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whitexwolfxx310 · 1 year ago

Text

|| Baby Mine ||

Pairing: Bucky x female reader || Bucky x y/n

Summary: Bucky comes home from from a mission and finds you sick. You make an appointment at the medical bay expecting a routine visit only to find out some pretty surprising news.

Warnings: Unplanned pregnancy, minor talk of options pertaining to, morning sickness, a disgusting amount of fluff, and a small sprinkle of spice at the end just because I felt like it.

Word Count: 3323

A/Ns: First and foremost, I would like to apologize for my hiatus. It was not intended and I hit a writers block. With that being said, I do have a decent amount in my drafts and have been working on getting some new things out there!

I would like to say a special thank you to @lil-darhk who gave me some encouraging words that I really needed to hear & helped get me back on here. ♥️

This is a ONE SHOT. This is not part of my BBWWS. I am still working on that but this is something I have been thinking of for a while and just felt like writing about. I know that a pregnancy troupe is not for everyone. (Personally, I love it and I'm not sure if I will write it into my other storyline.) SO because of that....I give you this. I hope you all enjoy it because the idea of Daddy Bucky to me is just 🤌🏻💋

Waking up to the smell of fresh ground coffee was always a tall tale sign of Bucky being home. Missions can be unpredictable. He can be gone for a few days, to a few weeks, and sometimes even months at a time. Luckily, this time he had only been gone about a month and a half.

Excitement took over as you forego your usual procrastinating in bed stretch to run out of the bedroom. Opening the door, the aroma was heavenly- as if a coffee shop had replaced your kitchen overnight. But your eyes immediately fixed on Bucky who was wearing a smirk while plating two separate stacks of pancakes.

“Breakfast, doll?” His voice as smooth as the warm syrup flowing down from those pancake stacks.

Running and jumping to wrap your arms around his neck was your response. Bucky chuckled, holding both arms out wider so he didn’t drop the plates. He put them down gently onto the counter so that his arms would now be only consumed with you.

“I missed you too.” You don’t have to look up from being buried in his chest to know that he’s smiling, it’s in the lighthearted tone of his voice.

Leaning back slightly with his arms still holding you, he looks into your eyes and plants a petal soft kiss on your lips.

“How come you didn’t wake me up when you got in?” You frown slightly looking up at him.

He shakes his head slightly and shrugs, “You just looked so… peaceful. I couldn’t bare to wake you up. At least, not without sustenance,” Bucky laughs.

Shifting your eyes from Bucky to the pancakes and back, your lips tug in each corner. “Smart man.”

His cooking always felt like home. It was filling, delicious, and you could almost taste the love it was made it with. “Mm,” the small noise escapes low in your throat as you take the last bite. Looking across the kitchen table, Bucky is slumped in his chair, arms folded with a warm smile as he watches you. “What?” The question comes out as a half joke and half concern.

Shaking his head slightly the smile grew. “Nothing, doll. Just missed you is all.” Leaning forward, Bucky rests his elbows on the table continuing to stare a tad bit more than normal.

“You’re acting weird.” You say, adjusting in your seat feeling slightly awkward.

“So what have you been up to while I was away?” He completely ignored your statement, asking an easy and lighthearted question.

“Um..” you start, breakfast starting to feel suddenly heavy in your stomach. “I uh-“ your teeth start to clench down as you swallow hard at the pooling saliva in your mouth. “I went out with Nat-“ your brows furrowed, starting to have difficulty with getting the words out. Bucky’s face quickly contorts to concern as you continue to fight the inevitable. “and her sister for some…s-some drinks-“ the word makes you gag.

Almost as if you channeled some super soldier serum, you pushed back from the table and ran- praying that the pressure of your hand over your mouth will be enough insurance to get to the toilet. It barely was. Breakfast came back up violently, loudly as you kneeled in front of the porcelain king. Even when you thought there couldn’t possibly be anything else to throw up, your stomach wrung on itself, forcing up every last drop of bile.

Breathing heavily into the bowl, skin now glistening with cooling sweat, you realize that your hair has been pulled out of your face. Your eyesight, now no longer blurry, sees Bucky sitting next to you; his right hand holding your hair back in a make shift ponytail and his left hand on the nape of your neck, the coolness of his metal hand being your favorite thing in the world at the moment.

“I’m sorry…” your sob echoed lightly in the toilet. “I’ve never been hung over like this before,” you sit back on your knees, grabbing some tissues to wipe your mouth. You bring yourself to look up at him through hooded and puffy red eyes, feeling instantly embarrassed. Bucky gives you a small reassuring smile as his hand gently rubs up and down your back.

“I’ve had the Russians drink me under the table a few times too. C’mon…” He helps you off of the floor, “let’s get you cleaned up.”

A warm bath, some fresh comfy clothes and a plain cup of tea seemed to make the nausea subside.

“I knew I shouldn’t have drank last night,” you say, looking into the lightly steaming mug. “My stomach hasn’t felt right in a few weeks. I actually have an appointment this afternoon in the medical bay, but I didn’t know you would be home. I can cancel it-”

“What time is your appointment?” He cuts you off,

“Um,” you look towards the wall and squint at the clock. “Actually in 45 minutes,” you laugh softly at the realization.

“Do you want me to go with you?” He offers.

“And miss your debriefing? Why, Sargent Barnes, that’s highly unlike you.” Even with not feeling great you can’t help but give him shit. This is the normal

Shaking his head softly he lets out a small laugh. “Alright,” he puts his hands up in a surrendering gesture, “but call me if anything comes up, okay? I’m worried about you.” Bucky’s voice is soft and sincere as he leans in and plants a small kiss on your forehead. His eyes hesitate, locking on yours for a moment. Leaning back in, he presses his lips to yours. “I love you. So much,”

“Love you more, Bucky.” You smile back up at him.

Sitting on the exam table in nothing but a medical gown, you swing your legs gently back and forth while gently nibbling the tip of your thumb as you wait for the provider.

You jump at the sudden knock at the door. In walks the new physicians assistant for The Compound, a young and beautiful woman who looked like she was straight out of school.

“Hi! My names Bree and I’ll be working with you today. According to the nurse who did your intake, you’re here for-“ she scrolls through your electronic chart on a tablet, “some abdominal issues. Tell me about that,” she sits down on a stool, listening intently.

“It’s.. really not a big deal,” you start, she keeps quiet waiting for you to explain in more detail. “I don’t know,” you start to fumble with a few loose strands of hair. “I’ve just felt this sort of… heaviness? It hasn’t gone away and is just always sort of there?” Your voice is unsure, feeling self conscious as you describe this silly little symptom that you felt the need to make an appointment for. “This morning I got sick. Well, I went out drinking last night, so I’m assuming I’m a little hung over.” Your words start to sound like your rambling.

“Hmm,” Bree says in response. “When was your last period?”

“Um,” the gears start turning in your head as you try to backdate events, plans that had been interrupted because of aunt flow. “About 4 months ago?” It probably wasn’t on purpose, but you could see the clinicians eyebrow raise a centimeter in question. “It’s not what you think!” You quickly try to defend, “I’m on the pill! My periods have always been irregular which is part of the reason I’m on birth control in the first place.”

“Okay,” she responds, skeptical. “And you take the pill religiously?”

“Yes,”

“Everyday?”

“Yeah…”

“At the same time?” Bree’s eyebrow inclines just a little more.

“Well,” now she has you questioning everything that you’ve said. “I always have an alarm on my phone and try to take it the same time everyday.” That makes you feel better, justified.

“Have you been sick recently? Aside from this morning, any need for any prescriptions, antibiotics?”

“I had bronchitis, but that was… god months ago?”

“Okay,” she says flatly, “so we’ll just go ahead and do a minor work up to see if we can figure out what’s going on. The first thing I want to do though, is a pregnancy test.” Even though you could feel your face change, Bree quickly added, “Routine stuff. It’s one of the bases that we always cover early on.”

You suddenly become hyper focused on the urine sample you left on the counter top, as asked by the nurse. Bree takes out a small, flat test from a nearby drawer and uses a pipette to transfer the fluid.

It could have been 30 seconds or 20 minutes, but the idea that pregnancy was even a remote possibility has your insides feeling like they’re folding in on themselves.

“Okay so,” Bree starts, getting your attention. “The test did in fact, come out positive. Since your cycles have been irregular, I’d like to do an ultrasound to see how far along you are and then we can talk about options. Just go ahead and lay back on the table, feet in the stirrups.”

"Positive?" You repeat. "But... What? How?" It comes out breathless.

"Well, sometimes antibiotics can actually cancel out the effects of birth control. We try to advise women to not be sexually active as the body might seize the opportunity to ovulate and result in an unplanned pregnancy. How about we just take a look and go from there, okay?" Bree says just a little too cheerfully as she pats the stirrups.

Following her directions is the only thing you’re able to focus on. Going through the motions of laying down, putting your feet up and opening your legs. Bree’s voice is a murmur mixed with a high pitch ringing as you look up at the ceiling tiles, counting each spect while she sets up the portable sono machine.

“Just a little pressure,” she says, guiding the wand like probe, looking at the screen. “Okay. So, judging from the size… I’d say you’re close to about 9 weeks, give or take a bit. Do you want to hear the heartbeat?” She asks, sweetly. And it’s the first time you’re able to look at her since lying down. Bree patiently waits for your answer with a warm smile. You reluctantly nod your head.

The room fills with soft, muffled whooshing. “It’s so fast. I-is that okay? Is everything okay?” You’re searching her face for any hint of something being wrong. In return, Bree just nods gently as she keeps her smile, still examining the screen.

“A fetus’ heartbeat is a lot quicker than ours. Everything looks perfect actually. Would you… like to see?”

“Yes, please.” You didn't hesitate with your answer this time.

The screen gets tilted towards you and your eyes start darting all around looking for the baby. Your baby. At first you don't see anything. It doesn't look like photos you've seen on Instagram of pregnancy announcements. But then, in the middle of what looks like a black balloon, is a bean with limbs. In the center of this bean is a lively flicker. Bree uses her index finger to point to the screen.

"There's the fetus' arms and legs," she points to the extremities, "and here," her finger gently taps on the pulsing center, "is the heart."

The whooshing matches the pace of the flicker; lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub. Hearing the heartbeat in synch with the pulsing on the screen causes your own heartbeat to match for a moment.

So this is love.

After a moment, Bree removes the probe and rips a paper from the ultrasound machine. "Here's some pictures for you," she hands them to you as you sit up on the bed. "I want to see you back here in three weeks for another check up... unless you want to discuss other options?" You shake your head. "Do you have any questions for me?"

“No, not right now.” You’re solely focused on the pictures now in your hand. Even though the image is burned into your brain, holding a physical copy has some how made it more real.

The rest of the afternoon was a whirlwind. There was no possible way that you’re actually pregnant. Even with the new noticeable symptoms and bathroom counter littered in double pink lined tests, it still seemed so unbelievable. That’s not even the hardest part. How am I going to tell Bucky?

Just as the reality starts to set in of having to tell the other adult who is directly involved, the front door to the apartment opens.

"Hey, doll!" Bucky calls loudly from the hallway, the thumping of his boots following his voice. "Sorry that the meeting ran late. I figured we could order in tonight. What about that Thai place you like?" He waits for a response while buzzing around the kitchen, no doubt making himself coffee for the dozenth time today. "Doll?" The question echoes through the quiet apartment.

"I'm in here," you acknowledge softly from the living room couch. Bucky pokes his head out from the hallway, breathing a sigh of relief.

"There you are," he starts walking towards you. "If you tell me what you would like for dinner, I'll call it in and then-" his voice and steps stop abruptly. "Hey... you okay?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, I'm okay." You answer, obviously distracted.

"That doesn't sound too convincing," Bucky hesitated, looking you over and taking a few steps closer.

"I-I have to tell you something." Your tone is soft, scared. You’re fidgeting with the edges of your sweater sleeves.

“Is it something the doctor said?” His voice is softer now, reluctant and afraid. While his piercing, cerulean blue eyes continue to search yours for the answer, wide and terrified.

“I-“

Should I have gotten balloons? Made him open a box with one of the pregnancy tests or a cute onesie inside? Bake a damn cake?

“Y/n?!” Bucky didn’t yell but definitely had to get your attention. “You’re scaring me. What’s going on?!” He pleaded. Why were the words so difficult to say? Maybe because it hasn’t been said out loud yet. Or that it’s still so shocking. Or maybe that verbalizing it will just make it that more real. You turn on your heels and run to the bathroom.

“Y/n!!” He calls after you, but you know he’ll be just a few steps behind.

Picking up a handful of the positive tests off of the vanity counter with your heartbeat pounding in your ears in combination with his heavy footsteps getting closer.

“Seriously! What is going on-“ Bucky is flustered as he steps into the entryway and stops abruptly at the sight of you facing him, holding the tests fanned out.

“I’m pregnant.” There it is. You’re holding your breath, waiting to see what he’ll say. Aside from contraceptives, you’ve never had any kind of discussions pertaining to a family.

His face softens as he takes a step forward, his eyes hyper fixated on all the double pink lines. Bucky’s chest rises and falls deeply now. “You’re… pregnant? Not sick?” He asks to clarify, being cautious.

“Morning sickness, apparently”, a small laugh escapes and it surprises you. “But other than that, I’m fine. We’re fine.”

The ‘we’re’ part catches his attention. He’s looking into your eyes once again, searching. But, for what?

“Is this… something you want? With… me?” He suddenly sounds so adolescent and anxious. Who can blame him? This took you both completely by surprise. Knowing Bucky, he would support you in whatever you wanted. Whatever decision you thought was best for you, your body, your health in every aspect, he would respect and advocate for. He is being cautious with his response to the news until he knows what your decision is.

Putting the tests down, you take both of his hands into yours and take a deep breath.

“Bucky, if you had asked me this morning, I wouldn’t have known what our future would hold. But knowing what I know now… I want this baby. I want to be a mom and for us to be a family. That being said, I know that this is something that we never talked about. If this isn’t something you want, I underst-“

You’re suddenly cut off by his lips pressing into yours. It feels like a weight has been lifted as Bucky’s arms gently wrap around you to bring you closer. Kissing becomes increasingly difficult around giggles and the obnoxiously big smiles you’re both wearing.

When your lips finally part, Bucky’s eyebrows are raised in excitement. His eyes are darting around your torso as if the news would suddenly show physical changes on your body.

“I can’t believe it…” he breathes, “I actually get the chance to be a Dad-” The word comes out almost as a choked sob. My heart.

Reaching into your back pocket, you pull out the ultrasound Bree had given to you earlier, holding it up for him to see.

"Look, our baby's first photo!"

Bucky takes the picture as gently as if someone were handing him an actual newborn baby. He just stares, probably confused as to what he was looking at similarly to you just a few hours ago.

"I know it doesn't really look like anything right now- but I go back in a few weeks and-"

"Are you kidding?" He looks up from the black and white photo to meet your eyes, a watery sheen coating his own. "This is the most amazing thing I have ever seen in my life." Bucky says softly, as if to himself, looking back down at the picture. And he's smiling. A genuine, heartfelt smile.

That night was the closest he had ever held you in his arms. The two of you made up for lost conversations and started planning for your future and what it held as you laid in bed. Bucky talked about how he wanted to build a crib instead of buying one and was curious what the appropriate amount of time was to wait until you could both start telling everyone. Excitement was an understatement for this man.

"Can I go with you to your next appointment?" He asked, in a hopeful tone as his fingers traced along smooth, soft circles around your belly button. You giggle, wincing at one specific caress.

"Hey! That tickles! But, of course you can. You can come to all of them. I was... kinda hoping you would?" In return, your tone holds the same anticipation.

"I wouldn't miss it." Bucky's palm flattens against your belly as he places a kiss against your temple.

"Don't get used to that," You say looking down. "We're going to start growing and getting bigger any day now." You fake a frown, although there is a small part of you that isn't necessarily faking.

"Hmm." A low hum vibrates from the back of Bucky's throat as he shifts his body down along yours.

His fingertips skim the hem of your sleep shirt before pulling it up and exposing your stomach. The coolness of the air makes your abdomen tighten, but is soon replaced with petal soft kisses. "When you say 'grow', I hope you mean grow more beautiful by the day." Each firm press of his lips feels like its igniting your skin on fire with the newfound sensitivity. Your toes start to dig down into the mattress.

"Because, y/n..." Bucky repositions himself onto his knees, one now conveniently pressed in-between your legs. The pressure alone makes your heart rate spike and has you borderline panting. He hovers over you, "There isn't anything in this world I find more beautiful or more attractive than my girl carrying my child." He holds your gaze, intense and primal- more than you've ever seen.

"Do you understand?" Bucky asks with a raised brow. You nod hastily and he grins in response. "Good girl. Now, let's see if those rumors about hyper sensitivity are true. Judging by how you're writhing under me and the wet spot on my knee... I'm really going to enjoy the next few months."

If you enjoyed this, please check out my masterlist! Requests are open!

@peaches1958 @aquabrie @elsie-bells @pono-pura-vida @redbloodedgurl @almosttoopizza @beware-my-thorns @prettylittlepluviophile @annoyinglythoughtfuldestiny @calwitch @ozwriterchick @roofwitty779 @lessersole @lil-darhk @agoddoesnotplead @saranghaey @erinallene @mrsvxder @elizabeth916 @cjand10 @bucky-barnes-lover @skyf-7

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lauraneedstochill · 2 years ago

Text

Confess the longing you are dreaming of

summary: Aemond thinks the woman he has to marry is the most impudent and unsufferable he’s ever met. He’s also never wanted anyone so badly. pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Martell!reader (third person, no mention of Y/N) warnings: bantering and teasing, mentions of unpleasant sexual experience, praise kink (guess who’s got it), a dollop of softness, mild smut (... for starters ;) author’s note: couldn’t get the idea out of my head and spent a few sleepless nights writing this. I imagine her brothers as Pedro Pascal and Oscar Isaac ✨ words: ~8000 song inspo: Hozier — Better love

>>> Aemond isn’t present when the idea is voiced the first time — he has a hunch that his grandsire is to blame for that. No doubt, Otto was the one to plan it out, come up with arguments served with his persuasive tone. He’s always loved to make arrangements and strike deals, each one of them to play into his hands, and Aemond hates the thought of being just another pawn of his.

He is blindsided at the breakfast but it’s made sound carelessly mundane — as Otto puts down his cup, he throws him the proposal, the way one would leniently throw alms to the poor. And Aemond thinks he must’ve heard him wrong.

“Marry me to... Who?” the prince asks, hardly covering his surprise.

His grandsire directs his gaze at him, the old man’s mouth twitching into a condescending smile. Since Otto isn’t keen on idle talk, he tells him plainly:

“You’ve long been of age, Aemond, you know that,” his knife scratches the plate as he cuts the meat, his eyes not moving from the prince. “House Martell holds power, and we’ll be fortunate to have such allies. Besides,” he pauses to take a bite, and Aemond gets annoyed at waiting; Otto chews, then adds, “I’ve only heard good things about your bride-to-be. Wouldn’t you confirm, Ser Criston?”

The mention of the knight is unexpected to them both — Aemond turns his head to meet Ser Criston’s puzzled look. But the brunet effortlessly copes with his emotions:

“We met when she was just a kid. But I knew she’d grow into a fine lady,” he easily agrees. Mayhaps, too easily for Aemond’s liking so he makes a note to talk about it later on.

His grandsire only lets out a pleased hum. “Well, I’m under the impression she will make a good match for our prince,” and Aemond feels that Otto carefully picks each word, “She’s said to be both beautiful and smart, and known for being quite independent,” he’s usually so stingy with his praise, it’s worth its weight in gold.

But that is not what Aemond hears. The choice was made for him, and his rejection of it makes him paint a portrait less alluring — a pompous wayward woman raised in the traditions that are starkly different from his; and yet, it is expected of him to accept it freely. His wounded ego simmers at the thought.

“I’d add another word to that,” Aegon chimes in, half-drunk already, “Everyone knows the Martells to also be promisc—”

“Look who’s talking,” Otto glares at him, and Aegon shuts his mouth.

The word is left unsaid, only the meaning of it isn’t hard to guess, and Aemond feels embarrassment creeping up his cheeks and weighting down his chest. He deems himself an educated man, well-read and eager to put his knowledge to the test, but he has yet to learn of carnal pleasures. A memory is clawing out: him, ten-and-three and plied with wine, laid on a bed that smelled of sweat, a naked woman next to him. Despite her tireless attempts, he wanted none of it, and the repulsion made him sick — and then it made him hate the act itself.

He did go to the brothel through the years, tried watching, touching, looked at bodies of all sorts, only it felt like putting paint over a rotten wall. He felt constrained, and lacking in some way (perhaps, in many), and more so awfully incomplete. Not once he sensed a spark, a pleasure he would crave, and no amount of effort could help him fill the emptiness inside.

He quells the feeling, pushes in indifference instead, and glances briefly at his mother. She meets his eye but only grants him a faint smile, her own gaze lacking any protest.

“Her brothers wrote that they would visit in a fortnight,” Alicent peacefully explains. “It is our duty to ensure a royal welcome.”

“Brothers?” Helaena blithely chirps. “How many does she have?”

“Four but only two of them are coming,” Otto tells her softly, then looks at Aemond, adding in a voice more wily. “I am convinced they really want to see whom their dear sister is about to marry.”

He doesn’t spell it out but the implication can’t be clearer — Aemond must play the part and make a good impression. As if impressing just one stranger wasn’t tedious enough.

As if he isn’t vexed already by how unsuitable he finds her.

>>> Frustration grows in Aemond with each day, takes roots, and clogs up all his thoughts. Some other man would’ve been glad — he often heard that the Martells are quite the lovers. He can’t admit it to himself how much he’s bothered by his own misfortunes on the love field.

He bottles his emotions up and doesn’t utter any word of discontent, nor does he ever speak of the awaited visit. Although he makes just one exception.

“My grandsire mentioned that you knew her,” he reminds Ser Criston one day after training.

The knight nods. “I crossed paths with Quentyn, he’s the oldest. She used to come to watch us train.”

“What was she like?” Aemond carefully wonders.

Ser Criston ponders for a minute, polishing his sword. “She was a quiet little girl, kept to herself. A lot of boys were always chasing after her, and she paid them all no mind,” he smiles at the memory. “But I remember one of them who was... particularly pesky. His charms didn’t work on her so he got offended, rude, followed her around. She tolerated him for over a month. One morning, he was hassling her in the training yard, and she just took a spear laying nearby — and smacked him with no warning,” he shakes his head but it’s apparent that he isn’t judging. “She didn’t use the pointy end but she got him good. And then she told him that next time he would think twice about his actions. She was impressive for a ten-year-old,” he muses and puts the sword away, then turns to Aemond, giving him a wistful stare. “Frankly, I think that you will like her.”

He does, for just a second, as his mind rushes to paint the image of a fearless little girl; and then he mercilessly wipes that image off. Maybe in other circumstances, he could’ve found amusement in that story, but Aemond only huffs and thinks back to the list of all her traits he prematurely made up. He adds “rebellious” to that list, and his self-doubt is a venom that clouds his judgment. He’s in no rush to find a cure.

>>> Their ship arrives a few hours earlier than planned — and after the dock watchers break the news, the bustle begins. Maids, servants, guards all run and faff about the castle, the dining hall gets filled with smells and noises, plates and dishes clanking.

Aemond is not excited in the slightest.

He dresses up reluctantly, each piece of clothes only dampening his mood that’s been already sour for the past two weeks. He all but drags his feet into the dining hall and by the time he reaches it, he looks so grim that one may think the prince’s preparing for his death, no less.

The minutes fly too quickly for his liking — they barely have time to sit, his mother nervously toying with the tablecloth already, and then the guards rush to announce the guests. Surprisingly, she’s not among them. The prince thinks he should be relieved; deep down, there is a splash of worry fizzling in him.

Her brothers walk in calmly in a cloud of servants bearing gifts. Their kinship is immediately clear — both tall, broad-shouldered, and dark-haired, self-confidence subsisting in their every step. The oldest is distinguished by a touch of gray in his short beard, his gaze more focused, a slight smile plastered on his face. The other one shamelessly stares at every maid his eyes can catch.

“Your grace, it is a pleasure to finally meet you,” Quentyn reaches their table first, and Alicent walks down to greet them. He keeps his distance and his smile, his tone is measured. “We were so sad to learn that the King has fallen sick. But I can tell the Kingdom is in great hands. And —”

“Women’s hands do have a healing touch,” Oberyn smoothly interrupts, his accent a bit thicker, his voice honeyed. “I will prefer a Queen over a King at any given day. Unless, of course, your husband can compete with you in beauty... I somehow doubt that.”

A shade of disapproval grazes Quentyn’s face but Alicent is too amazed to notice. The compliment may come off as blunt but she still takes it well, her smile embarrassed yet sincere.

“I hope you will enjoy your stay,” she tells them humbly, then looks over the crowd. “But may I ask where is the lady we’ve been waiting for?”

“She made a stop on our way to catch up with an old friend,” Quentyn answers, ready to explain, “It’s been years since we’ve met Ser —”

“Still can’t believe he is the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,” Oberyn chuckles. “I think it’s all the armor that makes it look like he poses a threat. But you may reconsider if you see him in the nude.”

This time, the older brother glares at him with warning, and there’s a lull in their conversation, while Aemond’s struggling to hear what made his mother’s cheeks so red, his mind nervously preoccupied with someone else —

her laughter enters first.

It’s bright and joyful, a sound so lovely it might be enough to crack up his restraint. But then he spots her, and it feels like his whole body flares up at the sight.

She’s walking with her hand under Ser Criston’s arm, and Aemond’s never seen a dress that covers so much but hides so little. It’s muted orange, floor-length, made of sumptuous silk, with two long slits along the sides, curves of her thighs beguilingly seen through. Her neck and arms aren’t covered, and the material is intricately stitched around her waist to show a few more glimpses of her sun-kissed skin. The waves of her long hair fall on her shoulders and frame her face, each feature of it striking but her lips stand out the most — full, plump, and reddish. Not once before Aemond found the thought of being kissed so tempting.

She doesn’t even turn her head to look at him. She’s talking to Ser Criston quietly, and he’s engaged in conversation, unusually relaxed. Their difference in age is obvious, and the knight seems like just another relative of hers, but an uneasy feeling still leaves a bite on Aemond’s chest. He can’t imagine her so carefree — so beaming and compliant — by his side. His jealousy tastes bitter like a stale wine.

He hears his brother let out a short laugh. “It’s not like they were fucking,” Aegon carelessly notes. “Please ease your outrage before she runs away.”

“I don’t remember asking for advice,” Aemond snarls.

“You do look like you need it,” the blond comments, then goes back to drinking.

She gracefully approaches them, her voice melodic like a murmur of a river. “Forgive me, your grace, for being late, I haven’t seen Ser Criston in some time,” she tells his mother. “He was once a dear friend of mine.”

“I only helped to shush away a few of your admirers,” the knight cackles, earning a smile from her.

“I hope you are making use of all his talents,” she says to the Queen, making her face flush right away.

She delicately moves on to another topic. “It is a pleasure to have you here, you must be tired from taking such a long trip.”

“We found it quite enjoyable,” Quentyn remarks politely. “The beautiful sights along the way are worth the journey, and your city has some great views too.”

“Can’t say I’ve heard great things about your food,” Oberyn grins. “Hence why we took the liberty to bring some of our own,” he signals to the nearest servant, who runs to open one of the trunks they carried. “The dornish fruits are also my sister’s weak spot.”

“As if you don’t gorge yourself on them!” she jests, letting go of Ser Criston’s arm at last. “My brother is a glutton, your grace, please excuse his manners in advance.”

“You can call me Alicent,” his mother corrects her warmly. “Only seems fair to continue this discussion at the table,” she slightly moves away to let the girl go first.

Aemond unintentionally stiffens and only when he stands up from his chair to greet her, she finally does look at him. In contrast to her countenance, her gaze is dark and piercing, and the prince is staggered by how unreadable it is. Her brothers glance at Aemond briefly — Quentyn is pensive, while Oberyn looks like he wants to bite his head off; neither says a word.

She’s seated to his right, and she leaves behind a trail of scent — apples and plums, and he can’t help but catch the movement of her hips under the flowing dress. The words all mash and fall apart, and he can’t pick a single one to strike up a conversation.

Aegon is sitting next to her, and his patience only lasts a minute. “Never knew Ser Criston was such a ladies' man.”

“I’m sure he succeeded on that front but we are merely good friends,” she answers calmly, keeping her eyes on servants bringing fruits — blood oranges and pomegranates, robust grapes, and ripened cherries.

“You two seemed more than friendly,” Aegon presses, his tone evidently taunting.

She picks a golden apricot and runs her thumb over its fragrant surface. “Maybe it’s the wine that makes you see things,” she rebuts and takes a bite out of the fruit, a drop of juice risking to escape her mouth but she wipes it swiftly with her finger. She catches Aemond looking, and his cheeks heat up.

“We’ve never seen him in the company of a woman,” the older prince points out, filling up his cup once more.

She takes out the kernel and eats up the fruit, her mouth glistens. “Aren’t the knights of the Kingsguard forbidden to marry?”

“Never stopped them from bedding whoever they like,” Aegon remarks crudely, and Aemond is thankful that their mother is too preoccupied with Oberyn’s tireless chatting.

“Maybe some men have the decency to follow orders,” she responds, unbothered, taking a cherry and clasping it with her lips. Aegon doesn’t seem to notice and only gulps the wine and rolls his eyes. Aemond can’t look away.

“Aren’t you Martells known for not following the rules? I thought unruly was in your house’s motto,” Aegon argues, a corner of his mouth curled in a smirk.

She takes another cherry, the third in a row, her lips already stained with juice. “I think you keep getting your facts wrong,” she brushes him off, and Aegon goes to object some more but spills the wine right on his shirt. The displeased cry brings Aemond out of his trance.

“He tends to do that when he’s drunk,” the one-eyed prince coolly interjects.

Her eyes flicker to him, then she fully turns her head. “So you can actually talk,” her teasing comes off soft but her gaze still burns. “It’s good to know.”

“You seemed preoccupied with someone else,” he musters an excuse.

“Do you expect your wife to never speak to other men?” her voice almost betrays her disenchantment.

“No,” Aemond quickly answers, caught unawares by how strained his thinking process is. “She— you are free to choose your friends, of course.”

“I’m flattered,” her tone suggesting otherwise, “Not that I would ask for anyone’s approval,” she reaches for a plum; he closes his eye with a sigh.

Aegon comes to stand in between them on the pretext of needing another carafe of wine: “I didn’t mean to interrupt your friendly bickering, please continue.”

“It seems like Aemond isn’t in the mood for talking,” she doesn’t look at him, the tip of her tongue darting to lick her finger. “And I am never in the mood for begging.”

“My brother’s hospitality leaves much to be desired,” Aegon takes a sip. “So I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer,” his hand falls on her chair. “But if you ever wish to be... well satisfied, all you have to do is ask me”.

It’s hard to tell if Aegon’s actually that drunk or merely provoking (or if he’s got a death wish, Aemond wonders).

She replies without much thought. “Well, if I ever find myself in need of...,” she trails off with a smile but her gaze gets harsh — her words then follow, “My choice won’t fall on you,” the smirk falls off Aegon’s face, and she glances straight at Aemond, adding, “I like them taller.”

But her straightforwardness is met with his resistance, with the deep-rooted unacceptance of his lurking needs. He adds “indecent” to the list, and they speak no more.

>>> Her boldness doesn’t pose a problem to anyone but him. To his surprise (or more so to his shock), his mother gives in first.

The morning can’t come fast enough for Aemond after he spends the night tossing and turning. A few hours later he rushes to the garden for a walk, overwhelmed by restlessness his training didn’t help him cope with. That’s when he sees it — a spot of yellow shining through the trees. He somehow knows it’s her without further confirmation but still, his feet carry him on.

Her dress is vivid like a field of marigolds, her hair plaited, wrists adorned with golden bracelets. He slackens pace and peers into her — and he wants nothing more than to drink her up, her whole appearance is the sweetest nectar... Until he hears another sound and realizes she is not alone, and it’s his mother sitting by her side, wrapped in her favorite green and, unexpectedly, in glee. He can’t remember when he saw her laugh like this — out loud, giggling, tears at the corners of her eyes are not from sadness but from joy.

“My dear, that is so improper! Did he apologize at least?” Alicent inquires with a smile.

“Oberyn rarely does,” she tells her serenely. “His lover looked way more ashamed. I hope each of your rooms has locks, gods know I don’t want to walk in on him again.”

Unlike his mother who is covered by the shade of trees, she’s bathing in the sun, the soft light caressing her skin, and Aemond’s eye greedily follows every ray. In barely a minute he feels warm all over.

“I hope that Aemond’s chambers got locks too,” she adds all of a sudden, a bit louder, and his chest is splashed with cold.

His eye moves to her face, and she’s already looking at him, direct and daring. He knows he’s hidden by the trees but there’s no hiding from her gaze.

Aemond turns away and steps back in haste, his abashment mixed with grievance at her implication. He believes someone like her would never lust for him, and her jokes at his expense not only hurt but prompt his resentment to grow stronger. He adds “deceptive” to the portrait of her he is so adamantly set on painting.

>>> She wins Helaena’s heart with ease. His sister fondly compliments her brooch — a little poppy made out of gold — and she gifts it to Helaena the same day. The silver-haired princess grabs at chance to show her own collection, and they spend the day looking through the jewels spread over the floor, sitting right there and equally amused.

And that’s how Aemond finds them. He only planned to see his nephews but hearing her voice coming from Helaena’s chambers makes him slow his step.

“... And this one he gave me for my latest name day,” Helaena babbles cheerfully.

“Aemond clearly spoils you,” she laughs without a shade of envy. “As he should!”

“He is very kind at heart,” Helaena eagerly assures her. “You will be happy with him, I am certain of it.”

There is a pause that makes him feel uneasy, makes him sneak up closer to the room.

“I do believe he’s not an evil man,” she finally says, “Maybe he just wasn’t made for marriage.”

Surely she can’t see him through the door but he can swear that he feels her gaze, like a silent challenge, a hidden mocking. He barges in without a knock.

Helaena beams. “We were just talking about you!”

His sister’s dress is milky blue, modestly pretty, and loosely fitted. It’s also treacherously pale compared to the liquid gold the Martell girl is dressed in. She’s sitting with her feet under her thighs, the bending of her back is bare and in plain sight. He should’ve walked away the second he heard the sound of her voice because not looking at her seems impossible.

“Oh, you came to see the twins? They are with Aegon but I can call— No, I will bring them back myself,” Helaena springs to her feet, rosy-cheeked and smiley, and leaves the room before Aemond can protest. And then it’s just the two of them.

He takes a breath and makes an effort, with his jaw tense and his blood rising, to drag his eye away from her. It feels as pointless as ignoring sunlight in an open field on a summer day. Only her beauty is more brazen — and so is her wit.

“I take it, gold isn’t your favorite color,” she speaks up with an impish tone. “Would be a bad idea to wear it on our wedding then.”

She never comes too close, always just a little out of reach, and yet he feels as if her presence grips him, weakening his will. He doesn’t want to be with her until he is — and then he has no wish to leave.

It scares Aemond as much as it spikes his anger.

“Why did you agree to come?” he bristles.

“You are not asking about your sister’s chambers, are you?” she clarifies, and he hears her smiling.

He tells himself he only needs to cast a glance to check.

He does — he meets her gaze — her earrings catch the sunlight and cast a trail of glares — the scattering of specks play on her skin, her neck and collarbones, sneak to her upper chest — his own is heaving. His struggle only lasts a moment but it leaves him short of breath. He isn’t looking anymore, his eye trying to discern the pattern on the drapes behind her.

“Our marriage, how do you benefit from it?” he hates how hard it is to control his voice.

And how she watches him intently without giving him a clue of what’s on her mind.

“I plan on visiting my family a couple of times a year. It will be easier to do on dragon back,” she doesn’t sound spiteful when she says it but her words still sting.

He can’t stop an image flashing through his mind: her on top of Vhagar, lungs full of air, pressed to him. It’s tempting — to have her in his hands, and yet the vision is too intangible to cling to. Instead, he thinks that in just three days she learned to play him like a harp, his years' worth of self-control is merely a sand castle against the tide of her sharp tongue.

He only snickers dryly at her reply, then they both hear the sound of running footsteps. Jaehaera and Jaehaerys rush to greet him — but almost instantly abandon, the kids' attention drawn to the shining golden dress.

He thinks “unruly” suits her better than does “pompous”. He comes up with a fake excuse to leave; the image of her stays with him.

>>> He picks more adjectives as the week goes on — she’s audacious, disobedient, wanton. She moves around the castle as if she owns every room she’s in. She wears less, and even on rare occasions when she doesn’t, her defiance more than compensates for it. She never shies away from a deep neckline, nor does she feel the need to hold back her resounding laughs. Her jewelry clinks, each of her dresses is brighter than the other, but it’s her wicked mouth his eye always falls on first.

More times than not, Aemond can’t tear his gaze away, each meal for him now both a torture and a feast.

He watches as she parts her lips, puts them around a luscious grape, a cherry, or a peach, she swipes her tongue to lick up every running drop, savoring its tang — and keeps eye contact with him. He barely can taste the food he’s eating, and no wine can quench his thirst, his body flooding with a feeling he can’t define, his heart adrift.

He tries to fight it off with all our strength. He scratches off “unruly” to write down “unabashed” instead.

But then the dinner comes, and even though he’s never had a taste for sweets, he thinks he’d eat them from her lips (deep down, he wants to). The lies he tells himself are brittle like the flesh of fruits under her teeth.

>>> He comes to think “insufferable” fits her the best. That thought rings in his head while he is standing in the stable, his eye on anything but her. He was informed she wished to pick a horse, and he begrudgingly agreed to come, only to keep up the pretense.

What turns out to be much harder is for him to keep restraint. The dress she’s wearing might as well be a chemise — it’s just as light and white, and much to his discomfort, it also tirelessly risks hiking up to expose more of her legs.

Discomfort, mayhaps, isn’t the right word for it.

He stays out of her way but, unsurprisingly, he ends up looking — at how she walks, spring in her step, swinging her hips. She gives each horse a piece of apple and feeds them by hand, strokes their muzzles, and then she mounts and rides them, one by one. She grabs the reins, her foot easily finds the stirrup, and as she swings her leg over the saddle, her dress slips up, showing a few inches of her skin.

He swallows thickly, glances more intently — over her dainty ankles, bending of her knees, he notes how smooth her skin is, soaking up the sun. Her dress then billows slightly, and his eye glides higher, hungry, follows up the contour of her thighs that bounce a little as the horse gallops.

He feels it blooming — a sensation with no name that travels from the lower chest down to his very navel, then spreads and tightens all that’s underneath.

He is so deep in his enthrallment, he doesn’t hear the steps approaching until there’s someone standing next to him. Quentyn stays silent for a minute, throwing him a sideways glance.

“My sister’s always been terribly picky,” the man says out of the blue, “And usually it’s hard to meet all of her demands,” — it doesn’t seem like it’s the horses he is talking of. The vagueness of it makes Aemond focus as he takes his eye off her but Quentyn doesn’t elaborate, giving him a smile instead. “I do admit, your patience is commendable. Some other man would’ve already interfered just to wrap the process up.”

“I was under the impression she doesn’t need anyone’s help,” Aemond replies evasively.

“You guessed it right,” Quentyn titters, his tone veiled with the same unclear meaning when he adds, “The only thing left for us all is to accept it,” and with that, he goes to join his sister.

When Aemond — tamely, almost yielding — takes a peek at her, his gaze collides with Oberyn’s who clearly watched them talk. Unlike his older brother, he prefers to stay away, but the mischief in him pairs really well with danger. He grants Aemond a nod, switching attention back to her, his threats unspoken for the meantime.

For just a second, it gives Aemond pause as he finds it odd that no one brings up their wedding, and no announcements have been made ever since she came. He doesn’t mull over it for long because her laughter interrupts his thoughts (or maybe he just yearns for any chance to look at her). She rides around the yard, her hair floating in the wind, a little breathless but breathtaking, her lips enticing and her curves making his throat dry.

He tries to ground himself, to look for explanations, for some reprieve from the entrancing spell he’s under — he’s never been so close to losing reason —

out of the corner of his eye, he sees a couple of guards dropping their gaze in poor attempts to stop themselves from gawking; it reins his passion, bringing back his jealousy instead. He’s way too used to seeing himself unworthy to even entertain the thought of having her, and his denial prickles. He wants to burn his feelings out, and anger helps with that — it breaks out and engulfs him fast, hardening both his heart and gaze.

“Quentyn is the friendliest of the two, and you couldn’t hold a conversation?” Aegon appears out of nowhere, seemingly displeased despite the bottle in his hand. “Must you always be so gruff? I stayed behind in hopes you’d make it work!” he waves at Oberyn then glares at Aemond, waiting for a reply. “Are you pretending to be deaf or...?”

“Must she test my patience?” Aemond mutters, his tone not jealous but exasperated, his eye boring into her, “Putting herself out like that for all the men to see.”

Aegon being speechless is a rare sight. He cannot fathom it at first, looking from Aemond back to her, confusion sobering him up. And then he grins, realization creeping up on him; there are some things he’s always quick to notice.

“It’s funny that you say that,” he leans in to tell him and catches Aemond’s gaze, “Since it’s just you who’s staring,” Aegon pats him on the back and leaves to greet her brothers.

Aemond tries to choke it down — his irritation and his shame combined, but it’s too much for him to handle, his head and heart clearly in conflict. He doesn’t wait for her to make a choice, retiring without sparing her a glance (a fear nibs at him that if he looks at her once more, he will stay rooted to the ground).

He doesn’t leave his chambers for the remainder of the day, dining all alone and fuming all the same. He’s usually good at curbing his emotions but he is having trouble understanding them, wanting nothing more than to erase all memories of her. But even in his solitude, he catches himself thinking — about her cunning smile and swaying hips, her eyes on him, his hands wanting to roam and touch and —

Aemond shoves unwanted thoughts away and goes to bed earlier than usual. He remains steadfast in his resolve to find some peace, he makes a conscious effort to shift his focus to all the boring, random things his mind can come up with until he is too tired to care.

But then he falls asleep, and his subconscious welcomes her. He sees her right before his eye in that obscenely short white dress, there are no people in the yard, her tantalizing moves all meant for him. She hops off her black horse and walks to him without a single word — anticipation makes him drop his guard and hold his breath — and then he feels her lips on his, her body pressing into him, his hunger for her ruining his self-control, the kiss is searing, suffocating, driving him insane, his fingers pulling up her dress —

he wakes up painfully aroused.

He lays in bed, his heartbeat rushing, his breathing ragged, and vision blurred. While he’s still grasping for the remnants of his dream, he sneaks his hand into his breeches, wishing he could rip her dress off and sheath himself inside her, spread her on his bed, and drink every salacious sound she makes... It only takes him a few strokes to spill over his fingers; he can’t remember if he’s ever reached his peak so fast.

And only then, as he comes down from his high, it hits him, like lightning in the dark — in spite of her remarks, her audacity, her dresses, and every cruel adjective he’s found for her, he’s never wanted anyone so badly. Aemond sits up abruptly, his sleep gone, giving way to stubbornness that comes hand in hand with reticence. He persuades himself that he’ll suppress this — the spark, the pleasure that he craves, and he won’t be a slave to his desires.

He’ll rid himself of feelings, of this lust. Inevitably it will wane.

>>> It doesn’t.

Desire is a guest that never leaves, unwanted but demanding space, attention, time. It slips into his thoughts the moment he wakes up, it whispers in his ears, never giving up, it’s layered in between his clothes and his skin. He hides it well from everyone; it lodges deeper into him.

Desire is a cherry in her mouth, each fruit she bites in, savors, drinks the juice from. He doesn’t want to watch — he can’t take his eye off her, caught in his fervor like in undertow, the flavor of her lips the only one he truly yearns for.

Desire bruises more than does a hit, cuts deeper than a blade, and there’s no weapon he can fight it off with. His training brings him no relief, and he can’t sweat it out or wash it off him, and even while he soaking in a bath, it feels like longing only rises back with steam.

Desire waits for him at night, stands by his bed, slides right under the covers with him. He dreams of her, and in those dreams, her body sings under his every touch, trembles from his praise, his hands and mouth paint her with marks and kisses. He wakes up with his chest aflame and out of breath, and then it takes all of his willpower not to crawl to her.

It staggering how much he really wants her, and he hates himself for it.

>>> It’s been three weeks and they have barely shared a word. He does his best to cut down their encounters and avoid her, he doesn’t argue and takes no offense, he hopes that if he pulls back just enough she will give up and let him be.

Aemond spends his evenings in the study, his table piled with books, and for a couple of hours, it does help to take his mind off things. The night already steals in while he’s searching through the shelves for scrolls, too caught up in the process to pick up the creaking of his door.

Her gaze nearly scalds him. He only looks up out of surprise — and then he freezes at the spot, his heart a stone that plummets to his stomach.

Out of everything she’s worn, this dress might be the one to bring him to his knees — the cutting out the front so low, his eye falls in the hollow between her breasts; he envies fervently the golden chain that rests there. He takes in her whole body, bare arms, and flaunting forms, all clad in deep dark green. He’s never seen her pick that color (and he can’t help but think she put it on for him).

He’s brought back from his stupor when their eyes meet — and startled by the determination in her gaze.

“Ser Criston told me that you missed your training,” she stately starts walking toward him, “Quite a few times this week.”

“I found myself preoccupied with other things,” he clears his throat and clasps his hands behind his back, the scrolls forgotten.

“With reading, I assume?” she almost sounds aggrieved (he wants to ask what else she’d rather have him do) but then her tone gets jaunty. “Would you mind if I join?”

“Actually, I would,” Aemond takes his eye off her, his coldness feigned. “I’d like to avoid distractions.”

And more than anything, he would like for her to leave; she’s not the one to give up so easily. “Maybe we can learn some things together?” she nonchalantly insists, and that ambiguity — deliberate or not — leaves his face suffused with pink.

“I highly doubt you take interest in the things I study,” he manages, his crudeness biting his own tongue.

She only sneers, already nearing his table. “You surely rush to judgment.”

“And I am never wrong.” (Although he’s been wrong once before.)

“That’s very humble of you.” (And she’s tenacious with her intent to prove him wrong again.)

“I am surprised you know that word,” he replies too hastily — and instantly regrets his outburst.

And his attempts to get away from her could’ve been valiant, but only left him feeling like a coward.

She’s got enough courage to spare. “Oh, my apologies, did I strike a nerve?” her hip grazes a stack of books. “You sound so displeased with my behavior,” she puts her hands right on his table, her cleavage in full view.

“You interrupted my studies,” he’s looking only at her face.

“Just this one time,” she clears up, her sly smile is a dare, “Sounds like you have quite a few complaints.”

Damned be her dress and the day he laid his eye on her. “It’s clear as day that we have nothing in common,” he hisses, her persistence molding his anger. “From your bawdy humor to your reckless behavior and your...,” he struggles to push the word through his mouth, “vulgar dresses — everything suggests that we will never make a good couple.”

He catches a gleam in her gaze but it’s not threatening nor hurt — and when the corners of her mouth curl up, her face expression actually looks amused. “I didn’t realize my presence tormented you that much,” she crosses arms over her chest, her hands under her breasts; he looks away that very instant. “So will it please you if I take my vulgar dresses and go back home and leave you be?”

He wants to say it will — he’s thought of it for days — but now he isn’t sure. The dreams he has of her will hardly be enough as every image he collected has got nothing on the real form.

“Is there anything that does?” she asks him suddenly and takes a step in his direction, and then another one.

Belatedly, he realizes that he’s backed against the wall. The air in the room heats up, and Aemond moves back to his table, fingers holding to its edge to find some balance. “...Does what?”

“Please you,” she swiftly clarifies, now standing at arm’s length.

“That isn’t any of your concern,” he wants to glance away and yet, his eye is drawn to her.

“I am inclined to disagree,” her lips stretch into a smile. “Shouldn’t a wife know how to make her husband feel good?”

“We are not married yet,” he tries to argue weakly.

“I’d like to learn beforehand,” but her assertiveness works quicker than his doubts.

The time is still, and seconds drag like hours. His heart leaps at the thought of being all alone with her, his concentration crumbling, his self-restraint already hanging by a thread.

“The way you look at me suggests you aren’t averse to the idea,” she tells him in a low voice, her eyes two glowing embers. Aemond gulps, she deftly rounds the table. “You act so cold and so collected,” she muses, coming closer, and he helplessly steps back. “But I am yet to meet a man who would deny himself the pleasure of laying with a woman,” her voice is warm and warming; his legs bump into the chair, prompting him to sit.

He hesitates for barely a moment but his quick reaction fails him because the next thing he knows, she’s standing next to him, her golden chain casting a blinding glint — he blinks — and then she’s straddling him, her thighs on either side of his.

Aemond’s mouth falls slack as he becomes aware: to lift her he will have to touch her. He glances down at her legs that sneaked out through the long slits of her dress, all bare to the very hips before him.

“I wonder if you are too spoiled by the attention of the ladies? Mayhaps you’ve got so satiated, the intimacy doesn’t bring you any joy,” she runs her fingers up his chest.

He only finds it in himself to shake his head. She isn’t satisfied with that reaction. “Or do you simply find it boring and have a taste for something else?”

Objection bubbles in his throat but he gets no chance to voice it — he barely registers a clinking sound before he feels cold steel pressed under his chin, her fingers wrapped around the hilt of his own dagger. He meant to leave it at the training yard but it completely slipped his mind.

“Does this work better? I’ve heard that you Targaryens have peculiar tastes,” her other hand lands on his shoulder, his chest is stirring with emotions he can’t read.

“That’s not— No,” he mumbles, his voice raw, the weight and feeling of her body overwhelming.

She cocks her brow at him in disbelief. “No? So it’s just plain old satiation then?” she makes no attempt to press the blade but her questions do get pushy. “Must be so hard when women throw themselves at you ever since you were... What was it, ten? Twelve years of age?”

He would expect her to sound teasing — instead, he hears disappointment. That’s the reaction he is used to getting.

“My brother took me to a pleasure house when I was ten-and-three. He said it’s time to get it wet,” he forces out, “And it was...,” awful and humiliating, something he wishes to forget, “...Not what you are describing.”

Her face expression changes — first surprised, then splashed with sadness, and her every feature softens. Aemond sees her opening her mouth to speak but he averts his gaze, abasement scrabbling at him. His eye falls closed, and he keeps thinking that now she will get up and leave, and there won’t be any wedding, and he’s got no reason to get so overly upset already, and —

she sheathes his dagger without a word, the unexpected movement making him breathe out.

And then she dips her head down, and her lips fall on his jaw. Aemond inhales sharply. Her mouth feels softer than it was in all his dreams, and she plants kisses down his throat, moving to the part of it the blade was pressed to. He doesn’t know where to put his hands while hers lock nimbly around his neck.

She pulls back slowly, and he dares to look at her again, trying to catch the merest shadow of pretense but there is none.

“I am truly sorry that you had to go through that,” she tells him quietly. “Have you tried some more since then?”

“I did,” his answer comes off hurried, blank, “I... I am aware of how the act is done.”

“How the act is done? Aemond, that doesn’t sound enjoyable at all,” she pouts, then gently caresses his face, her voice a tender whisper when she adds, “But it should be.”

He stiffens, waiting for the discomfort to wake up, for the aversion to coil his guts, to trigger the jarring need to move away. None of that happens. Instead, he feels her fingers running through his hair, a calming motion bringing only comfort, her every touch relieving tightness in his chest.

“You seem too tense... We have to work on that,” she joyfully murmurs. “Unless, of course, my worry causes you distress,” her fingers stop, “Do you want me to leave, my prince?”

“No,” he rasps, he almost pleads, “D-don’t.”

She hums with satisfaction, bringing her hands down to unclasp his leather doublet, knowing she won’t meet any resistance. He should resent her for this but he doesn’t (he didn’t and he won’t). The air lays cold over his shirt, and Aemond shivers; she moves her fingers down his firm chest with an unspoken admiration.

“Tell me how it usually goes,” she inquires, one of her hands finding its way back to his silver locks. “Do you find pleasure in undressing them?”

Her warmth envelopes him, scented with cinnamon and peaches. “They come without much clothes,” Aemond blurts out, earning another hum from her.

“And what about you?” she glances curiously at him.

“I don’t... I don’t like them touching me,” he timidly avows, and saying it to her does bring somewhat of a relief.

With both of her hands, she cradles his face, thumbs gently contouring his cheeks — he all but melts into her palms. “And yet you are so responsive to the touch,” her voice praises, “So pretty.”

She leans in again, leaving a kiss at the hollow of his throat — and then her mouth travels up, ardent and steady, and he squirms in place. Not out of discomfort.

“You are not supposed to rush it if you want it to feel good,” she whispers in his ear and moves back to catch his gaze. “You never rush into fighting so why love making should be any different?”

Astonishment brightens his face, and she chuckles lightly. “I must confess, I did enjoy watching you train, even though you never noticed. The way you move and twirl your sword,” she’s recollecting breathy, “You are so lithe and fast and so resistant... An infatuating sight.”

She holds his gaze and lifts her hand — he follows it, unblinking, until it finds one of the straps — she hooks it with her fingers. “Fairly soon it made me wonder how would your hands feel... on me,” his heart jolts at her words.

Slowly, she moves the strap aside, baring her breast for him; Aemond’s breathing hitches. She takes his hand in hers, planting a kiss over his knuckles — and then lets his fingers graze her naked skin.

“It was so cruel of you to rob me of my pleasure,” she laments, but he can barely hear a thing, his eye wide as he fixes on the soft swell of her breast, on how her nipple peaks so eagerly under his touch.

She guides his hand over her chest, down to her ribs and waist, letting him brush her every curve, placing his fingers firmly on her hip. And then she reaches for his other hand and lowers the other strap; his body trembles. The layers of his reticence are all peeled at once, leaving his desire raw and undisguised, unshackled. He’s drawn to fondle, clutch at her plump breasts but her grip is tight and taunting, not letting his fingers roam free.

Still, when both his hands sink into her hips, he realizes that he’s getting harder by the second.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by her. With a controlled, torturously slow move she drags her clothed core over his straining cock. His mouth stays closed but there’s a sound — a muffled moan caught in his throat.

“Doesn’t this feel good?” she teases, lightly tugging on his hair, her lips reaching the column of his neck. “With how much you read, I hoped you’d be more generous with words,” each of her kisses weightless like a drop of rain but then her mouth finds a spot below his ear and suckles at it, pulling a whimper from his chest.

He thinks he should... his mind goes blank after another movement of her hips, and she picks up the pace, merciless and sensuous. He tries biting down his moans but only hurts his mouth. She notices, her rapt eyes on him, and puts her finger on his lower lip:

“Please, don’t be shy with me,” she coos, her gentle touch soothing his bitten flesh, “Our desires coincide,” she earnestly affirms him — and the spark erupts and drags him into pure bliss.

He feels that his arousal leaks, his breeches way too tight to hide it, his fingers dig into her supple skin, but she gives no complaints. He watches breathlessly through his hooded eyelid as she grinds against him, then looks over her bouncing breasts, her nipples pebbled, and the pressure curls somewhere down his spine. She peppers him with kisses — the angles of his face, neck, everything that she can reach, except for his desirous mouth. And yet the softness of her lips and hands, her skin that’s draped with the redolent scent, the rhythm of her hips all bring him closer to the edge.

Her forehead is pressed to his, their lips an inch away but never fully touching. “Let go for me,” she says against his mouth, “My handsome, fierce dragon.”

That does it for him. He harshly presses her to him, then shudders with a strangled moan and comes undone, his eye squeezed shut as her name quivers in his mouth. The pleasure whirls him in and leaves him drained and stunned, a little bit light-headed.

It takes Aemond a minute to recover before he finds her gaze again — and in another minute he discerns her shallow breaths, her parted lips, brows slightly furrowed. He wants to ask her if she reached her peak, if he can help her with it —

but she pulls back.

She stands up and only briefly grabs his shoulder, steadying herself, then promptly puts the straps back on, fixing her dress. He wants to lend a hand but she moves it away, leaning in to lightly caress his face. “No, you don’t get to have me yet. I want you to admit it first, to say that you want me,” her words are laced with dignity but cooling to his mind.

She steps back, cruelly fast, the only consolation is her naughty tone. “Until then, I have to satisfy myself some other way. But I will think of you while doing it, my dear prince,” she promises, a ghost of a smile on her lips, and then walks out without looking back.

The silence feels unwelcome in the room and hangs over the ceiling like a cloud, but Aemond he is too dazed to move, spent and perplexed to wrap his head around it.

Desire, it seems, has come to stay.

But it’s not the only thing he’s feeling.

✧... YES, there will be a second part, it’s already in the works! ✧ and yes, I didn’t bother to rename Pedro’s character 'cause I adore Oberyn sue me

✧ just to clarify, I usually age Aemond up to 20 (or however old Ewan looks to you ;) ✧ I got inspired after watching the video for ROSALÍA’s “La Fama” (give it a watch, she is soooo 🥵) but I only found it because of this gorgeous gifset so shout-out to OP for giving me inspiration

✧ my recent fic (couples who kill together, stay together 🔥) ✧ my masterlist

thank you @amiraisgoingthruit for letting me tag you in every silly story of mine, hope you’ll like this one (if anyone else wants to be tagged, don’t be shy)

English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

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luvely-stories · 7 months ago

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7:3 Cafe

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You’re a down on your luck office worker trying to find a quick place to eat, then you see a familiar face in a cafe window.

This was inspired by a beautiful art piece by the lovely @riritzuu

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You sighed as you rubbed your eyes, the blue light from the screen in front of you burning them from staring for too long. You were so close to finishing this project but you were too damn tired to even think of continuing.

You accidentally skipped breakfast and now you needed something to eat and fast, your head starting to fee light from lack of nutrients. You decided that you worked hard enough and that it was time for a well earned break.

Heels clicking against the city sidewalks, your eyes look over all the eateries nearby and sigh. They were filled to the brim with some people even standing outside. As you keep walking around to your usual places you found the same sight, lines flowing out and it was starting to piss you off.

All you wanted was to get ride of this headache that was starting to be unbearable. You started to massage your head as you kept looking around. Just as you felt like all hope was lost, two people walked right in front of you, loudly and cheerfully speaking.

“Wasn’t that just the cutest little cafe?”

“I know right?! I kinda wanna be a gatekeeper it but you know, they deserve the business.”

In any other situation you’d be annoyed by how loud they were but you were too busy wondering about the cafe they were just talking about. Turning around to where they came from you sprinted off, praying that the cafe wasn’t too packed.

Looking around you realized that this cafe was off the beaten path which just made you all the more hopeful. You turn a corner and see an opening on a building and thanked whatever was in the sky above that the place seemed fairly empty minus a few kids running around.

The cafe was cute, a sign flying above it that showed little graphics of bread and coffee. Next to them was the cafes name, 7:3 Cafe. Odd name but who cares? Out front they had a chalkboard listing all their breads and special drink of the day with the cutest little doodles of what you were guessing were the kids and the owner.

The window of the cafe showed a display with the cutest pastries you’d ever seen and the smell coming from them was divine. There were the cutest little bears made of bread smiling at you throughs the glass next to cupcakes with white frosting. As you stared at the food a man came in and placed fresh baguettes next to the cupcakes. Trailing your eyes on the baguettes they unintentionally run up the mans hands, you always did have a staring problem. Eventually your gaze landed on his face.

You stare at him for a moment curious till you realize, you knew this man?!

“Nanami?!”

You shout, causing the mans head to shoot up. Looking into his deep eyes you immediately knew this was Nanami though he looked…so much more relaxed.

Back when you two worked together in the finance department Nanami had this air of professionalism to him that had other people always coming to him for everything, yourself included. His hair was always perfectly parted with suits that never wrinkled and always made sure that everything was done on time. He was a model office worker, emphasis on model.

He always kept small talk to a minimum with everyone and you’re not sure he had any friends in his job. Though youd like to imagine you were on friendly terms but maybe that was just your delusions talking.

It’d be a surprise to no one if you admitted your crush on Nanami but could anyone blame you? He was as diligent and smart and even if he had eye bags as dark as could be he always did his part in projects to perfection. You were convinced he was gods favorite because he always looked so handsome no matter what he did.

But nothing compared to how he is now. His perfect blonde hair was still parted but it now flowed freely, almost grazing the glasses he now wore. He wasn’t wearing the perfectly taken care of suits but instead well loved clothes covered by an apron. And oh his face, now so full and well rested, had your heart about to burst. A complete contrast to how your heart was when you heard about him quitting.

When you heard the news your heart shattered. It was just after you felt like you two were starting to become friends. Some months beforehand it was just you and Nanami in the early morning office, both of you working to finish separate projects. As you worked diligently, the faint smell of fresh bread filled your nose. Raising you head from the computer you look over at Nanami.

“Do you smell the bread too or am I going crazy?”

Nanami glanced up from his file before smelling the air curiously, before smelling his own blazer. Realization dawned on him as he went back to work.

“That’s me, I apologize.”

“You brought some?”

“No, I bake.” He explain calmly, still deep in his work.

Well now you were curious. Pausing your work, you swirl your chair to face Nanami.

“I didn’t know you were a baker!” You say, a smile creeping on your face.

“Oh I wouldn’t consider myself a baker, it’s more so just a hobby.” Nanami shrugs as he starts to organize his files.

“I dunno, by the smell of that I think you make some pretty great treats.” You shrug before twirling back and turning your attention back to your computer. You couldn’t help but mentally high five yourself for talking to him, although it was brief

The sound of papers shuffling stopped, intriguing you for a moment before ignoring it.

“I could bring you some if you were really curious.”

Now that you couldn’t ignore. You turn in your chair back to Nanami and your heart skipped a beat. He was looking right into your soul with those gorgeous eyes of him and you immediately felt your face heat up.

“I mean sure- if it isn’t too much of a problem!”You sputter out, still shocked about the offer.

Nanami hums contently before going back to work while you tried to calm down your racing heart.

You believed him even less when he said he wasn’t a baker when you tried his bread. It was delicious, putting other bakers to shame and you made sure to tell him that. That was the start of a small friendship you had where he would bring you treats and you would rave about them, recommending new recipes to try or talking about a new pastry that you tried.

You learned that he was a foodie and knew all of the best places in town for anything and everything and you really felt like you two were starting to connect. Safe to say you were crushed when you heard he was leaving.

Which is why you were thanking your lucky stars that he was standing right in front of you. He recognized you instantly, calling out your name with a soft smile.

“I never thought I’d see you again, what brings you here?”

As if on que your stomach let out an obnoxiously loud grumble, god you could just die. Though Nanami didn’t mind as he let out a soft chuckle, god this man would be the death of you.

“Well I just heard some people talking about cute cafe and I had to check it out!” Now you wondered if the ladies meant the cafe was cute or the cafe worker.

“Well what are you out there for? Come on in.” He smiles softly at you as you quickly follow his order.

Inside the cafe really was cute, it was small but it was so cozy. Charm filled the place with every hanging plant and hung picture. You walk up to the front, glancing over at the menu. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Nanami going behind the counter and you had to fight the urge to just stare at him.

“So what would you like?” He asked staring at you like you weren’t five seconds away grabbing his face and smothering it in kisses.

“Uhh what do you recommend?”

“I’d suggest the apple turnovers, I really think they came out well this time.”

You look over to where they were and saw two kids staring at them, the young girl trying to grab said turnover.

“Nobara, put that down.” Nanami says sternly, causing the girl to whip her head around as she got caught.

The little boy next to her looked over with crossed arms and a pout. “Told you it wouldn’t work.”

Nobara stuck her tongue out at the boy before she ran off and he followed behind her. Nanami sighs before looking back at you.

“Kids.” He sighs, shaking his head and you couldn’t help but chuckle.

“They’re cute! Are there yours?” You asked, a little part of you praying that there wasn’t another woman in the picture.

“I mean I’m their foster parent. I started fostering after I started this place started up.” He says, motioning around the cafe.

“Wait, you own this place?!” Nanami nods proudly as he looks around the place.

“I realized while working that I just couldn’t anymore, I couldn’t stand the draining office environment.” Nanami explained, leaning on the register with a somber expression.

“So I spent a lot of time thinking “well what could I do?”. I started to look in at any other skills I had and honestly it took a lot longer then I’d like to admit.” Nanami muttered, a bit of pink in his ears.

“Though after thinking I realized that I could bake. Thanks to you I knew my baking wasn’t terrible so I tried it out. And here I am. Though I was a bit worried you were just being nice.”

Nanami chuckles before gives you a smile that you swear makes the entire room glow. You look at him and smile bashfully.

“If you want me to be honest I think you should’ve tried this sooner. I wasn’t being nice or anything you’re great at this stuff!”

You exclaim as you remember all the amazing treats that you had tried made by him. You always had to hold back from asking for more because you didn’t want to be rude. Nanami looks at you with eyes slightly wide and smiled as he stood up.

“I’m so happy you’re just the same as I remember.” Fondness filled his eyes as he looked at you.

Well damn was he trying to kill you?! You sigh as you look back at the menu.

“I’ll have an apple turnover and a latte, no foam please.” You sputter out as you try to keep your heart in your chest.

Nanami nods, placing your order in. As you start paying, a little pink haired boy comes out from the curtain behind Nanami. You had to hold in the awe you almost said because he was the cutest thing you ever saw.

“Papamin! We’re hungry!” The little boy says, grabbing onto Nanamis apron. Nanami gently placed a hand on his head as he finishes putting in your order.

“Let me finish with this customer ok Yuji?” Nanami says as the boy groans but runs back behind the curtain.

You finish paying but you end up staying at the register, still wanting to talk to Nanami and catch up on all the lost time. Even as he handed some treats to the kids you two still talked. You were so curious about this man who had been an enigma for so long so who could blame you for asking every question you could.

You learned that he loved reading and ever since quitting had finally started to work through the endless books on his to read list, he even gave you some recommendations. Sure you weren’t much of a reader but hey for him? You could learn how to be.

Despite finishing the coffee absolutely delicious turnover that you made sure to gush to Nanami about, you still wanted to stay. You had finally felt like you were back to making progress with maybe starting a friendship but life has a twisted sense of humor and an alarm went off, signaling you were nearing the end of your break.

Nanami glanced over at the phone then back at you, a slight frown on his face. “Do you have to leave?”

If it were up to you you’d stay till the sun set and rose again but it wasn’t. You sigh as you nod, thanking Nanami for the good food and telling him that you’d come back soon. Just as you got up from the table, Nanami stood up and grabbed your wrist which seemed to be a shock to both you and him.

Quickly letting go, Nanami pulls his arms back. He seemed just as shocked about his action as you were.

“Oh god I’m sorry, I was just wondering if you’d like to stay in contact? You were one of the few things I missed from that job.”

Nanami muttered as he starts to pull out his phone. Well there went your dreams of quickly getting over this crush. You agreed pathetically quick, putting in your number and smile as you left, waving goodbye to Nanami and his foster kids peaking out from the curtain.

Maybe you could come after work too.

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Nanami couldn’t stop his heart from pounding in his chest and a smile from creeping onto his face. Here he was, thinking he’d lost his chance to talk to your forever because he was too much of a coward to as you out before he left.

This time he knew he wasn’t gonna mess up, god you couldn’t come back soon enough. As more customers started to come in, Megumi peeked his head out and looked at Nanami.

“Who was that lady?” He asks curiously as Nanami starts ringing up orders.

“An old friend of mine.” Had he acted sooner maybe he could be calling you his girlfriend.

“Will she come back soon?”

“I hope.”

#holy shit I speedran writing this #thanks again to the gracious Riritzu for letting me write something based off their art 🫶#jjk yuuji #jjk nanami #jjk megumi #jjk nobara #nanami x you #nanami fluff #jujutsu nanami #kento nanami #nanami kento #nanami x reader #nanami x y/n #jjk x you

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rookamell · 10 days ago

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WIP Wednesday!!

Tagged by @flowersforthemachines and @hightowerqueen thank you friends!!

The only thing I'm currently working on is my longfic because shorter ones tend to ambush me unexpectedly. I'm... tentatively starting to work on the idea I have for the Crow plotline but it's 50/50 on whether I actually leave it in.

She sat back in her chair, and Lucanis quite enjoyed watching Viago be faced with two options. On one hand, he could nod, end the conversation, and deal with Teia’s anger when he did not know what Rook’s plan was. On the other hand, he could ask Rook for help.

"How?" he finally asked, just barely managing not to snap the word at Rook. Lucanis could see the faint outline of a dimple in her left cheek.

"Get the Chantry on your side,” she said. And left it at that.

Viago stared at her for a moment, the muscle in his jaw ticking more quickly now.

"How?"

"What is the one thing the Chantry loves more than the Maker?" Rook asked.

"The Maker's coin,” Viago answered, without hesitation. Mierda, if that was not the truth.

"Smart man,” Rook said, and Lucanis saw Viago bristle at her tone. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t enjoying this immensely.

“Then, when the Chantry are handing out alms and food, you discreetly remind the public exactly where that money came from."

She put her cup back on the table with a clink of porcelain.

Viago stared at her for a long moment, expressionless. Lucanis had known him for long enough now to realise he was torn between being impressed and being annoyed.

"Teia did mention you trained in Orlais,” he finally muttered.

"It's been a while since I've had to play the Game,” Rook smiled pleasantly at Viago.

“But I find it's a bit like riding a horse."

"Uncomfortable, inefficient and prone to biting?" Viago asked, his frown not budging.

What can I say I like tormenting him.

Then, of course, there were the trousers, which were no different from what she would usually wear around the Lighthouse, but seeing the tight leather hug her waist and hips in the full light of day, the looseness of the shirt where it was tucked only drawing more attention…

Why does Lucanis care. About trousers.

He frowned, trying to ignore Spite as he flitted around Rook.

Looks the same. Spite scowled at him. Looks like Rook.

50/50 on whether I keep this in as well

Anyway, lightly tagging @serensama @corvus-frugilegus @thesecollidinghearts @epiphany-jones @sun-marie @rookanisstuff if you have anything to share. Also anyone else who wants to just tag me!!

#wip wednesday #my writing #why am I trying to add politics you ask? idk i think it's fun #dragon age #datv

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emblemxeno · 5 months ago

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As a Fates fan I'll give my take: Corrin's thing is at it's core sexism. And since most FE fans appear to be gamer dudes they don't like those traits on a male character, the female version gets a pass because that's just how girls act. So Corrin get's both the ew emotional boy and the girl gets the critique that Celica and Erika get and it's a perfect storm. That's all it is and it'll never change especially when you look at how the world appears to be going backwards. Byleth though? Byleth is just so cool and relatable, Byleth is a great character unlike Corrin and both versions are so badass and don't you dare say the female version is fanservice too because she actually does something fight the power. Byleth makes sense why everyone fawns over me-him! Before Byleth everyone was praising Robin for being a great avatar and why can't Corrin be more like Robin (who for the record is almost more of what gamer men consider an acceptable personality) Now we have Alear who is also more emotional so due to that gets shit but not quite the extent of Corrin. Put that with his design (lots of people don't like it compared to the other male avatars who have similar hair while ever Corrin haters think FCorrin is cute) and all the shit slinging Fates gets for "having a bad plot/no continent name etc" and it's a recipe for disaster. But the base is sexism and that's why to this day Corrin is over criticized.

Y'know, that does run in the back of my mind, because you're right. Corrin gets the same types of hate that female lords got pretty exclusively in previous games. Naivete, complicit in bad things while trying to make the best of a situation, getting positions people don't see as deserved, being on the losing end/getting trapped, etc.

The exceptions would be ones like Lyn, Elincia, and Lucina, but those are also characters who have their "main character/lord" status put into question constantly, and the reason for that is probably the reason they don't get as much hate. They're not the most central part, so whatever happens to them isn't a slight on the player by way of absence of control.

As you say, Byleth and Robin being cool and competent at all times is welcome because people can project themselves onto that and find relatability in spite of the fact that they have established and immutable traits inherent to their design and writing. But it goes further when you consider other lords and the forefront behind their popularity. Ike has Smash of course, but he's also a no-nonsense merc who's not afraid to speak his mind. Hector, Alm, Ephraim and Chrom have similar vibes as well. Sigurd and Leif are venerated because of being from games that are genuinely pretty genius in writing and (sometimes) game design, and their popularity is only kneecapped by the fact that their games aren't overseas. Yet even then, they still share the "get shit done" type of personalities, the fact that they have to be developed out of those aspects notwithstanding.

But the others? There's a connecting line when it comes to Marth and Eliwood, because they have very similar traits. Marth gets by with Smash and first lord legacy status but I find it hard to see anyone declare him as their favorite. Roy would be in the same position had Smash not been a factor, since he's even more like Marth than his dad is tbh. Seliph would be the oddball considering his CYL win, but FE4 fans were smart in banding together behind one character that time.

The point is, going by the idea that a significant portion of the player base is a certain demographic, we can parse this into a pattern. Possible subconscious unintended misogyny affecting perception of characters who embody stereotypically "feminine" traits (Celica, Eirika, Micaiah, Corrin and Alear); extension of that dislike to fond ambivalence to characters who, while they don't have the former issues that the previous ones have, still aren't "masculine and action oriented enough" to be the auto favorites (Marth, Roy, Eliwood, Lyn, Elincia and Lucina); and characters who, for better and worse, will have massive fans because of the no-nonsense vibe (Alm, Hector, Sigurd, Leif, Ike) and/or for projectional power fantasy (Robin and Byleth).

Part of this is also definitely how IS writes each of these characters, that can't be understated. Having a prominent trait of "Naive and Indecisive" be a staple for that many female lords, inches towards "WTF Territory." But the audience bias needs to be seen as well, I feel.

Including what you say, as it's incredibly egregious with Corrin atp.

#queue #fire emblem fates #corrin fire emblem #fire emblem analysis #media analysis

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gingergofastboatsmojito · 11 months ago

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It actually means conscious VS unconscious

And Storer did it again, he was metaphorically saying what he was doing and put it out there, in plain sight.

I already went over this point in several posts actually because it was pretty obvious to me that their only issue was definitely not communication, that was just the visible tip of their iceberg. It was deeper than that because communication is never a cause per se, it's always a consequence of multiple other factors, so I knew it was about the REASON behind it and whether they are aware of that or not, whether they wanna be aware of it or not, whether they are ready for that or not, etc. CC vs UC. So I elaborated on all those topics previously:

What matters is the people

Stuck in the mud

Inside Carmy's mind

Recycle / Repurpose

Purpuse, chef!

Never apologize

The trap

I now realize that I had missed that Storer put it out there, in plain sight in that scene above, which BTW was one of the few semi-Sydcarmy moments we were given this season, or as I call it: ALMS.

Anyway... The point is that Sydney said that what was killing them (she referred to the operation but I refer to the Sydcarmy dynamic, that's the metaphor) was the "bad communication" between FOH and BOH, in other words: between CC/UC or Conscious and Unconscious or subconscious if you will, because info always permeates from one to the other.

So this takes us back to the fact that until they don't consciously realize and put in the front of their minds THE REASON why they are doing all of this, they won't be able to communicate properly and efficiently, and therefore they will not understand each other and what's even worse, they will definitely not find in themselves the strength to carry on and to endure this battle.

Because let's face it, every day in that restaurant, chasing a star is like going to war and it would be anyway even if they were going through a honeymoon phase. Chasing a Michelin star is no easy task for anyone and it always takes its toll on the team, that is why it's so elite. Not everyone can do it. Yet everyone who has done it ends up learning the same lesson: IT CAN'T BE DONE UNLESS YOU HAVE A BIGGER PURPOSE. Some get lost along the way, and the star kills them because they never find a bigger purpose than the star/s itself as I mentioned here.

I trust Sydcarmy will find a way to make conscious of their real purpose which is obviously THEM/EACH OTHER as I mentioned in all those 7 posts above.

They are actually doing this to show how much they love each other. It's their way of showing their affection for each other. It's also how they communicate.

It would be easier to just say so and go out on a date and maybe give each other simple presents like a playlist, flowers, a cologne... but not for them. Nope. They are "special".

For her, it didn't start that way, though. It morphed into it along the way. Originally for Syd that star was some sort of personal victory and vindication after her Sheridan Rd's trauma fiasco. Later on, when she started suspecting that she may have started falling for Carmy, around the time C showed up, she had to shove that suspicion very deep into her UC, meaning, never let it out, DENY IT, because otherwise she was gonna get hurt. She's too smart and too much of an emotionally avoidant G WOMAN for that. She would never let that happen if she could avoid it prevent it.

For Carmy that was the reason from day one two, though. Right after she said that was what she wanted. But as I mentioned here, that was not his goal at first:

But this is where they are now and they should honor it and be honest about it, even get nasty if they must, ARGUE about it if that's what it takes for them to really get it. I'm sure that S4 will be all about it because they have reached the breaking point already → The crying game

Or should I say breakthrough?

Yeah, I will go for breakthrough. S4 is gonna be all about Sydcarmy. Get ready, truthers. There's no way but up from here because S3 was:

The end of Carmen Berzatto.

Remember to follow my tag #Gingerpovs 💋

#the bear meta #gingerpovs #THEIR REAL PURPOSE IS NOT THE STAR IS EACH OTHER #sydcarmy #sydcarmy meta #the bear season 3 #the bear #carmy berzatto #sydney adamu #carmy x sydney #carmen berzatto #the bear fx #syd x carmen #CC VS UC #character study

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bexfangirlforlife · 3 months ago

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911 episode 119 (8×13) first watch notes:

Okay, I've taken a loonk at social media to get a feel for what to expect. And I'm ready to watch the episode before work again this week 😄

Also: happy we're getting another season 🥳

Is this the guy who will hold the bus hostage?

Why wouldn't you do this from the side of the bed?

Wow. What a 911 call 😆

Aw cute he is so excited that he can use it

The Buddie video call 🥰 and they're cooking together. 🥰

They're so married

Aaaarrrggghhhh the parents are so annoying. Hate the patronizing and basically pretending Chris is _their_ kid. While treating their own son with so little care honestly

I always make plans for my birthday myself, so it usually confuses me when people want to do stuff on their birthday but didn't make plans 🙈

It's also not a burden for Eddie so for fck sake let him be the dad that he is

"high-efficiency nozzles" Really?

Oh no I already feel the pain and he hasn't started driving yet

Honestly it's so dumb they alm forgot her birthday and then it's "HEN day" on that same day. 🤦‍♂️ Gotta love this silly show 😆

Next Buddie video call let's go

"How old are you?" THIS!!!! Buck's reaction to Eddie saying they're facebook friends is exactly what I meant when I couldn't believe Buck would be on fb the other episode! This makes me feel better XD

Yes! Go Buck 🙌 go Buck 🙌 Encourage Eddie to act like Chris' dad again

The chess turnament!

"His father?" - "Ramon" 😤 I'm gonna strangle Eddie's parents

Welp didn't need to see this

"You'll be my dad again?" - I'm gonna cry

(I knew the line was coming, but it still hit like crazy)

Poor Archie

The knife thing is a little extreme though... just to be visible again...

He is gonna end up falling into his own knife if he keeps going like this

Whoops?

The look between Bobby and Hen 😆

Are they gonna shoot him?

Her birthday, huh? So she is claiming two days this year, so they can't forget it again next year since he already had it this year. Smart.

"It's a chicken. You know like hen?" Lol

He is so smiley taking Chris back, showing his mom in her place. Love it

I need to see Eddie ballroom dance. With Buck of course

It's so good to see them back together again. Just like it used to be. Just like it's supposed to be. Eddie and Chris being the perfect father son duo

Ah I see. Bobby and Athena brought their kid too.

Buck is so cute this episode.

Very good episode

#bex 911 first watch #911 show #911 8x13 #911 abc

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virtualgirladvance · 1 year ago

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You are cute in ways that make me get goosebumps. You are cute in ways that make me melt. Everything about you is just- So, so precious. The way you style your hair, your voice, your online antics, your stories, your bashful fashion sense, your laugh, way you act like you can't alm and then you practically sing as you talk about your worldbuilding- You're more than cute. You're dangerous. Cute enough to melt me, smart enough to take advantage of the fact~

+ss+JD's+D+sjsj$j$j$j$+

#vga.ask

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unveiledlegacy42 · 9 months ago

Text

Family Jewels [One Shot]

[Family Jewels - Archimedes Solo] [Content / Trigger Warning: School bullying, violence, prejudice views, possible inaccurate descriptions of the Wizarding World, lengthy read]

"Remember, Archie… be kind," his mother said gently, cupping her son's cheeks with both hands as she regarded him. Her son is 11-years-old, ready to leave for Hogwarts. "Mama… I'm scared… I've heard things about the houses, especially Slytherin! Would you hate me if I ended up in Slytherin?" The child asked, none the wiser that there was more to the students than just their house factions. His mother only smiles, patting down his black hair and dusting off his robes. "There's nothing to be scared of, my little healing…" she cooed. "I won't hate you for your house allocations… Each house has its own uniqueness to it and you can fit in wherever you like! The sorting hat takes account of your desires, my love…" Archimedes pouts, blinking in his confusion.

The woman crouched down to his level, holding his arms as she gazed at him with love and warmth. "The Slytherin's may get a bad rep but there is some good in that house.. it's a matter of perspective, and your father is a kind soul who was sorted into Slytherin.. or did you forget?~" she teased, tickling his sides to get a rise out of the boy who giggled at this. Senior Black joined his wife and child in a playful jest. Archimedes watched his parents with amazement and pride. Then they watched as Archimedes boarded the train of Platform 9 and ¾, with hopes the young boy would flourish among his peers and find his chosen kin.

Archimedes Black is the only known descendent that did not inherit the Noble House Black fortune for his parents were disowned by theirs upon discovery of their support in Muggle's Rights. In his childhood, he was constantly reminded to chastity and humility by his parents that despite his "pure blood" and family name, he is of equal standing to others who didn't quite share the same purity. He was taught to give alms to the less fortunate, he wore his young heart on his sleeves and he cried when his first pet rabbit passed on. Archimedes was raised differently than what most pure-blooded wizards normally raise their children. "You don't owe people anything and they don't owe you. but it is always good to be kind and graceful to everyone…" his mother spoke gently, patiently entertaining young Archie's whys and what’s as she tended to the mending of worn clothes.

The boy did treat everyone with grace and kindness though he wasn't shown the same sentiment all the time, children were as rude as pecking birds when you annoy them. The first years had rudely called out his family's legacy upon hearing the name he bore, and betted one another if Archimedes would follow in his great-grandfather's footsteps. Would he be sorted into Slytherin just like Regulus Black? Or Gryffindor like Sirius Black? "He'll be in Hufflepuff with the way he is! Soft and weak! Unlike a Black!" One of the leering students of a Noble House said, earning chuckles from his peers. Would that be so wrong? Archimedes had too much doubt in his mind as the sorting hat was placed over his head, obstructing his view of the Great Hall. It gave him some semblance of relief for the privacy to shed a few tears for his bruised heart, he heard the whisper of the hat and the prodding around his mind. It pointed out the legacy of the Black Family and Archimedes had to resist chucking the enchanted apparel aside and run back home.

"I don't care what my past says! I just want to prove to everyone I can be smart, brave and kind!" He thought and it was there that the Sorting Hat placed him in Slytherin. One may think that Archimedes would be able to relax now that he was sorted but even in his house, some were wary of him while others tried to find a reason to befriend him though most of which came only for his title. During his first day of class, Archimedes hardly took part as he was too caught up with the whispers and the gruelling doubts swirling in his mind that by lunch, he hid himself in the Boy's bathroom.

The poor boy had been curled up in the left most stall, furthest from the door, stifling his sobs. He did not know why his kindness was met with scorn, why his family's alliance and title brought more misfortune than he was told. The little boy cried and cried well into his third class, barely retaining any strength to return to his last class of the day. The first letter he wrote back to his parents was to beg them to take him back, to withdraw from the school for Archimedes couldn't face such hatred directed at him. It dampened his spirits and shattered his self-confidence, questioning his existence even. Though his parents were worried, they convinced him to give it a few months, then to a year. His experience did not lighten in the slightest, in fact it got worse with the jeers and the shoving when teacher's weren't looking. Even the walls of the Boy's bathroom wasn't safe for Archimedes when his bullies found him sobbing in one of the stalls where they took pleasure in tormenting the boy for his sorrow. "What a Cry-baby!" Exclaimed the bigger Slytherin who was flanked by two taller, leaner boys that cornered Archimedes.

"Leave me alone!" Archimedes exclaimed, hating the way his voice trembled: thick with sorrow; high with tension. It only made the Slytherin laugh, "he dares to order me around, whiny little Archimedes? You're not a Black Noblemen at all! You're a cheat!" The big boy sneered, nodding towards his minions and they started to grab hold of Archimedes who gasped in shock and struggled against their vice grip. "Let me show you what happens when a peasant like you dares to order me around," the big Slytherin took out his wand from the pocket of his robes, ready to point it at Archimedes’ chest. The poor boy bucked and pushed against his housemates, panic seized him as he heard the beginnings of an Unforgivable Curse being uttered.

"Expelliarmus!" A voice exclaimed, the wand that was directed at Archie flew from the owner's hands and clattered away under the sink. The boys turned as another Slytherin steps into view, his breath coming in hard pants as if he had been running throughout the castle but he managed a steady hand on his wand and steadier feet on the ground. "Need I remind the lot of you that it is forbidden to use Unforgivable Curses within school premises?" It took Archimedes awhile to recognise the newcomer: a seventh year Slytherin, Agustus Douglass, he is known to be lazy in everything but his work. He came from a smaller but noble wizarding family with friends from across houses. Though within Slytherin he is known not to be crossed or disobeyed, he was one of the reasons each young student discards the impressionable aristocratic ways on which they were raised in their family. His efforts at reforming Slytherin to a better light restored bits of the House's shattering reputation though not enough to leave out the viciously daring students who think themselves righteous enough to determine who is of purebloods.

"It will earn you a ticket to Azkaban and a front row seat to the Dementor's kiss!" His words were sharp, causing the boys to flinch in fear. Azkaban is a highly secured wizarding prison and still maintains its reputation of being the worst future any young evil-doing witches or wizards could have. That implication was enough to scare the bullies into submission and Agustus brought the group to the House Master's office where they would recount what had happened. How distress Archimedes felt after his second year at Hogwarts, the experience he had so far. The teachers at the school were worried but not worried enough to call the poor boy's parents. In the end, Archimedes became someone Agustus had to take care of, and while the older of the two Slytherin's did not mind this responsibility, Archimedes felt burdensome.

Agustus knew this of course by how much Archimedes would smile and reassure that he is fine, through tear stained cheeks and other harmless repercussions of a jinx spell. He knew that the young Slytherin had suffered too much, but had been too afraid to write to his parents. So, he decided to introduce Archimedes to his friends: six very different Hogwarts students from different houses. It first began as a nightly field trip to the Room of Requirement where the group would lounge in a comfortably decorated common room the castle had churned off of their desire. There was Justin Kingsley, a year older than Archie, and a Ravenclaw Seeker. Tiberius and Julius who are in their fifth years, both are Hufflepuffs and play Quidditch, both having a knack for pranks and games as much as the Weasley twins. Stefan, Tiberius's brother, who has graduated but decidedly visits his friends in their usual hideout. Raymond and Henry were of the same year (sixth year) and Ravenclaw and Gryffindor respectively. Archimedes spent nights with them, playing wizards chess, doing their homework and practicing charms. Then it was lunch at the Great Halls together, or invites to Quidditch practice. Stefan is obviously absent from them.

This gave Archimedes solace and a small sense of belonging in the school. His friendship blossomed with the seven older boys though he is closest to Justin both in friendship and age. They would often compete in who outperforms the other in classes but Justin always excels even in Quidditch where Archimedes drew the line. With his association to the seven boys, Archimedes had little encounter with his bullies as if being with the group had encased him in a safe magical bubble, though it meant that he became reliant on the friends who looked after him. So when Agustus finally graduated, the safety bubble grew a little smaller that it brushed away from him in the Slytherin Common Rooms. Being in the Dungeons had brought an instinctive, habitual fear in the poor boy who had grown used to the safety bubble of his friends until his fourth year. It was the shrinking bubble that attracted trouble to Archimedes like shark to blood. Even when he has learned a few defensive spells from classes and from Agustus, his bravery falters far too soon with troubling encounters. Terror follows him consistently through the school’s halls, evasive in nature when it comes to the presences of Professors, his body always aches with hidden bruises and aftermath of jinxes. His luck ran out when he had met trouble in the form of three Slytherins blocking his path to the Courtyard en route to Hagrid’s Hut.

Trouble had him shoved against the tree, kicked him on his stomach and lifted him several inches from the ground. Was it a test to see if he had the strength to fight, or cower in fear and weakness? The leader of the troublesome group stepped forward, twisting his wand as if to inflict a shallow cut across Archie’s throat, the poor boy screamed in pain as a thin red line split the skin of his neck. He could barely hear an exclamation as three figures rushed over, one had his wand out and disarming Trouble, effectively cutting the enchantment tying Archimedes upside-down in the air. He landed hard on the ground and his neck stings where his skin broke. When he lifted his head to see who had intervened, he was surprised to see twin Gryffindors and a tall Ravenclaw. The one who had brandished his wand at the Slytherin troubles is a Gryffindor – thin framed glasses framed his angular face, his glare was as sharp as knives despite his small stature, in comparison to the two taller boys flanked on either side of him. “I thought housemates weren’t supposed to go against each other?” the middle one spoke, sarcasm poisoned his otherwise innocent question.

“What’s it to you, Gryffindork?” The leader of the Slytherin pack stepped forward despite the wand being levelled at his chest. “Come to be the gallant hero of the day with your two morons?”

The first Gryffindor was unfazed, his stance stable as if preparing for a duel. “It is one thing to be brave and another to be a moron.. Yet here you stand without your wand in sight.. I’m guessing you're the latter of the two,” the boy said and Archimedes would have laughed if it was any other moment. The Slytherin bully bristled but it was true, his wand had once again slipped from his grasp when the Gryffindor had counteracted with a defensive charm. The remaining two Slytherins whipped out their wands though they looked uncertain as they realised the three newcomers had their wands at the ready. They knew their odds were two to three, unless their leader knew spells without a wand, it wouldn’t be a fair match. “You won’t hear the end of this! The next time I see you I’ll–” the Slytherin bully pointed at the boy in the middle but the second Gryffindor stepped up, lifting his wand higher. “You’ll what?” His voice is low yet unnervingly smooth. “You can’t make threats handicapped, can you?” His words grew sweet, but it tasted bitter to the group of snakes, frustratingly outmatched, the group turned tail and ran but not without kicking dirt in Archie’s direction, who had found the strength to stand up. He had picked up the fallen wand, thinking of returning it to the owner, despite the whole ordeal. “Are you okay?” a voice asked and when he lifted his gaze, he found three young boys staring at him with concern.

Archimedes smiled and nodded, “fine…” voice hoarse with excessive use, he cleared his throat. “How did you know what happened here?” he could help but ask, he was grateful for their help but the Slytherins had taken him to a secluded corner, where students or teacher wouldn’t even begin to look. The middle one jerks his head to the second Gryffindor, “you have Thaddeus here to thank… someone’s pet Owl had flown over with such urgency that we had to follow…” Archimedes had a moment to look at Thaddeus up close, and he was very beautiful: his silver hair parted in the centre, allowing full view to his almond shaped eyes. Thaddeus smiled and Archie briefly thought he had seen a similar smile of a crescent moon. “I’m basically a magical creatures expert!” Thaddeus mused proudly. “A magizoologist…” corrected the Raven. “Aspiring magizoologist!” Thaddeus corrected the Raven’s correction. “That’s Matthäus…” the Gryffindor continued, gaining Matthäus’s attention who gave a sheepish smile, his gaze quickly averting to the ground and Archie felt the slight awkwardness of the tall Raven before his attention drew back to the middle one. “I’m Eurus…” said the shorter male, slipping his wand up in the sleeves of his robes, Archie guessed he had a wand holster strapped on his arm.

“Aren’t you Archimedes Black?” Matthäus questioned softly, now all the attention is pinned onto the Slytherin boy who bowed his head as if the mere mention of his full name had brought some type of reverence. “Just Archie would be fine…” he definitely didn’t like the sound of his family name and Eurus could see it in the tension of his shoulders and the grimace on his lips. “Nice to meet ya, Archie!” It was Thaddeus who stepped up and offered a hand to shake, beaming from ear to ear. Archimedes stared at the hand outstretched for a solid minute before he quickly took to shaking the boy’s hands, nervous laughter spreading through the quartet. “We’re about to get lunch at the Great Hall, come with us!” Thaddeus was quick to offer; the obvious social butterfly of their group. “Are you sure?” Archimedes seemed shocked by it, watching as the boys nodded in agreement, beckoning the Slytherin with them back into the castle. Archimedes smiled and followed the three puppies to the Great Hall. Perhaps now, he found a safer bubble.

#hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy fandom #hogwarts legacy screenshots #hogwarts legacy mc #archimedes_orion_black #slytherin #hogwarts oc #hogwarts #one shot #i wrote this awhile back #just wanted to repost it!#all characters mention are my own Hogwarts OCs

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