tear up.

“I think you can listen to her back.” Ellia says, sharply. She draws your shift closed, with a harsh tug. The girl is a few years younger than you, but she is fierce and outspoken. You wonder who chose her for this job. She is perfect for it.

“I…” Aemond stammers, taken aback. He isn’t very used to being told off by the help. “You are right. I apologize, Princess.”

He buttons your shift again. You stay very still, waiting for him to push you forward and press his ear to your back. But nothing happens. Ellia’s hands come to rest on your shoulders, clutching you tightly.

“I have made a right mess of things, haven’t I?” Aemond asks, after a while. You are unsure if he is speaking to Ellia or to you. His lips form a bitter smile. “Fuck. What have I done?”

He rubs his good eye, almost punishingly. You feel very numb. Something broke in you that night, something that you do not think can be fixed. He had not taken your maidenhood, but he had certainly taken your innocence.

“I apologize. I behaved in ways that are not befitting of my station, and much less…”

“I don’t think I can forgive you.” You interrupt, before Aemond thinks he can begin spouting out some remorseful tirade and get things to how they were before. Your relationship with him cannot be mended.

There was once a string connecting the two of you. It had been pulled tight by the years and disagreements among your families. Despite it, the thread gave. It stretched, and tensed, and never snapped. But Aemond had pulled it too hard this time.

The string is no more. It lays broken between you two. He is no longer the boy who had played with your brothers. Now, he is just a cruel man. A small, bitter, man.

“It is one of those things you don’t really forget, I suppose. I know a bit about that.” He gestures to his eye patch. You wonder if his string with Luke had been cut by your brother that night. You wonder if your pain and his are comparable.

The both of you stare at each other. You place your hands on your lap.

“You will be pleased to know your Green Lady is doing well. She will be able to travel in about a week.” He comments, seemingly out of nowhere. A way out. Ellia doesn’t notice, still standing behind you.

“I wish to be Queen.” You answer him, also seemingly out of nowhere. Your heart aches for a whole different reason. All of your suffering would be in vain if you heed his advice. You would be another Queen that never was.

“Would you like some jewelry, next time I visit you?”

“My mother prefers Jace over me.” You have nowhere to go. You look up at him, and try to convey that no matter how much you may wish it, your mother would never forgive you. Not after being so close to getting everything she wants.

“Aegon is in Essos.” Aemond suggests, a strange look on his face. It is then you realize this is his attempt at doing you a kindness. Sparing you. Apologizing.

Have you grown so used to cruelty you do not recognize kindness anymore?

“I wish to be Queen.” You repeat. You wonder what he thinks of this cold woman that you have become. The one that only wishes for a single thing: A crown. “I will think of travels then.”

Your mother appears on King’s Landing a few days after. She comes with Daemon, your siblings, Rhaena and Baela and even Princess Rhaenys. It seems she has taken every dragonrider available with her, to show both the common folk and the Greens that the might of House Targaryen stands behind her.

You have dressed today, which is a miracle on itself. You have not really been feeling up for anything. The dress you wear is a sober, red velvet gown. There are no flowers in sight.

“Mother.” You greet when she dismounts from Syrax. For a second, you think of running towards her dragon and taking to the skies. Your mother used to take you riding with her as a child. Perhaps Syrax will still recognize you now.

“My wonderful girl.” The endearment is new. She looks half mad with worry, crossing the courtyard in one long stride. You curtsy, but she grabs your hands before you can sink into it, and pulls you for a hug.

Her hands shake as she smooths the short strands down.

“What have they done to you? Your hair… And you are much too thin.” She sobs into your shoulder. Her embrace is comforting, making you melt into her. You start to chastise yourself for judging her too harshly. She must have been doing her best to get you back, but wars were difficult. More so among kin. “I am so sorry, I never intended for any of this to happen.”

You think of your imminent wedding. Of the six moons you will spend at Dragonstone, with only Aemond to keep you company. Of Alicent’s cruel eyes as she told you to get used to it, for Aemond would have a right to touch you from now on. I have suffered, her brown eyes seemed to say, so every woman must too.

“Why did you agree?” You ask her, brown eyes meeting lilac. You need to know.

“To save your life.” She whispers. “To stop a war.”

But her eyes tell a different story. When you look over her shoulder, you see Daemon being greeted by the Goldcloaks, a smug smile on his face.

What is a girl to the Iron Throne?

Your smile falls. There is a terrible feeling on your chest, as if your heart, which had been beating so merrily, has just about turned into stone.

You remove yourself from your mother’s embrace. The pomegranate you had for breakfast tastes like ashes on your tongue.

YOU SPEND MOST of your time reading. Hiding away in the library, where you enjoy pretending Aemond can’t reach you.

Aemond doesn’t understand it. Dragonstone is so big you could go on with your day as normal and never cross paths with him. But he leaves you be, just as he had left you be during the wedding night. It seems to help you.

He dedicates his time to exploring the island instead. Unlike you, Aemond won’t get to leave it while you go back to King’s Landing. Nor is he allowed any visits. It feels suspiciously like a punishment, perhaps for what he almost dared do to you.

He is sure his uncle is behind this. It reeks of him. Exile with only you for company? Surely, your mother wouldn’t be so cruel, more thoughtful of what he could do to her precious daughter. But Daemon? He would find it outrageously funny.

The island is very intriguing to walk. There are several dragons here, and Aemond recognizes them all. There is the Cannibal, and the Sheepstealer, Silverwing, Verminthor. He had been fascinated by them as a child, when he had no dragon of his own.

Vhagar seems happier here. He supposes it is much better than the confinement of the dragonpit. But your dragon, the pampered green thing, seems to hate it. Competing for food is not something she cares for.

Aemond wonders if he will get to see the dragons reproduce. With all the spare time he has, he might as well solve the mystery. He could do some research, but the library is your domain. He would have to wait for you to retire for the day. You spend almost all your waking hours there.

What in the Seven Hells could you be doing? You had not been the studious type as a child. Nor had you been energetic like your brothers. You reminded him more of Helaena, but instead of insects, your obsession was flowers.

He tries to think of something else, but he is so bored and his curiosity is piqued. His feet lead him to the library almost without meaning to.

Aemond often does things out of sheer curiosity that he later regrets. The first time he had fucked a woman had been the product of that, and it had left him feeling ashamed and unsure, but wanting more. It had been the oddest thing.

He had claimed Vhagar only to see if he could, too. He had made that cursed toast, wanting to hurt the four of you, but also curious about what your reactions would be. Watching Aegon slam Lucerys against the table would be forever one of his fondest memories, but the scolding after…

You are sitting at a table near the window. Sunlight hits you from the side, giving your brown hair an almost golden glow and bathing your features in a soft chiaroscuro. Thick tomes are spread around you, bearing oddly familiar titles.

“The art of war. Seven accounts of the battle for Dragonstone. Ten thousand ships. The first dornish war, a treaty.” He whistles, unable to help himself. It is quite the collection. “Are you planning on declaring war already, niece?”

You startle. The quill you are holding falls from your hand.

“Husband.” You say, tone haughty. “If you must know, I am trying to learn strategy.”

“Strategy?” Aemond echoes. It’s not something he is very well acquainted with himself. He has some knowledge about it, from books and listening to his grandfather and Cole, but he is nowhere near an expert. His intellectual pursuits had been centered around philosophy and history, more than this. When he read about wars, he often glossed over the accounts about formations and such, more interested in the economical and political ramifications of them.

Strategy was also something a father should teach. Viserys had never been too interested in it, having not seen battle himself. What he had learned had come from observing Cole. Never having been at war, it was challenging to conclude if he had the right of things.

“I plan to be a good Queen.” You answer him, closing your book. Your tone is awfully civil. “And education is the greatest equalizer.” You give him a pointed look. Equals. You want to even the playing field between the two of you, so he can never frighten you again. How funny this is the topic you choose to learn.

“You shouldn’t worry about that.” Aemond snorts. “I hardly know about it myself.”

“But you are a man.” You say, astonished. “Surely, you were taught! Daemon taught Jace, someone had to…”

“My father was never interested.” He leans against the window, observing you. You observe him back, eyes glued to his hands as if you expect him to lunge at you and stab you. “How come Daemon didn’t teach you too?” He stresses your stepfather’s name.

“I am a woman.” You say, bitterly. “He thought my time was best spent learning to sing and play an instrument, so I could secure a good match.”

“He never seems to disapprove of the womanliness of your mother.” He arches an eyebrow because while his uncle might not be a good role model, he is exemplary when it comes to marital devotion.

“Doesn’t he? He has her popping out babes like there is no tomorrow.” You start gathering your parchment and quills. You have a small bound book inside which everything goes. Aemond had seen you with it before, but he had thought it a diary, not a set of instructions on how to go about a siege.

Showed how much he knew you. Go figure.

“You find having babes demeaning?”

Your expression turns positively murderous. Children seem not to be a good topic of conversation. This will probably become a problem later on, when the two of you need children of your own. He makes a mental note of it and moves on.

“His word is law. Or used to be, in our home. She defers to him.” You say, tone bitter. Daemon has fallen out of your good graces. Aemond almost wishes to travel to the Red Keep with you when spring starts, to see what you will do to him. Almost.

There would be nothing that could prompt him to enjoy his sister’s court. He refuses.

“Perhaps they are partners, and she seeks his counsel.” Aemond offers if only to irritate you. He is starved for intelligent conversation, and if he has to defend Daemon to keep you talking, he will. His boredom is driving him mad. There is nothing to do here beyond eat, sleep and train.

“He is great at it, just like you.” You say, coldly. Then, you say something very interesting. You repeat the same words that he had said to you once. “What is a girl to the Iron Throne?”

“Ah.”

So your resentment towards Daemon wasn’t about favoring your brother, or fucking more brats into your mother, but rather much more simplistic. You felt as if he had chosen to sacrifice you, so your mother could get her throne. Fascinating.

An angel passes between the two of you. Aemond can almost feel its wings brushing against him. Then, you inhale, sharply, and break the silence.

“So. Strategy. You should learn too.”

“You think war will come for us? And here I thought you trusted Jacaerys.” Aemond mocks.

“Let’s not delude ourselves.” You say, touching a strand of your hair. Brown. Strong brown. “There are new players in the game.”

Your mother’s babes, Aemond thinks. Daemon’s trueborn sons. Like a monster of myths, you cut one head and two more appear. You had disarmed your opponents in this generation, making them toothless dragons. Aemond was chained to you, Aegon in Essos, Helaena in Oldtown with her children. But as dragons tended to do, there were new ones hatching already.

War would come for you. And him. Aemond had never truly imagined himself sitting on the Iron Throne, he had been born a supporter. He had always thought he would stand behind a King.

But just as Daemon Targaryen, he could stand behind a Queen instead.

“So we learn, wife. And we fight.” Aemond sits across you and reaches for his own tome. Prince consort of Westeros had a nice ring to it. Perhaps his uncle was onto something.

You eye him warily. But you go back to pouring over your book, shoulders relaxing slightly.

It takes a few weeks of repeating the same routine, the two of you reading side by side during the afternoon, for you to warm up to him. Timidly, you show up to break your fast with him one day and never leave.

He is an early riser, always making use of the training yard before the sun is out. You never wake as early, but you need to do it if you wish to catch him before he starts his day. You manage to be out of bed at sunrise every morning that week. Aemond doesn’t comment on your change of habits. He is not sure that he wants to stop it.

“Aemond.” You say, one day, as he peels a pomegranate for you. It’s not like he is doing you a favor, really. It is for his own good. Your hands are small, and you press too hard to break the seeds out, making a mess of the whole table. It’s best if he does it and saves himself from being sprayed with the red liquid. He finds it stains terribly. Your tiny hands always end up red for days, and it’s not proper at all for the future Queen of Westeros. “Could you…?”

“What?” He cuts the pomegranate into quarters and pops the seeds out, placing them in a bowl. He slides them towards you, with a spoon. Savage thing that you are, you might end up digging right in with your hands.

“You owe me a debt.”

“I do?” He startles. Aemond is unsure what you are talking about, but his guts twists. You have a long memory, he has come to learn. And an intrinsic ability to quote his own words back at him at the most inopportune moments.

“What you did was awful, and while our truce has been pleasant, I wish to forgive you. And for that to happen, you will do something for me.” Your voice is careful and steady. There are no tears in your eyes. Only the slight shaking of your hands as you reach for the spoon betrays the scars that evening had left in you.

Aemond doesn’t want to talk about it. Not now, not ever. He wipes his hands with a napkin. The stains on his hands look awfully like blood, and they won’t come out, no matter how hard he tries.

“Who says I want your forgiveness?” He deflects. He does want it. But this past few weeks, pretending to be a normal marriage, have been too blissful to risking upsetting the delicate balance the two of you had found by ignoring the past.

“I do.”

Aemond looks at you. You are a bit pale, but your expression is calm. It relaxes him slightly, knowing that you are at ease.

“What I want is to get out of this damn island.” And it is true. He needs to get out of here, or he fears he might go mad. Seven Hells, Aemond fears he might already be. When had he started worrying about how you felt? Thinking of you as an ally and not a ball and chain?

“That won’t happen in the near future.”

“You are not my jailer.”

“Am I not?” You smile at him, deliciously wicked. It seems the little dragon is waking up, ready to torch everything in her path. Aemond’s scar starts to throb. He can tell something bad is about to happen. This doesn’t feel like your usual banter. “You want to rule. But before me, you were nothing. Only a second son.”

“And before me, you were nothing. Just a whore to throw at Cregan Stark and see if the damn dog was led by his cock enough to support your cunt of a mother.” Aemond’s mouth works faster than his brain. He is just so angry at hearing you say he was only a second son that his words come out before he can stop them.

You laugh. It only irritates him further. He feels as if he is unraveling, coming apart at the seams, but he just can’t stop it.

“Well, look at us. We made each other worse.” There is a smile in your lips, a coy, infuriating little thing. Insolent, impudent, just as your mother. He had been so wrong calling you a bastard. You are all dragon. “But you will earn my forgiveness, if you wish to share my bed.”

And it infuriates him, your presumption. That he will fall at your feet like a lovesick fool because you paid him some attention. Aemond half lunges at you, barely managing to stop himself from throttling you.

“You whore! I could just use you.”

You jump too. Your cutlery falls to the floor. Your eyes are alarmed. It is only then he notices what he has said. Aemond has crossed the line he had sworn he would never touch again.

“I am sorry. I didn’t… I wasn’t thinking. It was in poor taste, of course.”

Your eyes keep darting from him towards the exit. You are terrified, eyes both looking at him and somewhere far away. Are you there again, Aemond wonders? In that room with Ser Arryk and a version of him consumed by his bloodlust?

The next time you speak, your voice is but a whisper.

“You never think. That’s the issue.”

Aemond swallows. He has broken things once again, but he doesn’t know how to mend them. He needs to fix it.

“What did you need? The favor, what were you going to ask?”

Your lips turn white with the force you are using to keep them pressed together.

“It’s best I don’t.”

He thinks of you sitting in the library, hands smoothing down your parchment. Education is the greatest equalizer, you had said. An idea sprouts, half formed. As always, his mouth is speaking before his mind has time to catch up.

“If you knew how to wield a sword, would you feel safer? If I taught you to defend yourself?”

“I do not think…”

“I will let you trash me around the training yard, even.” Aemond offers because maybe wearing some of your bruises will help him feel better. Punish himself by letting you have a go at him.

“Fine.”

You are a good student. Despite an initial hesitance to be near him, you thrive on the training yard. You use your smaller form to your advantage, twisting and ducking in impossible ways. All those dance lessons seem to have paid off. You are light on your feet. He might make a swordswoman out of you yet.

“Do you think I could find Rhaenys’ sword?” You ask him, one day, as you laze on a rock. You are watching him hack at a straw opponent. The sun is hitting you just right, and lazy cat that you are, you are soaking it all up. “She had to have one.”

“Probably. But you think it is here?” Aemond pauses, out of breath. He sets his sword down and wipes the sweat off his brow with the edge of his shirt. Your eyes trail his movements with barely concealed interest. It is a recent development.

“Where else?”

“Essos? Sold by pirates?” He offers, very reasonably. You have a tendency to daydream, he knows. Despite being a cold, calculating thinker, ready to go to war for your crown, you are still a young woman. Aemond doesn’t have the heart to tell you Rhaenys might not have even had a sword. It would shatter you.

You huff.

“You lack a sense of adventure.”

It is how he ends up joining you in a chase around Dragonstone. The castle is scoured from top to bottom, running up flights of stairs, scandalizing the servants and opening up secret passages. You force him out of his boredom and actually get him interested in discovering the castle’s secrets.

Aemond's chest hurts when he thinks of what he will do when spring comes, and you are not there to distract him. It is probably the sappy thought that distracts him, truly.

He falls down a flight of stairs, over his ankle. It hurts like the Seven Hells. It’s nothing compared to the loss of his eye, but it does make him cry out in surprise.

“Sprained.” The Maester says, as you fuzz over him. It bars him from running around the island, so you invite him to listen to your tenants.

Aemond finds holding court in Dragonstone is not as dreadfully boring as he had feared. He supposes he will have to do it in your stead when you travel. He despises the thought.

But what he finds he enjoys more, is being your sword. No matter that you are growing more adept with yours, Aemond rather likes standing menacingly behind you to intimidate the men that dare interrupt you.

It spirals out of control when winter starts. Aemond has commissioned you a small diadem in the shape of a flower crown, and he gifts it to you just as the last leave falls from the trees in your garden. Dragonstone is hard-pressed for flowers during summer as it is, much more in autumn.

“You have not worn flower crowns in a while.” He offers, as the only explanation, when he places it on your hair. You smile, admiring the glittering jewels on the top of your head in the looking glass.

“I love it.” And your eyes meet his in the reflection, and Aemond has to look away because he fears what he will say if you look at him a moment longer.

He focuses his gaze on your shoulders instead. You aren’t tense any longer, and you seem unburdened for the first time in a long time. He is slowly starting to see flashes of the girl you used to be, the one that would fill rooms with laughter and sunlight.

He finds himself drawing strength from the memory as the morning progresses. The petitioners today have been especially irritating, and a gruesome case has been presented for the Princess to pass her judgement.

A woman with a scarred back is brought before you, still bleeding from a lashing. The wounds seem to have cured badly, due to her lack of access to a Maester. As you had sent her to the one in the castle, the husband had been brought in front of you, and Aemond knew with just a look that he was going to be trouble.

He had tuned out the words you were speaking, choosing instead to stand behind you, a hand in the back of your chair. But it is as you sentence the man to a week in the dungeons, that he hears it.

“… You are a child. I won’t allow a child, wearing a flower crown, to dictate how to discipline my wife!” He bellows out, and makes to lunge at you.

You flinch. Your expression, relaxed, turns into a frown. He can tell you are embarrassed about it, your crown of flowers. You had not worn them ever since that meeting in Storm’s End.

The guards step forward, ready to intervene. But Aemond’s blood is boiling because how this did man dare mock his gift to you? Who was he to mock you for who you were, when it had taken you so much effort to go back to a semblance of normalcy?

“My wife may wear all the flower crowns she wishes, for she is to be Queen of Westeros.” He says, stepping forward before the guards can do anything. He unsheats his sword. Aemond cannot hurt him, not yet, but putting the fear of the Seven in him will be delightful regardless.

“If you think anyone will support this… This…” The man argues, pushing him and trying to intimidate Aemond with his bulk. Aemond lets himself be shoved, smirking. Got you, he thinks.

“That is treason. Do you know the punishment for treason?” He asks, very calmly. He raises his sword. The man, busy glaring at him, doesn’t see it.

“It’s the truth! She is as touched in the head as…” But before the man can finish his comparison, Aemond beheads him.

“Aemond!” You scream. He smirks.

“He was growing tiresome.”

Aemond goes back to standing behind you, feeling rather pleased with himself. After that, no man dares raise their voice at you.

Spring and summer are unbearable months in Dragonstone. Aemond entertains himself with keeping your lands in order. He patrols the island daily, and makes sure to handle petitions the way you would like it done.

The day the first leaf falls, you arrive on dragonback. You jump out of your saddle as soon as you see him, tumbling out into his arms.

By the Seven, if Aemond hadn’t caught you, you would have broken a bone.

“You are back.” He says, a bit perplexed by your enthusiasm.

“It is my home, is it not?” You say, smile bright and smelling of flowers. The diadem he has gifted you with shines on your dark hair.

“Oh.” Aemond says, as if struck by lighting. “I…” He has been a fool, hasn’t he?

You surge forward, placing one of your hands on his shoulder and tangling the other in his hair, and you crash your lips to his. You are so warm against him, so small, and there is fire in his veins instead of blood, spreading through his body, reaching his heart and setting him aflame with just one touch.

You smile against his mouth, a smug, infuriating thing. He kisses back, harder, crowding you against your dragon. You fall back against her, and he follows, giving a teasing squeeze to your waist.

You pull back.

“It is good to be home.”

“Indeed.”

DETAILED TW: Aemond knows reader is scared of rape, he feigns he is about to do it to her to scare her. He has thought of the reader in sexual ways, but it is clear in the scene he doesn’t intend to go through it since it is told from his pov. He does grope the reader. Reader threatens with suicide to avoid rape. Twice. Pretty much dark fic.

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wickjump · 2 months

Text

dtiys? on my blog?? more likely than you think

okay so uhhhh!! recently i hit a very cool follower goal and my birthday is coming up!!!!! so it’s a celebration of me turning 19 (bleh) soon and also me hitting a cool enough follower count that most people make dtiys’s about. which i’m SO GRATEFUL FOR BTW?? THIS HAS BEEN WILD….

it’s like a your oc here thing!!!!!! i really like a lot of peoples ocs and i sort of want this to be fun you know? insert an oc, a sona, or just add a character you really like!!!! include as many bitties as you want of any variant, you aren’t stuck with just sanses!

alright!!!! uhhh guidelines!!!

- no nsfw/suggestive art please!! and i’d really prefer if there was no x bitty stuff :’3

- NO tracing or ai!!!! exception: using a background of a real life image for reference with drawing like the shelves or register or stuff, OR if it’s your own art. other than that, no tracing plz :3

- you can change pretty much anything! remove, exchange, or add bitties, change the scenery or background, angle, whatever, and if you don’t want to add another character, you can just draw my sona, or you can add more characters to the scene!!!! i want you to have fun with it!!!!!

- you can add blood (like a bitty horror with blood on his jacket) but not an extensive amount of gore (ocs with ‘gorish’ designs are fine!!)

oh wow prizes…. letsa go…

first place?!?!?!!?? 2 fullbody drawings of skeletons/fursonas/weird inhumans of your choice!! yippee!!! i unfortunately can’t draw quads or humans i’m so sorry.!!!! ft complex background 2 !!!

second place woah…. 1 fullbody of a character wowie!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! plus a background!!!!!!!!

third….. halfbody of a character woahz…… with simple background n stuff…

fourth…. pfp of a character/sona/whatever!!! if you don’t want a pfp then a bust :33 ft patterned background

fifth………wowwzers another bust!!!that is awsum………. flatcolor background….. Mayb gradient

the deadline!!!! is!!!!!! in three months!!!! because im too lazy to manage anything until then!!!!

and because the og has been overlayed to hell and back (i like pink), here’s the biblically accurate colors, and below a ref to my sona and milkbone!sans (one of the bitties/an oc of mine) :3

milkbone sans!!!!!

sona!!!!

#dtiys #wicksdtiys #do people make tags for these?? if so that’s da tag #utmv #undertale #obligatory fandom tags #milkbone sans #Undertrap sans #dust sans #cross sans #lust sans

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wpdarlingpan · 3 months

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Could we get something with Yandere ouat Peter? Preferably gender-neutral or nb reader.

An idea I had is maybe Hook has a kid, so the character would have grown up in Neverland. I think maybe a platonic Yandere Peter would be v interesting, where he maybe tries to interact with reader as a ‘cool older brother’ sort of figure, despite the fact that reader very much knows exactly who he is and that he’s dangerous. Romantic would be fine too though!

Thank you so much for the request! I apologize it took so long and I have not written in a while so I hope it's okay!

I loved this idea so I had to see how it'll play out. I did the platonic version and although I did use Y/N and made them gender-neutral, I wrote they were 17 for the story's sake. I often have Peter refer to them as a child because in his mind he feels the need to take care of and protect them.

I am considering a part two if people like this idea enough, maybe taking place when the Storybrooke residents arrive.

Warning: Yandere Behavior

Word Count: 2886

-----------------

The Love Of A Brother

-----------------

The day Killian Jones, otherwise known by his more colorful moniker Hook, came to Neverland was a day he would never forget.

He had many men aboard, each desiring to never grow old until they wished. They all had been warned about the dangers that lurk within the water and upon the soil of Neverland but the idea of dying from old age was a more terrifying feat to them.

However, one person had little choice in the matter, as they were still somewhat forced to come to Neverland.

Captain Hook's kid, Y/N.

After the day Mila died it was up to him to become a single parent. Overall he was rather good at it. Always telling stories so that they would be able to sleep at night or sitting by their bedside when they had gotten a cold. But, no matter how much love they held for each other, Killian could not stop going after the man who killed his wife and the mother of his child.

Y/N was 17 the day they had arrived in Neverland and would remain so until the day they left.

This was not a decision Hook made lightly. Bringing the person he cared for more than anyone into the hellish landscape wasn't something he'd wish on his worst enemy (other than Rumpelstiltskin) but the idea of leaving them with no idea when he would return hurt even more.

So he created the rules.

Do not leave the boat without permission.

Do not ever interact with Peter Pan or his shadow.

Avoid the Lost Boys.

"Who is Peter Pan?" They asked their father as the Jolly Roger settled after coming through the portal to Neverland.

"A bloody demon." He responded looking at the dark island as it neared.

Hook began telling the stories that he knew. Even sharing how he had met Peter Pan in the first place. Albeit leaving out what happened to his brother as he blamed himself as well as Pan for the tragedy.

Pan knew he was arriving on the island. Hook riskily contacted him through his shadow to come to a truce before being allowed to arrive on the island.

But there was a little thing Hook had forgotten to mention.

His child.

He had hoped that if none of the inhabitants of the island knew their relation, with Peter assuming they were deckhands or something, they wouldn't be targeted if Peter got bored or wanted to play a game.

But the resemblance was noticeable from the first meeting.

-----------------

As the boat docked onto shore to make an initial supply run, Hook kept Y/N close. Half of the crew, including the two of them, walked carefully through the jungle, avoiding every thorn they came across.

But the real danger was just up ahead. After all, Peter Pan wouldn't be a polite host if he didn't welcome his guests.

The second the pirates entered a clearing they were surrounded by the sound of rustles as the leaves moved around the edge of the clearing and a figure appeared about 20 feet ahead on the other end.

Hook froze, he knew he should have expected him to show himself this early, but a part of him had hoped he wouldn't, not yet at least.

Y/N held onto their bow and arrows tightly as they observed the boy up ahead who looked just a little older than them. Judging by the way he held the spotlight, they had to assume this was Peter Pan.

"Look what we have here, I didn't expect to see you on the island this quickly. I mean after what had happened last time you were here, the idea of returning so willingly was unexpected, Captain." Peter spoke as he neared the group, the Lost Boys forming a circle around them to prevent anyone from running.

Peter inspected the group as they each held some form of weapon. Be it a dagger, sword, or even one with a bow and arrow.

He neared the one with the bow and arrow, the idea of figuring out what else made them so different lingered in his mind. Peter stood closely in front of them, studying their appearance and the subtle yet noticeable looks towards the direction of Hook.

This is when something had clicked.

His brain was no longer assessing the group as a whole or messing with the Captain. His thoughts were reserved for only them. The way they were trying to hide their shaking hands and the way they held onto the bow tighter the closer he got. The shine of their eyes as they looked at him almost like a frightened deer.

He could recognize a scared child anywhere and this time he didn't want it to be his fault. It was like an instinct of protection filled his black heart. Their fearful yet innocent gaze was embedded into his soul. Someone like this simply couldn't live with harsh pirates.

He reached a hand out towards them but Hook stepped in the way. His gaze was harsh yet Peter could easily detect the fear hidden in them. For himself or the child, he wasn't sure.

Peter smirked at Captain Hook as he realized why they had looked so familiar now seeing the similarities in their features and hair color. He had been to distracted by the odd feeling of protection and familiarity to even acknowledge the finding.

"You have a child? My you got busy after leaving last time." He teased as he glanced around the man to see them standing there, their gaze locked onto the ground.

"Stay away from them or so help me you will have wished-" Hook began to say before Peter cut him off.

"You'll do what? Let me remind you, you're here because I allow it. You eat the island's food only because I allow it. You only live because I have use for you yet." He threatened motioning his hand for the Lost Boys to run away.

Y/N took a sigh of relief as the group dispersed but their worry would still remain until Peter was out of their sight. The ideas of the horrors they were told, all of which could happen to them just by being in his presence, filled their anxious mind.

Peter stared at Hook seriously before sending a look and a playful wink toward Y/N, hoping to make them less afraid.

"I'll see you soon." He commented staring directly into their eyes before disappearing.

—————————

Apparently soon meant a few days.

It first began when Y/N was laying on deck, watching the stars when someone appeared next to them and laid down on the spare part of the blanket.

“The stars are beautiful aren’t they?” He spoke as if lying on the ground next to them wasn’t an unusual occurrence.

Y/N was silent, trying to hide the fact they were afraid. The unknowing was terrible, the idea that their father was fast asleep, probably passed out from exhaustion at that, was nerve-wracking as they could not call for help.

“You don’t need to be afraid of me.” Pan said genuinely, staring at the side of their face as he admired their courage to hide their fear.

“Why wouldn’t I be? You have a reputation you know. I’m sure you could get rid of me in a heartbeat.” Y/N was nervous now, it audibly showed through the small stutter that sounded in their sentence.

“That doesn’t mean I want to… Do you know why I’ve brought all these boys to the island?”

“Because they’re lost?”

“Because no one deserves to feel alone.”

Peter Pan believed that because Y/N was an only child who spent their whole life traveling the seas, that they had to be lonely. They are constantly moving and never staying in one place, let alone with people their age.

Then their father, he’s a pirate with a drinking problem who is so obsessed with revenge that even though he is protective and loves his child, Peter couldn’t tell you which the man valued more.

Revenge or love?

If Peter were to take her right now, he could be their older brother. Someone who takes care of their little sibling in the face of everything like heartbreak, anxiety, everything that would make them feel anything other than happiness.

Y/N would be his sibling. He’d be their only brother.

Being an older brother to Y/N sounded perfect to him.

—————————

Their next encounter was when they had been sitting on the edge of the beach as the Jolly Roger was anchored nearby.

Y/N's father had allowed them to hang out along the shore alone.

The captain and crewmates were planning on staying on the edge of the jungle that was Neverland. He had figured they would be okay for a couple hours and that he could hear if they needed anything.

He knew the dangers that posed leaving them there alone but he thought they would be cornered again the second they entered the tree line so there really wasn’t anywhere ‘safe’ at the moment.

That’s how he rationalized it at least.

But when Peter saw them sitting alone on the shore, the mermaids moving closer by the second, he saw Hook as irresponsible and unfit to care for Y/N.

He quickly approached them, the sight of him causing the mermaids to swim away quickly, realizing that was not someone they wanted to lure in.

“Y/N.” Peter said as he approached, sitting in the sand next to them.

“What are you doing?” They spoke questioningly “I thought you would be bothering my father and his crew.”

“Is that what he counted on. Me leaving you alone as they frolicked or whatever they are doing in the jungle? Is that why he left you here defenseless?” He replied getting more confident that Killian wasn’t fit to take care of Y/N.

“I don’t like what you’re accusing him of.” Y/N replied, glaring at Pan in front of them but if anything it was adorable.

He raised his hands jokingly as if he actually felt threatened by them.

“I’m just saying, he knows the dangers of this island. If it’s not me, it’s the lost boys, then the Dreamshade, and as you almost realized, the mermaids.” Peter counted off making Y/N realize what the subtle splashing noise they heard was. “He shouldn’t have left you alone.”

“I’m 17. I can take care of myself for a few hours.” They argued, much like if they were telling their older sibling they didn’t need to be babysat.

“Sure you can. But you don’t need to when I’m here.”

———————-

From then on he would appear randomly whenever he knew Y/N was alone.

When they weren’t, he was silently protecting them from the shadows.

If we’re sketching in their room? He’d sit next to them silently, allowing them to focus. Meanwhile he was busy admiring their skills even if it was a simple picture of the sky.

They volunteered to go look for some more supplies on the island?

They mysteriously got separated from the group for a few hours.

He took them saying ‘I can take care of myself for a few hours’ rather literally. In those few hours, they got an entire tour of the main points of the island.

Even the camp.

Peter had them sit on his designated chair, introducing Y/N as their little sibling. Each of the boys came up to them and introducing themselves enthusiastically as the proposed all the fun games they could play if they were to stay.

Even when Y/N emphasized greatly that they couldn’t.

Each and every time.

When their birthday came around Peter gifted them a necklace, his initials were on the inside, to protect them from anyone who finds their way to the island.

Although he made sure to use his magic to conceal the necklace from the eyes of Hook.

Not that he cared about what the man thought, after all nothing would keep him from his little sibling.

Nothing.

-----------

The day Peter had been preparing for came sooner than expected.

Hook had discovered a way to kill the dark one and his need for the island was gone. Meaning it was time to return back to the enchanted forest.

The crew had begun preparing to return back to the forest. Packing up their supplies and strapping down anything they had on deck to prepare for traveling through the portal.

Y/N was packing up anything loose in their room. They had mostly finished other than having to pack the rest of their art supplies.

“So you were just going to leave and not tell your older brother? I'm offended” Peter spoke appearing in their room and sitting on their bed.

In their deal, he had allowed Hook to leave once he had found a way to accomplish his goal.

That was before he had met Y/N.

“I was never going to say in Neverland. I was always going to leave. I don’t know what you were expecting.” Y/N spoke harshly trying to push him away.

They had to admit, after all this time spent with Peter, that it was hard to view him as some irredeemable demon. He comforted them when they had nightmares of their mother’s death, protected them from the mermaids, did their favorite activities with them (even if he was not really invited), and seemed to love them.

Peter knew they were just trying to protect themself from the pain of leaving so they lashed out. He could tell they were saddened at the thought of leaving him. This made him feel warm inside.

Y/N assumed they’d be fine once leaving Neverland, they would have to forget about Peter Pan and their life would go back to normal, well as normal as it gets.

Suddenly they heard approaching footsteps.

“Y/N? Are you ready to go? We are about to enter the portal now.” Killian called through the closed door, his eagerness to leave the island covering the fact that there was a muffled sound as he spoke. Hook was ecstatic, his time for revenge had come. His head was in the clouds as he ran over his plan over and over again. Causing him to not even think to just poke his head in to check on his child, just of the idea that the portal was closing any minute

The muffled noise was Peter whispering that he would not let Hook leave if they said anything other than that they were ready.

Y/N knew if they weren’t allowed to leave, their father would be devastated.

“Yes father, I’m ready!” They called back and the two listened as the man’s footsteps grew farther and farther away.

“You can’t leave Y/N. You’re my little sibling, I have to take care of you.” He spoke manipulatively the second Hook was out of distance.

“I have to. If it’s up to me, I’ll never leave my father. He raised me, he loves me! He will take care of me better than you ever can.” Y/N retorted, frustrated at the situation. Why wouldn't Peter just go away? They knew they cared for him, even just a little bit. But their father was very important to them. Even if he had been a little distracted while searching for revenge, they didn't feel his love any less.

A loving father or a over protective, self-proclaimed brother.

They knew which had meant more. They had made their choice, one they couldn't vocalize as Peter softly blew poppy dust into their face, causing them to pass out instantly.

“Then it isn’t up to you.” as he spoke “This is for your own good. I love you Y/N and I know you love me. You are better off at my side.”

He picked them up bridal style as he and Y/N disappeared off the boat and reappeared in the camp. All of their stuff appears on the ground off to the side of them.

"Welcome to your new home, Y/N"

-------------

Hook had gone to Y/N’s cabin to check on them, the portal closing behind him as they could see the Enchanted Forest off in the distance.

He was eager to see his child, wanting to celebrate the idea of finally being able to avenge his wife and their mother. Hook knocked and didn’t hear an answer assuming they had been disoriented or hurt by the portal, he opened the door quickly.

But, he was met with an empty room and no Y/N.

He looked around for any signs frantically before he spotted a letter on the bed.

Hook,

You were always too focused on the idea of revenge that you neglected what was in front of you. You never deserved Y/N and you never will. Each time you left them alone, I was there. I comforted them, I protected them, and I loved them. Each thing is something you couldn't do while you searched for something you did not even know existed. Y/N will be better off without you.

I always wondered if you'd choose revenge over love.

I guess I have my answer.

Their brother,

Peter Pan

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partycatty · 9 months

Note

i need more dark star johnny IF U CAN 🙏🙏

or! therapy <3

dark star!johnny cage > nobody else

expanding on this post, specifically when i mention how unfair he is regarding attention from others

warnings: again, abusive relationship. johnny being annoying. smut w degradation and sadism (not explicitly consented to)

notes: guys i'm starting to think we can't fix him...

masterlist <3

part 1*/ part 3* / part 4* / part 5* / part 6*

•dark star!johnny cage, as previously mentioned, loves having you hang off of his arm like a pretty handbag. you're his accessory on the red carpet and he prefers to keep it that way. he'll strut and pose while you stand behind him and look pretty.

•you guys are getting ready for the red carpet event that leads into a cast interview for ninja mime 3.

•"i can't have you looking too good, sugar. you'll take all the attention." he says as you twirl around in your fancy dress, one that's sure to match his outfit. when you guys are in public, you need to match. it's like his only requirement. it's not a hard task either, since this man's wardrobe is DIVERSE. he's got that stupid coat in all colors

•god that coat is so stupid and dumb and oversized he's such a cornball but GOD DO YOU LOVE FUCKING HIM WHILE HE KEEPS IT ON LMFAO SORRY ANYWAY

•johnny's hand rests confidently on the small of your back, though he's doing it to guide you rather than comfort you. he discreetly uses it to move you along, but stops in his tracks at a young girl holding an MTV labeled microphone. she looks to be about nineteen, maybe twenty. she smiles, batting her lashes at your boyfriend and pays minimal attention to you.

•i should say, you have your chunk of fame, but it's from being johnny's girlfriend. only his real fans know your name. it's always been "johnny and his latest fling," "cage's match," "johnny and that one girl." this was fine with you. your boyfriend would prefer it that way.

•back to the girl, though. she stands, a little nervously on the carpet waiting to catch actors, and ended up scoring the lead star. she introduces herself and opens by saying she won an MTV raffle to interview celebrities on the red carpet. she's awkward, but her smile is bright and her body is defined under her little dress.

•johnny makes an obvious effort at showing his interest in her, lowering his sunglasses down his nose and drinking in her view top to bottom and back again. you can't argue back. you won't argue back. not in public. smiling a sweet smile, your fingernails dig into your palms.

•"aren't you the cutest little thing?" johnny says, grabbing her face and leaning in close. "could just eat you up." and the girl almost collapses at his advance, knees buckling as she anxiously reads through the bland interview questions. johnny smirks that classic smirk and answers in his typical fashion, referring to himself as "sexy face" and "the boom" as he rambles on and on about how much work it takes to be as perfect as he is.

•as he's enamored with this complete stranger, you feel a hand on your bare shoulder. you spin around and see one of johnny's co-stars! he greets you with a grin and says you look great, putting a hand on your arm to show his sincerity. it feels warm, it feels genuine. for a moment, it feels better than the love that johnny gives you, if you could even call it that.

•the thoughts are abruptly ejected from your mind when johnny reaches across from you and grabs a fistful of the co-star's dress shirt, holding him in place. honestly, this man probably looks like a peacock rn, showing off his feathers by standing tall and wearing that dumb blue coat. sillies aside, the co-star immediately tenses up and puts his arms up in a surrender pose. johnny pauses and looks around, people are horrified at the sight and what could've come of it. his eyes lead to you, and he groans to himself, releasing the other man and grabbing your wrist, not hard enough to raise eyebrows but enough to tell you he was fuming. his giant sunglasses conceal his furrowed brows and glaring eyes. if there's one thing he'd save, it'd be his reputation. the last thing he wants is an assault charge on a co-star, so who better to take it out on than his girlfriend?

•johnny pulls you away from the cameras and ogling eyes, slamming the door to the women's bathroom and locking it. almost immediately, he's towering over you, holding you by your shoulder against the door and pointing in your face with the other.

•"you're a fucking whore," he says with a nasty tone. "you enjoy getting men's attention, don't you? you just love pissing me off." he grabs your face, squishing your cheeks but it's nowhere near a cute gesture. "who do you belong to?"

•"you—" you muffle out, afraid to look at him when he gets like this. the sunglasses make it easier. that is, until he tucks them into the collar of his shirt to get a better look at you. his eyes are animalistic, wildly infuriated that you even bothered to give another man a smithereen of attention. "i belong to—"

•SMACK. johnny backhands you, the ring sending a nasty red streak across your face. you whimper, legs weakening. it's just a damn shame you're a masochist, huh?

•"speak up," he commands, now caressing that part of your face. "i'm only asking one more time. who do you belong to?"

•like some kind of sick and twisted game, johnny's hand lifts one of your legs, holding it up by your thigh. before you'd get the chance to use your voice properly, his hand expertly lifts up your skirt enough to swipe two fingers across your shamefully wet panties. you yelp out and grab hold of his sleeves to stabilize yourself. he chuckles breathily, momentarily forgetting to be angry.

•he watches your face contort as he applies pressure with two rough fingers on your pulsating clit. it's like he's trying to make responding difficult. you put a hand over your mouth to muffle your noises of protest, but johnny removes your hand and pins it above your head. he uses his legs to divide yours, the closeness now intoxicating with his expensive cologne. you can feel his hot, hard cock on your thigh, but we'll get to that later.

•"not... not here–" you try to protest, but end up involuntarily moving your hips to relieve the pressure he's putting on your clit. johnny, still mad but now also amused, leans into your ear.

•"you wanna be a whore? i'm gonna make you one, whether you like it or not."

•johnny removes his hand from your panties and admires the shine on the pads of his fingers. he chuckles and forces them into your mouth, which you lick reluctantly, looking downward.

•"eyes on the prize," he purrs, making you look up at him through your lashes.

•"i'm sorry," you mumble out, a trail of saliva from his fingers dribbling down your lips when he pulls them away. "i belong to you, sir."

•"fuckin' prove it then," he replies in a deep grumble, one his other hand to push you to your knees by your neck and the other fumbling with his stupidly large belt. his cock springs free, and you swear that thing is never not hard. homeboy's probably gettin ED at 39.

•both good and bad johnny strike me as a 7.5 incher, cut with a pink tip and a slight curve. and yes, he waxes. of course he waxes, have you looked at the fucker?

•should also mention, when it comes to sex, he is entirely focused on himself. very rarely will he eat you out or rub your clit as he fucks you, unless he's trying to prove a point that he can treat you better than any other man. tragically, he's treating this instance as a need for a punishment, where you need to serve him.

•he holds your pretty hair together like a ponytail and pushes you forward, pressing his flushed tip against your pillowy lips. he doesn't even need to say "open," you do so willingly and hold your tongue out the way he likes.

•"you gonna take me like the slut you are?" johnny asks with a little groan as his tip smacks against your tongue. all you can do is nod before he thrusts, his shaft being caressed by the fleshy insides of your mouth. you curse yourself mentally for not fixing that gag reflex he hates so much as you do indeed gag on his dick while it hits the back of your throat. you silently wish he got into the habit of easing himself in rather than shoving full force.

•even though dark star!johnny is more dominant, he still whimpers, even if he hates to admit it. when the tip kisses the back of your throat, he lurches forward a tad, letting out a sweet whimper before composing himself again.

•also i'm so glad the mk fandom just all agrees he whimpers isn't that so funny

•"you gonna start sucking, or am i fucking that pretty face myself?" he asks through gritted teeth, thrusting a little deeper to warn you. you gag again and try your hardest to shake your head.

•"good girl, for once," johnny mumbles. "sit still."

•johnny removes his throbbing cock from your throat, only for a moment. still holding your hair back, he gently thrusts his tip repeatedly against your lips, shuddering when he feels the groove of the head pop in and out as it catches on your lips. his salty precum coats your tongue, which you kitten lick up straight from the slit. his lips part to let sweet moans drip out, eyeing you down and pleased with his actions.

•he pulls out fully for a moment, fumbling in his front pocket to grab his phone and hitting record with the camera aimed down at you. he smiles wickedly, biting his lower lip.

•"you better suck me off nice and good, doll, or the whole world is gonna see what a little slut you are," he growls, reaching down to grab your chin and angle you upward. you make eye contact with the camera and open your mouth, letting your tongue loll out. johnny places a thumb on your tongue and presses down, admiring the view. his hand moves back down to his cock, stroking it a couple times before smacking it on your cheek.

•"what if someone hears us?" you whisper out, eyelids fluttering. johnny scoffs and rubs himself against your warm tongue again.

•"then they'll know i own you," he replies with a smile. "open." and so you open your mouth even more, and johnny thrusts himself into you again, this time at a less than sweet pace.

•since it's not the first time, you're sure to look up at the camera as he uses your mouth relentlessly. johnny's hand pushes down hard on the back of your head, forcing you to take his full dick down your throat for a couple of seconds. you gag again despite your best attempts to hold your breath, and his head leans back as he lets out a long, breathy moan.

•"you're fuckin' killin' me here," he moans out, head still thrown back. "ohh, you know i hate doin' this to you, but you gotta know not to toy with me. gotta learn your lesson, yeah? yeah?"

•as he asks you, he places a crisp, firm smack on your cheek again with his dick still inside, making you yelp again. the vibration of your voice rattles his shaft and it makes him twitch, his thighs buckling inward. you have to hold onto his hips so you don't topple over.

•after some time of ruthlessly throatfucking you, you feel his thigh muscles tense up and his thrusts grow increasingly more staggered. his cock doesn't reach the back of your throat as rhythmically as it did and he was starting to lean over you, pushing his hands on the sides of your neck to keep him upright. his delicious moans and groans start turning into breathy whimpers as he desperately chases his release. you feel yourself getting lightheaded from the lack of breathing, only able to get gasps of air in between his cock stuffing your mouth. you look straight ahead for a moment and stifle a laugh at a ring of your lipstick painting the base of his dick.

•pocketing his phone momentarily, johnny uses a hand to pull the bottom of his shirt up to his teeth, biting down on it and revealing his gorgeous, glowing torso. his eyes clench shut as he leans forward again with the bundle of cloth in his mouth.

•"— ngh — 'm not having you ruin th' shirt, was expensive — oh, fuck —"

•all you can do is let out pathetic gurgling noises and gasps as you're used like a fleshlight. johnny starts to struggle holding the phone upright, so he hands it to you with shaking hands.

•"hah... you record," he commands breathily, shoving the phone into your palm. at this point too cock-drunk to protest, you flip the camera and angle it toward yourself like a high-angle selfie. you bat your damp lashes as prettily as you possibly can given the circumstances. johnny wipes your dripping mascara with his thumb.

•on a home stretch, johnny picks up the now brutal pace and you try hard to not scrape your teeth along his shaft but it gets increasingly difficult to angle your mouth properly. he bites down hard on the shirt, face scrunching up as he reaches his orgasm.

•leaning over your body, johnny lazily thrusts into your mouth and you feel his hot, sticky semen coat the walls of your throat. he lets out a little gasp at each pulse of his cock, and you take his moment of vulnerability to suck him dry, feeling him throb hungrily. when he's fully emptied, you remove yourself and swallow, confirming the action by opening your mouth and showing the camera. johnny's tip leaks even after pulling out, twitching upward as he rides the final waves of his high.

•johnny lets out a long sigh, running a clean hand through his hair and fixing what strands were stuck to his forehead. his cheeks are flushed and his mouth is agape as he catches his breath. when he feels okay to speak again, he doesn't even look down at you.

•"if... i catch you like that again," he lazily threatens, head tilted back and eyes on the ceiling. "i won't be so nice. are we clear?"

•you swallow the last bit of saliva mixed with his fluid and nod before replying with a clear "yes, sir." johnny looks back down at you, pleased by your once beautifully done hair now ruined from his doing. your mascara ran down your cheeks and your lipstick was barely clinging onto your lips.

•"brought your makeup?" he asks, stuffing his half-hard dick back into his pants. you nod and pull out the makeup you needed to touch up. "good girl. get yourself fixed up, we've been gone a while."

•you lean forward in the bathroom mirror without a word of protest, wiping your face with your fingers and reapplying your makeup to not raise suspicion.

•johnny towers behind you, smoothing down your hair with two hands as he admires you in the reflection. his hands wander a bit, squeezing your breasts from behind as he presses his hips into your ass. he was always uncharacteristically touchy and sweet after intimacy, as if it was a shitty apology for his roughness. he kisses your shoulder, trailing up to your neck and then your cheek.

•"you know i love you, right?" he asks into the soft flesh of your cheek. "nobody else can have you like this. i'll kill anyone that tries. you're mine, sweet thing."

•he wraps his arms around your waist and rocks you gently as you touch up your makeup. he seems pleased that you got your lesson of the night, even though johnny's co-stars were now scouring the red carpet to relocate him. you two just hoped that your flushed cheeks and damp skin disappears before someone started knocking.

•"if you ever try to pull anything with another man, i'm posting that video," he whispers with a sickeningly sweet tone, kissing your cheek and parting from your body. "now come on. i have an interview."

#mortal kombat x reader #mortal kombat #johnny cage #johnny cage x reader #mk1 #johnny cage smut #mortal kombat smut

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quirkwizard · 13 days

Text

I'm in the middle of writing about the ending of MHA. I wanted to include a bit where I talk about the updates the characters have had to their looks and costumes, but felt that it was too long of a diatribe. Instead, I'm throwing it out here. That may be difficult considering how crowded the final shot is and how there is no official colored version out, but I can do my best.

Mineta: Also barely changed barring the little grape vine on his head and a similar design around his writs and he does his waist. It's more cohesive, I guess, but it's still whatever.

Sato: I honestly thought that Sato only had a pair of gloves as his new costume. Still though, I miss the mask as a part of his look. I would say more, but Sato's design has never been interesting, so I'm not disappointed.

Hagkaure: She has the biggest downgrade. Poor girl lost half of her costume during the time skip. She doesn't even have access to shoes anymore. That or she secretly has the best costume and the lighting was wrong.

Sero: Barely anything changed here. His helmet is sharper, which I could take or leave but do prefer the older one, and he's our first example of characters getting wrist bands. Not the more prominent trend, but one I noticed.

Mina: There isn't any notable changes to her costume, except more wrist bands which you think would just be melted by her acid, but I like the longer hair and horns. Even if the fact that her horns seemingly changed positions and shapes bugs the life out of me.

Kirishima: I don't even think there is anything different about Kirishina's costume. Maybe more pronounced teeth on the mask and making his gears more jagged, but that's about it. At least he has the best hair designs out of the new looks.

Ojiro: I like the changes. He got rid of the silly one sided fur on his neck in favor of a full one. He traded out the white gi for a black one, showing he evolved further in his martial prowess. And again, he has the headpiece like a few of the other characters.

Jiro: She exchanged the leather jacket for the vest. It's a fine trade, giver her more of a proper punk rocker look. Once again though, she is the part of the odd trend of giving characters wrist bands, seemingly loosing her arm speakers.

Koda: The character done the most dirty for design. In both panels he's in, his entire costume is covered by text boxes. At least his lost the mask, both showing him being more open and because it was basically useless now.

Shoji: Odd how one of the few students with their own panels has pretty much nothing changed about their look. And his may be a hot take, but I don't like Shoji with longer hair. I just think it looks really weird on him.

Tsuyu: A very minor change to how her headpiece looks, but I like it. It looks like a cute little summer cap instead of hulking headpiece she had before. The lenses looking like frog eyes were certainly a nice touch and adds to the "cute and friendly" look.

Tokoyami: The only change seems to be that Tokoyami now has a scarf on top of his cloak. I don't really get it. It doesn't look good and doesn't have any particular benefits. Was he really taking tips from Square Enix with wanting more cloaks?

Shinso: Shinso grew out his hair. That's about it. I'm mixed on this. It's not a bad design, but it can make Shinso feel more and more like a clone of Aizawa. So much of his design is already based on Aizawa. Could we maybe do something a bit diffident?

Iida: More of a sidegrade with this one. The extra muffles around his head look silly. I like the more cap shaped helmet, more resembling his brother's costume and looking similar to the cap the Greek god Hermes would wear for neat little visual reference.

Aoyama: I'm conflicted. One the one hand, Aoyama's costume does look a more practical with the removal of things like the cape and sliming down the design, but it loses a lot of the personality. Plus his pants are really dumb. I don't care how they are colored, they just look silly.

Denki: He may just have the most improved costume. His disk launcher has been broken down into a smaller version of it, seemingly with darts instead. The lightning patterns on his pants are nice as well to give his look more flavor. And the headphones work with his design.

Uraraka: I miss the space visor. It really brought the whole them of the costume together. Instead we get another pair of headphones. I do like the little bits of Izuku's costume in the look, such as the metal around her neck and the launchers around her arm looking like his gloves.

Momo: Momo has a proper shirt now. I do wish it has some more design to it. Maybe some white accidents around it reminiscent of her old look to make more like an evolution. Maybe she could have taken some visual ques from Midnight's or Magic's costume to show respect to her former mentors.

Shoto. Not a lot changed here, surprisingly. The most there is Shoto having designs similar to Enji on his chest. Which I do hope has more of the red and white as part of it. It'd be a neat way to represent how Shoto is still Enji's kid who incorporated everything he learned from him, but is more then his own person at this point that can be free of the shadow that Endeavor cast over his life.

Bakugou: I don't much care for this new design. While I like how they intergrade more of his winter costume into his standard look, it loses on a lot of personality that the old costume had. Things like the blast shaped mask and grenade bracers were great additions and it really needs more of that orange and green to break up all the black. The little fuse tassels are nice though.

Izuku: Out of the all the characters here, I find myself the most reserved about Izuku's new look. Because it depends so much on the coloring. The look itself I think is fine. A natural final conclusion to his costume. But the colors have always been an issue for me. I'm just hoping the cape and highlights are plain white as opposed to the clashing orange and yellow of his last look.

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lilyruthere · 8 months

Text

HONEYSUCKLES

synopsis: Zayne thinks you look beautiful in the snow, and that honeysuckle’s are meant for your love.

cw: reader referred to ‘girlfriend’ but other than that, no other uses of she/her, third person point of view, no use of y/n, black!reader friendly! Reader has hair, but it’s not descriptive.

ZAYNE

It’s not out of the norm for Zayne to be late for dates. He’s a very busy man, and a doctor, so of course patients should come first. What is out of the norm you might ask? Him not texting you that he’ll be late.

Surely, he has a good reason for not texting you right? You don’t want to be a bad girlfriend and just leave in case he comes back. So you wait half an hour, which turns into a whole hour.

Now things are fishy.

You’re looking around the snowy sidewalk, it hasn’t gotten cold enough for you to leave, because if there’s one thing you’re sure of, it’s that Zayne will absolutely text you to go home if he wasn’t going to show up at all.

You look up at the street lamp, focused on the bright area it swallows up. There’s a tap on your shoulder and you spin around to face the stranger.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you to wait inside somewhere nearby. I didn’t think I’d spend so much time in that flower shop.”

Right in front of your face, blocking your view of Zayne’s face, are yellow honeysuckles.

“Oh!” You take hold of the honeysuckle’s, looking up to meet Zayne’s gaze.

Beneath the glowing streetlight, Zayne looks cute. His cheeks are red from the cold, and snowflakes decorate his raven colored hair strands, as well as on his long eyelashes. You can’t help but huff out a laugh.

“Hm? What’s so funny?” He looks at you with a straight face, but you catch the curious glimmer in his eyes.

“Nothing. You look cute covered in snow.” You smile and stand on the tips of your toes to brush snow off his hair.

“Thank you…you also look very beautiful in the snow.” His hand guides up to the apple of your cheek, giving it a quick squish between his pointer finger and thumb. “I got so distracted by your beauty that I was late.” He says.

“Liar!” You tease.

“It’s the honest truth.” *he chuckles, and looks over his shoulder to point somewhere behind him. “See over there? I was standing right there staring at you.”

“Yeah, yeah. So, why the flowers?”

He offers his arm for you to hold on to, and you gratefully accept, wrapping your arm under his and resting your hand on his bicep.

“Do you know the language of flowers?” He speaks while walking, headed towards the restaurant you both decided on for this particular date night.

“Hmm, can’t say that I do. What do these mean?” You bring your eyes to the yellow flowers.

“Try and take a guess.”

“Mmm…maybe, something like ‘I love you’?” You say cheekily, and he can’t help but chuckle at how bashful you look.

“Yes, pretty close. These mean ‘true love’ or ‘affection towards one another’ and ‘first love.’ ”

“And I am..?” You question, raising an eyebrow up at him.

“You are all three.” A small smile spread across his face, leaning down to press a kiss against your temple.

“I apologize for being late again. Next time, you can just go home if I take too long. I’ll meet you back there.”

You hum. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

You smile, and tighten your arm around his.

“It’s okay. I’ll always wait for you, no matter how cold it gets.”

“That’s fine, but I would prefer my lover to not be sick on our dates.”

“You know Elsa from Frozen said the cold never bothered her anyways.”

“Shouldn’t that be my line..?”

#love and deepspace #zayne love and deepspace #zayne x reader #zayne x you #love and deepspace x reader #zayne fluff #lad x reader #lad zayne #𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 ―୨୧⋆ ˚

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dichromaticdyke · 10 months

Text

ALRIGHT I'LL POST MY ANALYSIS OF THE MTL JERK-OFF SCENE HERE TOO.

you're welcome @ogurizz

for reference, this is a character analysis based solely off the scene in "Writersklok" where Nathan explains their "process" to Abigail. yes, i'm serious.

nathan:

sleeping on the floor with piles of booze and drugs, not surprising there. though out of everyone who’s still asleep, he’s the only one who’s at the very least stirring, and he’s checking the time. he’s aware he has to be at least somewhat responsible for the band getting up and working, but he doesn’t want to.

then for breakfast, he’s just staring angrily at his plate of meat and eggs and potatoes. kind of unenthused, like this is the meal he used to eat in his football days just to bulk up—there’s no joy in it, it’s just routine.

the most emotion we see from him in this scene is when he’s jacking off, he looks both intense and and also like he’s VERY pent up. which i think is reminiscent of how he’s the one who craves a romantic connection the most. even though he does have casual sex, it doesn’t seem to be fulfilling him.

pickles:

passed out in his bathroom, clearly hungover and had a rough bender the night before. there’s something very lonely about it—despite them all being addicts who love to party and binge drink, pickles is still the one who does it to the most excess, and that’s so common that it’s normal for no one else to be around afterwards. they know he’ll be “fine.”

and he is, he gets his cinnamon buns, indulging in something that we know makes him very happy. his face there looks a bit happy but also a bit unsure. i mean based off the framing of this shot, it’s implied they’re all having breakfast alone. which might not be true, they all do seem like they could be together in the same room since they’re each in different areas, but that could also just speak to the familiarity they have with each other. even when they’re alone, that’s their spot.

but back to pickles, casual smirk while jacking off. not much to say except—this one’s for you pickle fuckers.

murderface:

he’s also been drinking. the way he’s positioned too, his arms crossed like they usually are reflects his typical disdain and anger that he carries through life. he can’t find a moment of peace, even when sleeping.

he’s clearly not getting enough sleep, though, likely still troubled by something, whether it’s anxiety/insecurity or nightmares about his father, and so all he has for breakfast is coffee.

again, he seems most at peace while jacking off, and he’s also really focused. we know he’s not getting as much action as the rest of the band, but he’s at least found a way to deal with it so he doesn’t get too frustrated.

toki:

funnily enough, he has the easiest time sleeping. i think that’s crazy given his TRAUMA, but he clearly has a routine he sticks to. he’s got his sleep mask on, he’s sleeping in his clothes on top of his bed like a heathen—whatever it is, he knows how to get comfortable, and honestly? probably just having a bed AT ALL is better than his childhood, so that’s all he needs.

then he has just a very simple cereal for breakfast—even though he could have anything he wants, and even though he DOES indulge at times, he prefers the simple things in many cases.

and he jacks off like a maniac: not only is he using that intense focused face he makes while coloring and texting (clearly coloring, sex, and social interaction all fire off the same synapses in his brain) but he’s also. not in his room. @supersaturnnyoomkitty and i have talked about this before and we don’t know where the hell he is in this shot. but he’s not comfortable jacking off in his room, probably because of all the creepy pictures of his parents staring at him.

skwisgaar:

my babygirl…sleeping with a bunch of groupies who he’d just spent the night with. i always think it’s interesting that he lets his groupies stay the night, i think he longs for the closeness/intimacy of sharing a bed with someone after sex, but he’d never admit it.

at breakfast, he just looks bored. he had a beer and nathan’s coffee mug and waffles, but all he’s interested in is his guitar. that’s all he’s ever truly interested in, regardless of who else may or may not be around.

and then he’s naked when he’s jacking off. because of COURSE he is. besides guitar, sex is the only thing he’s good at, he takes it very seriously, very intensely. besides guitar, it’s probably the only worth he thinks he has.

and then none of them really feel like recording. not because they’re dispassionate about music, obviously they’re not. they all care deeply about music and dethklok, even if they’re just terribly lazy. because they have gotten so used to the rockstar lifestyle that it’s easy for them to fall back on base pleasures, even when they’re all clearly suffering from loneliness or trauma, and they can just WORK ON THAT if they made music together, if they worked together as a BAND a FAMILY. but they don’t always want to, because it’s gay to care.

i spent way too much time looking at this scene to write this, i deserve recompense.

#dichromaticdyke.exe #Metalocalypse #written in a fit of divine madness #Nathan Explosion #Pickles the Drummer #William Murderface #Toki Wartooth #Skwisgaar Skwigelf #you are lucky that i was already bullied by others to write this out lmfao #also nyoom sorry for pinging you again for this lol

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lowkeyrobin · 2 months

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Hello! I would like to please request a MCYT preference (Quackity, Tommy, Ranboo, Karl, Tubbo, Badlinu) dating a SO who is an SFX makeup artist. Specifically does the monster and gore makeup

I just think it'll be funny if SO applies something either monster or gory and scares their partner while they're doing a stream

ooo yeah sure! ; I don't know much about sfx makeup and stuff but I can try! ; thanks for requesting, hope you enjoy!

MCYT ; sfx artist

includes ; tommyinnit, ranboo, badlinu, quackity

warnings ; language

masterlist

TOMMYINNIT

you love scaring him on stream

you like practicing your skills while he's occupied with work

you like showing him as well

but sometimes scaring him is also really funny

"OHMYGOD- y/n wtf is wrong with you"

and you're giggling in the corner looking like the damn babadook

he thinks it's super cool but really weird

also uses you for little scare pranks cause why not

RANBOO

also thinks it's soooo sick

also uses your help a lot w the genloss process cause 🤗

but he loves helping you create whatever you're looking to do w you

lover bonding time ig

they often get scared by your sudden enterences in full fit tho

"fucking hello!" to "omg that looks awesome" in like 4 secs

absolutely loves the "weird ones" like monster-esk / non-human looks

FREDDIE BADLINU

admires the art you create more than the fact that you scare him with it 24/7

also likes learning how to do it too

he'll jump when he sees you in the viewfinder but will immediately start complementing you

"oh my gosh, that looks so cool!!"

will also happily take photos for you

and will make references to what you look like too

ALEX QUACKITY

"OHMYFUCKINGGODWHERESMYGUN" to "y/n wtf is wrong with you" within 30 seconds

he's half playing half serious

cause wtf are some of your creations 😭😭

he's getting you sent to an institution asap

he also likes learning about how it works but thinks color theory is boring and useless and has issues w sticky stuff

it's not for him but he looks like a monster already so it's fine /j don't take that srs

#lowkeyrobin #mcyt x reader #mcyt preferences #mcyt oneshot #gn reader #gender neutral reader #they/them reader #tommyinnit x reader #ranboo x reader #quackity x reader #alex quackity x reader #freddie badlinu x reader #badlinu x reader

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nolita-fairytale · 2 years

Text

make my heart surrender (carmy berzatto x fem!reader) | chapter two: wednesday

pairing: carmen berzatto x fem!reader

warnings: lots of swearing, lots of angst in this one, use of she/her pronouns, allusions to sex, eventual smut, smoking (plz remember smoking is injurious to your health, ppl), avoidance tactics, mentions of al-anon, no use of y/n, second person pov, mentions of death/mikey's suicide

word count: 3.3k

summary: while you get to know the kitchen staff of the bear a little better, you and carmy finally acknowledge the elephant in the room.

a/n: the song 'about you' by the 1975 makes me think of these two and is where the title comes from. also, i totally made up the pete has an airbnb thing but i just feel like he'd be in real estate or something with his little patagonia vests lol. anyways, happy valentine's day babes & enjoy!

read: part one | masterlist

Wednesday

“Okay, this is some next level shit,” Marcus concludes, in between chews as he tries the brioche donuts you let rise overnight. “It’s got everything I like about the yeast donut but the flavor is so much more pronounced.”

“Carmy said you knew how to throw down but.”

Sydney nods, taking another bite of hers, and you watch as Fak holds the donut up to his ear, letting out a wild, “Wow.”

“Oh fuck,” Sydney practically groans, the salty-sweet flavors of the caramel hitting her taste buds.

Last night, pre-dinner shift, you were introduced to the colorful cast of characters that filled up this kitchen. There was Richie, Carmy’s not-biological-cousin cousin, and Tina, who’d been working in this kitchen since before any of you were born. And Neil the handyman, who somehow actively chose to go back his last name, Fak, which puzzled you. Then there was Ebrahim, who seemed to serve as the meat prep cook and the onsite first-aid guy. And Sydney, the brilliant sous who’d worked in fine dining kitchens till she came here, eager to learn from Carmy.

It was a far cry from the kitchens you and Carmy used to work in but this kitchen there were similarities… things every kitchen has. Everyone has their own little quirks, preferences, styles….

They’re just a little more, well, allowed to be themselves and while overwhelming, you find it refreshing as well.

Fak smells the donut next, followed by another ‘wow,’ and your eyes widen as Fak begins licking just the icing.

“Wow,” Fak repeats, carrying on his more-than-peculiar behavior.

“Is he-?” you start, sharing a look with Sydney next.

…alright? Is this normal? Is he okay?

“Yeah, sometimes we just let him–,” Sydney tries to explain, but she’s not quite sure how to explain Neil Fak to anyone outside of their ecosystem.

“Okay.”

“Anyways, so this is just a personal preference and perhaps a symptom of too much time spent in fine dining, but I like to fuck around with weird flavors,” you continue to explain, in reference to the salty miso caramel creme pat you’ve filled the donut with.

“I’m not much for too sweet-of-sweets,” you announce, earning a laugh from Marcus and Sydney. “... which yes, is a very odd thing to say for a pastry chef. So I like to find combinations that cut the sweetness of anything and give the taste buds another experience at the same time.”

“Which isn’t the direction you have to take your pastries, chef.”

Marcus shakes his head, “No, this is… super cool. And I like it a lot.”

“I apologize in advance if I sound like a total loser,” Sydney starts, placing her donut down on the paper towel. “But when I was at the CIA, I actually had your lemongrass creme brulee.

“With the black sesame ice cream?”

“And the sesame crumble.”

“Oh my god!” you exclaim. What a blast from the past. “Yeah, I had to fight hard to get some of those ingredients on the menu. You know. Before everyone thought it was cool to do shit like that.”

Sydney smiles in agreement, going back for more of her donut.

“So what’re we workin’ on next, chef?” Marcus asks. He has his notebook out and has a few renderings drawn up with ideas he had last night.

“Well now that we’ve built a great brioche together, I’d love to keep practicing your piping technique and-,” you begin, stopping mid sentence as Carmy joins the three of you.

“Mornin’, chef! Hey, try this,” Marcus greets, ecstatic about the results of just a day of working with you, as he hands Carmy a donut.

He takes it, immediately taking a bite. You can practically see the gears turning in his head as he processes and dissects every single flavor note he experiences. You’re all quiet as you wait for his response.

And honestly, you’re still pretty pissed off about him leaving you hanging the day before. After you and Marcus finished up your prep, you had made your way back to your airbnb – the one he set you up in when he asked you to come here.

You had tried your best not to feel like a total loser as you hoped he'd reach out with an explanation. No call, no text, no nothing, wondering why he asked you to come in the first place.

Carmy takes his time savoring his first bite.

“I almost forgot how good you are at this,” he compliments, his tone neutral as if it’s just a fact.

“Thank you, chef,” is all you say back to him. You clear your throat, avoiding his gaze, and continuing to go over today’s bake with Marcus.

You don’t mean to ignore Carmy, but you’re not sure how to act around him either. One minute he’s ignoring you, and the next he’s making you breakfast. And then he’s standing you up, leaving in the hands of his brash cousin? Maybe, you think to yourself, it’s best to keep things professional between the two of you.

You work with Marcus till an hour or so into the lunch shift. You both agreed to start your days early, since you’re only here for a week, so that you could cram as much knowledge in as possible.

Marcus asks if he can take point on flavor pairings for tomorrow’s donuts, and you agree, before parting ways till later this evening. You’ve got to come back later today from one more late night prep.

You haven’t spoken much to Carmy at all since he came in. As much as you’ve tried to focus all of your attention on working with Marcus, Carmy has a commanding presence as he expedites. He’s got something most chefs don’t – true leadership – and it seems like his skills have only improved since he left New York. You gather up your things, preparing to take the subway home for a midday nap, heading out the back door.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t know you were… out here,” you gasp. You're surprised to find Carmy sitting behind the shop, sitting a few stacked crates and smoking a cigarette.

Well, that part isn’t surprising – the smoking part. You contemplate taking a seat next to him and asking him for one, but you’re really trying to cut back these days.

“It’s-, you’re good,” he says, taking another drag. He exhales smoke and the eery feeling of deja vu overtakes you.

Instead of leaving, and continuing this game of avoidance, you stand your ground.

“Are you avoiding me?” you finally muster up the courage to ask. You try your best not to sound as angry with him as you are, to no avail, as more words begin tumbling out of your mouth. “Because, if I recall correctly, Carmy, you asked me to come out here.”

Carmy waits a beat, avoiding your gaze, and it only infuriates you further. You watch as he takes another hit off of the cigarette as you continue, your rage boiling up within you.

“I don’t get it!” you exclaim, shaking your head in pure disbelief. You’re trying your best not to shout. “You ask me to come out here, and make it as easy as possible for me to be here by putting me up in this airbnb, you make me breakfast, and then… what? It’s like-, it’s like I don’t exist?”

He doesn’t answer.

“It’s always been like this with you. One step forward and five steps back.”

You wait before saying the next thing.

You’re not trying to be mean, but you’re hurt, and this whole experience has all been so confusing.

“I guess I was fucking idiot to believe that you-, that you wanted me out here or something.”

“That’s not true,” Carmy denies, finally breaking his silence. Finally looking at you, even if just for a moment. His eyes return to the concrete pavement below him as he says, “I just-.”

You don’t want to scare him away now that he’s finally talking to you, but you also want answers. And there’s an elephant in the room that maybe, if you both just acknowledged it, could go away. He puts his cigarette out on the cement beneath his feat, tossing it away onto the concrete.

You lower your voice before speaking again.

“Are you… do you still feel weird about what happened between us?” you ask cautiously, eager to fix whatever the hell it is between the two of you. “Because I didn’t think we’d have to talk about it since, well-, I just thought we said we’d just forget it. I mean, I’m not-, I don’t-, I just don’t want things to be this weird between us, Carm."

In some ways, you don’t blame him. You had seen him at his absolute lowest: the day Mikey died. You wonder if he felt too ashamed of how vulnerable he had been. You wondered if he still felt weird about what had happened next….

You had argued with him that day – practically demanded that he not go in for dinner service that night. You knew he had wanted a distraction, but after the phone call, after learning what Mikey had done, you knew he was wrecked – even if he wouldn’t admit it. That level of denial couldn’t be healthy, but he'd snapped at you and you didn't think there was much you could do about it. It didn’t take long for him to blow up at a line cook mid-shift, and you had quickly ushered him into the walk-in.

“Hey! You can’t do this shit. Not here. These people look up to you!” you had chastised him. “Listen, I’m going to give you five minutes to fuckin’ lose it in here, and then you’ve gotta pull it together and finish dinner service, okay?”

Carmy had grabbed at his chest, and you knew he was having one of his breathing episodes.

“Carmy, are you o-?"

He’d held out his hand, as if to stop you from coming any closer, so reluctantly, you’d left him to it, closing the door behind you. The sound of empty storage containers being thrown across the walk-in filled your ears, reinforcing your exact reasons why you hadn't thought it was a good idea for him to come in that night.

That night, you had made sure he got home okay, and he’d practically begged you to stay with him. It hadn’t been the first time you’d slept in the same bed, and you knew he was at his lowest point, in need of company. It hadn’t been until he started crying – sobbing really – that he finally broke.

“Carm,” you had whispered, unsure if he wanted you to acknowledge it or not.

“Carmy.”

He had turned to you so tenderly, practically folding himself into your body. You had never seen him like that as he’d buried his face into your chest, his body shaking against yours.

“I’m so sorry, Carm. I’m so sorry,” you had whispered, over and over again. You stroked his hair, wanting nothing more than to ease the pain of your best friend, but you knew there wasn’t much you could do. You’d let him cry, continuing to run your fingers along his scalp and through his delicate curls, desperate to give him any kind of comfort your could.

When he finally looked up, all he could think to do was to kiss you. You had been taken aback -- caught off guard as you'd pulled away from him.

“Carmy, stop it. You’re not-, you’re not okay right now,” you had said, pushing him away.

At that moment, his eyes were swollen, his face red, and he looked like you had just kicked his puppy. He had leaned his head against your chest again with a sigh, letting out another sob, and you’d felt that he’d put you in an impossible position.

You’d have been lying if you said you hadn’t wanted it – hadn’t thought about it before – but Carmy had never given you any inkling that he was even interested in dating anyone. You had been perfectly fine being ‘just friends’ with him despite the whispers between the kitchen staff when no one thought you were listening. And now? You knew he wouldn’t be in the right headspace. It wouldn't be fair to either of you.

“I’m sorry, Carm,” you’d apologized softly. “I just feel like-, well I’d feel like I'd be taking advantage. I don’t think we should.”

His silence had only made you more nervous, beginning to over explain yourself.

“It’s not that I don’t want to. I-, I do. I just… I don’t want you to regret it because… because you’re upset right now and cause you more-.”

“Please,” was all he'd said, breaking his silence and looking up at you with those sad, swollen blue eyes. He leans in to kiss you once more.

“Please.”

In between kisses you’d managed to ask, “Are you- are you sure? Is this really what you-?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve wanted this for so long. Just-, please,” he whispered, murmuring your name into the soft kisses he had left on your skin. “Just wanna feel good.”

“Just wanna feel good.”

It was then that you’d realized what absolute fucking idiots the two of you had been for the past few years by ignoring this thing between the two of you.

The truth was that you were fully, wholly, and stupidly in love with each other.

“Yes,” you’d repeated, finally giving into him.

Even though it should’ve been a beginning, it felt like an end, but for one night, you’d indulged the both of you.

“I know,” he says, his voice pulling you back into the present. His eyes are fixated on the pieces of gravel that sat between his feet. Even though you both agreed to it, he hadn’t forgotten about what happened between the two of you and he’s not sure if he should tell you that too.

But that’s not what’s wrong. It’s not why he’s avoiding you. Or maybe it’s part of it. He hadn’t expected seeing you to be this hard. That it would bring it all back – wanting you – so much so that those incredibly big feelings had sent him running to a meeting.

He just needed a place to be unapologetically fucked up.

He’s not sure what he thought would happen – like you’d just fall into the same old rhythm of your friendship without a care in the world.

He’d called Sydney yesterday and he could barely breathe. Sydney had told him to take the night off – that it wouldn’t help to come back to the kitchen that night – and that he had a whole week of you to prepare for. To figure this shit out.

“I um,” he starts. He’s not sure why it’s so hard to get these words out; why it feels so difficult to tell you. “I’ve kinda been going to these al-anon meetings…ever since, well you know… since I got home.”

“Oh.”

Well that wasn’t what you were expecting him to say. You’re not sure what you were expecting him to say. That he hates you? That he couldn’t stand being in the same kitchen with you and yesterday brought it all back? That it was a mistake reaching out to you?

You sit down on the curb, next to Carmy, leaving plenty of space between the two of you.

“My sister nagged me to go. Thought it was bullshit but… I don’t know why I kept going back. I still go three times a week.”

You stare at the ground, not sure what to say next. All that comes out is:

“Well I feel like an asshole.”

He scoffs, moreso to himself, “No, you’re not. I-, I’m sorry. I should’ve-.”

You can tell he’s frustrated as he huffs, “I don’t know why this is so hard for me to tell you.”

You sigh, scooting a hair closer to your old friend.

“I don’t know either, Carm. I-, we used to tell each other everything.”

“I know.”

You catch his gaze, your eyes meeting with his, and it feels like you can’t breathe for a moment.

“I should’ve called. Should’ve kept in touch. Guess I just feel like-, I don’t know,” Carmy admits, regretfully. “I know I’ve been….”

“Uh huh. You’ve been….” you trail off.

“But I do. Want you here.”

And that’s the problem, he thinks to himself.

“I know I’ve been a dick. I shouldn't have-.”

You take a breath, processing all of it.

“Can we… not have this conversation again?” you ask, taking a lighter tone this time. “I mean, we sorta had a very similar conversation to this yesterday… and now today… like… are you gonna stop being such a fuckin’ weirdo or what?”

He lets out a small laugh, “Yeah. Yeah I-, I’m gonna stop, well, you know.”

You chuckle in response, continuing to tease him, “Good because… you know usually when your friend comes to town you hang out a little, catch up, say hey hello how are you? I mean, maybe I’m totally out of pocket for this, but sometimes, you know… they even hug. Yeah, Carm, like, normal people.”

“Oh fuck you,” he mutters, jokingly.

It’s quiet between the two of you, but for the first time in the last 48 hours, it's not weird. It’s a familiar quiet intimacy – something that reminds you of the before times.

Before Mikey died.

Before you hooked up.

“Hey, Carm?”

“Yeah?”

“I want to be here too,” you reassure in response to what he said earlier, bumping your shoulder up against his, playfully, earning the slightest smile from him.

“How’s the place?”

“Surprisingly, very nice,” you answer, a mischievous tone in your voice like you know it’s going to start something.

“What? You think I’d put you up in a shit place?” Carmy asks, feigning offense.

“I’ve been in your New York apartment, Berzatto. Which is mostly why we spent most of our days off at mine,” you continue.

He laughs dryly in response.

“My brother-in-law manages a few airbnbs so… it’s the least I could do for… you know… you comin’ out here,” he explains.

“Well thanks. It’s-, it’s great.”

“I gotta get out of here early, and pick up the kid. Have a goodnight, sweetheart,” Richie says to you, about to head out of the restaurant.

“Richie, what the fuck did I fuckin’ tell you about saying shit like that!” Carmen shouts back at his cousin, with an eye roll.

“So sorry,” Richie says sarcastically, emphasizing your name after. “Gotta woke-ify everything in front of Carmen. Just a little baby.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Carmy yells across the kitchen, moving quickly through the closing shift chores.

“Yeah, yeah,” Richie brushes off Carmy’s comment with an eye roll.

“See you fucks tomorrow.”

“This look good, chef?” Marcus asks you, motioning for you to come over and take a look at the mixer.

You reach down into the mixer, checking the dough for texture.

“Yeah, looks good. Go ahead and grab a few sheet pans so we can shape these and we’ll cover ‘em so they can proof overnight,” you order, Marcus nodding in response.

“Thank you, chef.”

As Marcus disappears, in search of a few sheet pans, Carmy’s wiping down one of the prep stations.

“Hey, you,” you say, a smile on your face as soon as you see him.

After your talk this afternoon, things feel lighter. He feels lighter.

“Hey,” he says, finishing up with his cleaning duty before making his way over to you. Carmy checks to see that Marcus hasn’t come back yet, and you notice.

“Great dinner service, huh?” you congratulate.

“We’re gettin’ there,” he replies. “Smoothest it’s been so far. Since the reopen.”

Ah yes. The reopen. You’re still waiting to hear that story.

“I was thinkin’, maybe we could do that catch up thing? Over a drink?” Carmy proposes, changing the subject, and you think to yourself that it’s the most confident you’ve ever seen him.

“I-,” you start, as Marcus makes his way back towards the pastry area. “We’ve got one more late night prep tonight. Maybe tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he smiles, spotting Marcus as well. “Tomorrow’s good.”

“Goodnight, Carmy.”

“Goodnight.”

read: part three

#Spotify #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x you #carmy berzatto #carmy x oc #the bear hulu #the bear fx #jeremy allen white #make my heart surrender

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