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arabellasleopardcoat · 9 months

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Eyes wide open (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: As you settle into life as a married woman in Westeros, you try to escape and outsmart Daemon. It goes as well as one could expect.

Warnings: Kidnapping, forced marriage, violence, starvation, torturing (Not the reader, at least physically), gaslighting. Very much housewife kink.

A/N: I think you are not going to like this. Might be too much. If you think I missed a TW, please tell me.

Check the previous parts here.

It's not a fun affair, your wedding. Nor does it have many guests. There is a Septon, and Viserys. You would like very much to claw his eyes out. You are not sure if he is a guest or acting as another officiant, but you despise him.

Perhaps a witness. Who knows? Not you. You were not the most observant person on the planet, as the last few months had shown you.

Daemon waves over to some people entering the throne room. There are two young girls, and as they approach, you realize one is Alicent and the other Rhaenyra. In between them, probably to ensure the peace, stands the man from before, the one that tried to help you. Not the young one, the other. The one who was Hand.

Alicent carries a silver haired baby, perched on her hip. You wonder which one he is. The eldest? Maybe? The drunken one.

How disgusting can men be? Really. As Alicent comes closer and closer, the more she looks like just a young girl. Rhaenyra it’s not much older, either. Viserys deserves every second spent in suffering from his illness, marrying hid child's friend. Alicent regards you with sad brown eyes, no doubt pitying you. There is nothing she can do for you, though. Not at this time.

Perhaps you are judging him with modern morals, and she was not as shocked by it as you were. She probably expected it, considering medieval girls married young, and medieval men often did not. Yet, you cannot help but be angry in Alicent’s name. Here is another woman, like Rhea, like you. Trapped into marriage to a monster.

You want to scream and scream and never stop. Until your throat is unable to make more sounds, until you cough up blood and choke on it because surely, it is a better fate than this. A world without Rhea. You open your mouth, turning towards Daemon. A hand on your shoulder it’s all it takes for you to shut up.

Your experience in the throne room showed you all you needed to know. The more barbaric parts of Westeros, the ones that Rhea had shielded you from. In her castle, she did as she pleased. She was a married woman with an inattentive husband in the Middle Ages. Rhea had much more leeway than others.

In the end, what you had liked about Rhea had been that life with her was similar to modern life. Or what you think life must be like for aristocrats in the twenty-first century, only without phones and the Internet. You wouldn't know, having been middle class all your life. But if you closed your eyes, you could pretend you were back where you belonged. Rhea was as free spirited as any woman from your time, if a bit conservative. You never understood why she feared her husband.

Now you did.

Daemon had frightened you. It was just starting to sink in how much power he would have over you now. You were little more than property, and he had a right to discipline you as he saw fit. To take you as he saw fit. After all, marital rape here was no rape.

No one questions that you are being hand fasted with still cuffed hands. Rhaenyra glares daggers at you and at her father, no doubt hurt because of her crush on Daemon. How you long to have access to Wikipedia to see when she falls for Harwin Strong and stops hurting.

You can't make up your mind about if she is a victim too or not. Daemon has groomed her into wanting him. That doesn't seem right. There is no doubt in your mind about it. Her treatment of Alicent could be justified, too. In an internalized misogyny kind of way. But wouldn't that be taking away her agency? But judging Alicent as a victim only… Isn't taking away her agency too?

Can you truly judge them with modern standards? You never spent much time thinking about the ethics of fictional characters. You surely would have been more concerned if you knew what was going to happen.

Too in your head, you barely notice when it's time to say your vows. Daemon, ever dutiful, reminds you of it by unsheathing his sword.

Someone, probably Alicent, gasps. Then, she goes quiet. You repeat your vows, glaring at Daemon the whole time. You would find a way to escape. This was only a temporary setback. And he would hurt, the asshole.

You ignore the voice in your head that tells you it's no use. Not when you have already failed at step one. You have spent a year searching for a way to go back to your world, and have made zero progress. If you run from Daemon, what would you even do? If he found you, no Lord would deny the Prince his wife. He would just have to talk to the liege lord in charge of wherever you are hiding and ask you to be handed back.

Daemon leans in to kiss you. As soon as he is close enough, you bite with all your might. The coppery taste of blood doesn't dissuade you. You keep at it.

“Should have expected that.” He mutters, through a mouthful of blood. His lips don't leave yours. “You Royces are hostile environments.”

Despite being hurt, Daemon keeps kissing you, moaning into your mouth. You are uncertain if it is pain or pleasure. Disgusted by the thought, and the hungry way he licks into your mouth, you stop. He gives you a big grin and kisses you again, biting into your lower lip until he draws blood, too. You yelp, trying to push him off.

“A true Valyrian, this one.” He boasts, grabbing your waist. Viserys and Rhaenyra look transfixed by what just happened. Apparently, something on yours and Daemon's blood stained faces is of significance to them.

Alicent and the man look at each other. Suddenly, baby Aegon gives a tiny, uncoordinated clap. The rest of the guests follow, and you beg to the skies for patience and fortitude. It seems you will need it, with these in–laws.

The cuffs never come off. Daemon shoves you in a room. Feeling oddly like the ghost of the wife in the attic, you decide you need to plan. You have little to your advantage, here. Your hands remain bound, and there is nothing to use as a weapon.

Your head hurts. You have cried too much. First, mourning Rhea, then pitying yourself. No more. You have read enough novels and watched enough awful movies to know how this might end if you succumb to weakness. This is not a love story, and you won’t develop Stockholm syndrome. You refuse.

You will keep repeating this phrase to yourself in the days to come. Feeding your anger, your treatment is not bad. It’s probably a bad idea to alienate your captor, but you decide to go on a hunger strike. Despite how hungry you are, not having eaten since the day Daemon arrived at the Vale, you do not trust him to not drug you or poison you.

He might think you valuable, but he is also known for being a rogue. He might change his mind at any moment. If it were up to you, you would not drink water, either, but you know you can’t survive without it. So you drink as little as you can. It also saves you from the indignities of not having the privacy of a bathroom.

Daemon comes to you on day six of your hunger strike. You are weak as a kitten, and half delirious with thirst. You have lost quite a few pounds. Your head hurts, you are dizzy, you want to go home. Never had you been as starved as now, or as dehydrated. Modern life meant you went hungry to bed, sometimes. Either for your financial situation or because of diet culture. But you had never felt as weak. One thing was skipping a meal, another refusing food for six days.

He enters the room with another man, one that wears noble clothes, but you have never seen before.

“… Not eating. Nothing. And barely drinking water.” Daemon explains, approaching the bed. Too weak to really fight him, you conform yourself with sitting up. As you are, you cannot be any kind of serious resistance. It’s the first time he has seen you since the wedding and by the look in his face, you look terrible. “Cries in her sleep, too.”

The other man approaches you. He reaches a hand towards you, and you scream, backing up quickly and nearly falling off the bed. You don’t know who he is, but you know you don’t want to be touched. Panic bubbles up in your throat. Bound hands. No escape, no way of fighting back. Is he here to hold you down? For Daemon to…? The thought is too horrible to finish.

You scratch at the man’s face, trying to aim for his eyes. This close, you can tell he is older both than Daemon and you. He looks kind. But looks can be deceiving. You resume your efforts, as the man screams, and you feel blood under your fingers.

Daemon grasps at your shoulders, but you only trash more. It’s a weak attempt. His arm wraps around your waist, firmly.

“Seven Hells.” The older man mutters. You have managed to lift skin around his forehead, three clear impressions of scratches marrying his face. With Daemon holding you firmly down, the man presses down on your stomach. Then, over your womb. He examines your face attentively as he does so. You snarl at him and try to kick him off. Daemon’s grip gets harsher.

Is he going to sell you now? Is the man checking you over because he is a potential buyer? You would rather not be sold, and so resume your trashing. People trafficking was bad in your time. It’s even worse now, with no laws to defend you. You could become a slave, or worse.

The man, the slave trader, tries to check your teeth. You bite down on his fingers hard.

“Your wife appears to be fine, physically.” The man finally says. A doctor? Healer. Physician. Whatever they call them here.

“Fine?” Daemon asks, tone absolutely enraged. “Fine! She is starving to death.”

“Her ailment is not physical. It’s grief and rage.” The healer, as you have now decided to call him, answers in a soothing tone. You wonder if he was chosen to visit you for that reason. Both you and Daemon must be maniacs in his eyes. You can’t bring yourself to care.

“I see.” Daemon says, tone dangerously low. Then, he grabs you by the cheeks and forces you to look at him. “What do you think you are doing, refusing food? Are you trying to kill yourself?”

You grin at him as best as you can with him squeezing your face. He makes a frustrated noise.

“It’s called a hunger strike.”

“Strike? Strike?” Daemon shouts, shaking you harshly. You let your body go lax, hoping it makes you less dizzy. You feel like you might pass out. “What in the world does that mean? You little…”

“My Prince…” The healer sounds concerned. “She looks like she is about to throw up.”

“Hell if I care!” Oh, it seems like you really angered him, you think to yourself. The thought feels distant and cloudy. Your vision starts to blur. Are you about to pass out? A sharp sting to your cheek brings you back to your senses. You blink, trying hard to focus. What have you done to yourself? Daemon has his hand raised, as if about to slap you again. The healer is making distressed sounds. “Listen to me, little brat. You will drink your tea and eat, or else I will force food down your throat until you choke.”

Your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. You start shaking your head.

“Broth. She will have to have broth, if you want her to be alright. Her stomach will be unable to handle more at first. We can lace it with Milk of the Poppy.” The healer says, in a low voice. It’s clearly aimed at Daemon, but you sit up straighter. You recognize that name. It was something like an opioid, right?

“No, no. That's a sedative. No. I don’t want it. You will poison me.” You start tearing up in sheer terror. Panic is choking you up, making you unable to think clearly. Daemon laughs, humorlessly.

“That’s the problem?” Daemon’s voice is harsh and loud, making you wince. He grabs a carafe of water sitting on your table. He takes a big gulp, making sure you see. Then, he passes it to you. His hand goes menacingly towards his sword. With no other choice, you drink. That’s how your hungry strike ends. Defeated not even a week in.

It takes you a few days to go back to your previous strength. Daemon’s visits become more frequent. He eats with you twice a day, always tasting before you the nutritious broths and milk glasses you are given. With no excuse and under his watchful eye, you have to eat.

As you recover, you get the strength to explore. Your new rooms were not bad. It could even be called a vacation. You didn’t have this, with Rhea. You had had a nice room for a servant, which was in reality a normal room for a person of the twenty-first century. A bed, a small table and a chair. With a window because you had told Rhea you were unable to stand closed spaces.

This room was not like it. There was one window, high enough for you to need a chair to reach it. You had no chair or table, only a bed. The bed was comfortable enough, the room spacious. It allowed you to pace a lot. You had books on Old Valyria, written in High Valyrian. If you thought Middle English was hard, it was because you had not met this terrible language.

You were determined to crack it, though. If High Valyrian was the Westeros's equivalent of Latin, perhaps you could find something more about how to get back to your time. All books of greater knowledge had been written in Latin, that you knew. It had been the language of intellectuals. Perhaps High Valyrian was the same.

It provided a good distraction, seeing as the room was bare aside from the bed and stack of books. And… Well. The candles. It looked more in here like the altar of a church, with how many there were. There was also incense, always burning. Perhaps as a way to amplify your powers because you had not seen anything like it during your year in Westeros. You wondered how much it had cost.

Your powers. Good God, what a joke. You had tried telling Daemon and Viserys, but it was no use. At most, they patted your head and said the poor little dreamer was confused with so many visions of the future. No one would listen to you.

Both of them seemed to think there was something sacred in you. Daemon had gotten you new clothes, thin white shifts. To you, it looked like a sluttier version of a roman toga.

“As the priestess of Old Valyria used to wear.” Daemon had proclaimed, proudly. You had rolled your eyes, but you were soon wearing them. Your clothes just got too dirty to stay in them, and the silk felt cold and soft on your overheated skin. Allowed only one bath per week, there is not much you can do about your cleanliness apart from changing clothes.

It takes time, getting used to your own skin again. After a year of nearly wearing as many layers as an onion, you were back to simpler clothes. No undergarments had been supplied, but you couldn’t stand the feel of your dirty ones, too worried about getting a UTI and dying because there were no antibiotics here.

Daemon visits you daily. He sits there and stares, fascinated by you. As if you were an exotic animal. It’s one of those days when you speak your first word to him. It’s difficult to build the courage for another escape attempt.

“I was wondering if I could have some ointment for my wrists.” You say, very quietly. He is sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at you with absolute fascination. It’s a bit creepy. “My Prince.”

That’s what you have heard other servants call him. You are uncertain if you should do as Rhea did and call him husband. Both of them had had rather creative nicknames for each other and so, whatever protocol they used might be incorrect.

Rhea. Poor Rhea. You don’t want to share her fate, but you would rather not surrender to Daemon either. You feel guilty for even thinking about it.

Rhea appears in your dreams, every night. Her laughter, her voice, her corpse. Did he cremate her? Bury her? You can’t remember, and no one has told you. You wish you could visit her resting place, perhaps leave her flowers. Maybe get her advice. You miss it dearly.

“What's wrong with your wrists?” Daemon steps towards you, and you flinch. His past treatment of you is still too fresh. He is a ruthless man, you remind yourself. Play nice.

"They are sore.” You try to look relaxed, forcing the tense line of your shoulders to drop. Relaxed. Nice and pliant, for your psycho husband. Polite, and just the slightest bit whiny. He fetishizes immaturity, you remember. Younger girls. Laena and Rhaenyra both were. “I have been chained up for days. I don't want the cuffs to cut my skin, I might get an infection."

He takes your wrists in a very gentle grip. You don’t know why, but his hands on the cuffs make you start to tear up. Too much. You are overwhelmed, suddenly. It’s as if the grief has come crashing down all at once.

“You hurt yourself.” Daemon says, looking at your wrists from all angles. There are raised lines on them, from all the tugging you and him had been doing. “I’ll get you softer ones.”

He brushes a thumb over your cheek, and you sob even harder. Daemon does not seem bothered by your fear or your tears. No. He presses his wet thumb to his lips, as if he is barely conscious of it. It sparks an image in your mind. Under him, crying, his lips drinking up your tears.

You shake your head, as if you could vanish the image from your mind. You need to be on your best game, tonight. Head clear and not scared anymore. Fear clouds the mind, and you can’t afford that if you hope to deceive him.

“You don’t want softer cuffs, Dreamer?”

You don’t answer. You give a tiny sniffle.

“I… I miss my sister. I miss my home.” You look up at him, with a tear stained face and big sad eyes. Daemon brushes your cheek, again. “I want to go home.”

“You have to be calm, little one.” He whispers, kissing your forehead. You feel cold all over, as if submerged in a pool of despair. Focus. You need to focus because you can tell he is close to breaking. You need to take a mile when he gives an inch if you want to survive.

“I wish to go home.” You repeat, starting to pout.

“This is your home now.” Daemon kisses your cheek, softly. You whine, low and sad. All bratty princess. You hope he falls for it. Daemon’s non-existent brows pinch together. Hook… Line… “What about this? If you are good, and share a useful secret with Viserys, we can go back to Runestone.”

Runestone! Finally, finally. To be near Rhea and perhaps the chance to escape. You have him. You have him by the balls, and he doesn’t know it yet. Fool.

“I’ll try, husband.” You force yourself to smile, as if you were the happiest girl in the world. He looks pleased.

You wait a few days to drop the bomb on Viserys. It would do no good, if you share all your limited knowledge of the Dance and end up losing what little leverage you have. It wouldn’t be good, either, if Daemon thought you could summon visions at a whim.

“Alicent will misunderstand your words, and Otto will take advantage of it to place Aegon on the throne. He will grow into a fine drunk.”

As Otto Hightower falls, you rise. It feels like a dirty thing to do, but you want to go back to Runestone more than anything. You know the terrain there, you could have a chance at escaping. From what you remember, Otto’s only sin had been being too ambitious and pimping Alicent out. But he is Daemon’s enemy, and if you drag him down, it pleases him. A pleased Daemon is a better Daemon. He gets sloppy when he is smug.

Daemon has no choice but to take you back. Dreamers must be kept calm and cared for. And you would be very upset if he goes back on his word. Your power could wane. You make sure this is clear to him.

It’s back at Runestone he makes a mistake. He has had the guards that opposed him replaced. But he has given no thoughts to the servants.

Mina is the one assigned to serve your food, out of all the kitchen girls. Perhaps Daemon handpicked her because he thought her easy to intimidate after their first meeting. Perhaps it’s just sheer luck.

“He has ordered for you to have a special diet, milady.” She explains, as she places a tray down by your bed. You have yet to acquire a table, Daemon thinking it too much of a risk. He has no idea.

“Mina, I’m not…” You hurry to correct her. You would never want to be called by Rhea’s title. It feels like disrespecting her memory. And it’s strange, too. To be treated with such deference. Not even in your time had anyone treated you as if you were royalty.

Had you pulled a similar stunt as you did with the healer with a doctor, you would have probably been institutionalized. If the doctor didn’t press charges for assault and battery first, of course.

“Not a Lady? You own this castle. That man might be parading around like a peacock, but I much rather serve you.” Mina says, sitting on the edge of your bed. She is not meant to, but neither of you care. This is the only normal conversation you have had in nearly a month.

“What’s all this about?” You point at the tray, when it’s clear you won’t be able to convince her. It’s filled with a strange array of food. Used to your broths and cups of milk, and light soups and bread, you wonder what this is all about. There is a cup with warm milk, as always, but this time smells of clover. There are also eggs, and seafood.

“They are meant to stir desire and aid conception.” She points to each item. “It should all be eaten warm, or so Thea says. Else it will cool you.”

“I think I will never…” You start saying, but Mina grasps your hands, urgently shushing you. Her jaw jutts towards the door, seemingly aware of something you are not. Heavy footsteps. Boots. They pause at your door, before resuming their path.

“Don't say that. Don't. We might joke around about it, but he always gets his way. Men like him, they don't know how to lose.” She whispers, urgently. Trying to look out for you. You think of the possible consequences of saying such a thing in front of Daemon. It’s not a pretty picture.

“They really don't.” You agree, sadly.

Daemon does not know how to lose. That much is true. But neither do the two of you. It is only a week before Mina slips you the key to your room, taken from an unsuspecting guard.

It’s not easy, waiting for the right time to use it. You have to do it before breakfast is served, so no one notices the key to be missing. Acting too soon means endangering Mina and you.

The hour of the witch, then. Fitting. These people actually believe there might be ghosts roaming the halls at three am. With your white shifts and chains, you could pass as one if not looked at closely.

When the sky looks dark enough, you open your door and run. Runestone is silent, in the quiet of the night. Servants would rise at the first rooster's crow, you know because you used to, the first days before meeting Rhea. You make sure to stick to their passages and corridors, and not the main ones, less some guard is still roaming the halls.

It feels like an eternity, the time spent running as silently as you can. Your pulse pounds loudly in your ears. When you finally exit the castle, you nearly sob in relief. It’s astonishing that no one has caught you yet.

Now comes the hard part. You have to find a way to get out of the Vale, fast. Somewhere far enough that Targaryen influence will not touch you. And get rid of the cuffs while you are at it.

Rhea had a hunting lodge, on the edge of the grounds. There she kept all sorts of weapons and knives to skin animals with. Perhaps something there can be useful to break your chains and protect yourself while on the road. You decide to head there, but do not dare take the path, afraid of discovery.

The moon shines brightly, the sky clear. It’s a good night to escape because you can actually see where you are going. You know the forest, having rode with her many times through it. Even if you found hunting disgusting, Rhea liked to take you with her. If you go through it, you could get where you need to be and avoid the path.

You give yourself a silent pep talk, reminding yourself that at least the grass and moss will be gentler on your feet than the earth. You try to ignore your doubts about if you will actually be able to get there, reminding your way in the middle of the night.

As soon as you could, you were so getting shoes. A sudden, shrill screech makes you rush into the forest, hoping the darkness conceals you. You know that sound. Caraxes. He shouldn’t be here. The dragonpit Daemon had ordered to build for him is on the opposite end of the grounds, to avoid him setting the whole forest aflame.

It can only mean two things: He either escaped or Daemon took him out for a ride. Neither are good for you.

You pray to whoever that’s listening to cloak you, let the darkness be enough to be kept unseen. Your heart beats even faster, muscles tense and ready to dart away. Ducking behind some bushes, you try to muffle your breath with your hands, silently starting to cry.

It’s not quiet enough. The tree next to you catches fire, and you scream. You were so close! So close, you could almost taste freedom. And it was taken away from you, again.

“Ah, Wife! Come to lure me back to bed?”

You shiver. Daemon urges Caraxes to fly lower and extends a hand in silent demand. He can’t actually land here, not without ruining half the forest. But it’s clear what he wants.

Is there something more terrible than being forced to climb back into your captor’s arms, with bound hands? You don’t dare ask. But probably. You don’t want to know what he will do to you in punishment.

The scandal rises all the castle. Confused servants and guards pour out of the rooms to watch the ruckus occurring in the dining hall. You feel absolutely humiliated, in the sheer shift, barefooted and dirty, while Daemon scolds you as if you were a child.

“What in the Seven Hells were you thinking?” He shakes you, roughly. For a moment, you fear he might kill you right there. You look at the crowd of servants and shrink into yourself. Daemon follows your gaze.

“Ah.” He pulls out a chair and pushes you to sit there. You go meekly, too embarrassed to drag it further. You feel like you stink of failure. Slowly, with each thwarted escape attempt, hopelessness is starting to take hold of your heart. “I suppose I can't blame you, for taking an opportunity when it arose. Question is…” Daemon pulls another chair and straddles it backwards, perching his chin on the backrest. He glares at the servants. “Who allowed it?”

The servants stay in silence. You close your eyes fearing giving Mina away. No one speaks for a long while, all of you frozen in the face of Daemon's rage. His chair creaks when he gets up. You keep your eyes firmly closed.

There is a sudden weight in your lap. You open your eyes and there is Mina's terrified face, looking right into yours.

“I have found a traitor. Do you know what happens to traitors here?” Daemon asks you. Your eyes widen. You shake your head. “Oh, I think you do, Lady Wife. But I will be merciful. After all, she is your little friend.”

He gestures for a guard to approach. The man does, and Daemon whispers something in his ear. You look at Mina, still on your lap, whose lips are silently moving. Praying. You squeeze her hands. She squeezes yours back. She can't see that the guard has returned with a whip.

You try to say something, but Daemon is faster. He cracks the whip against the back of her nightclothes, which do little to soften the blow. Mina's eyes widen, filled with tears, and she screams loud and shrill, nearly falling off from your lap.

“I'm thinking… Fifty?” Daemon smirks, raising the whip again.

“Daemon, please.” You beg, as Mina desperately clutches at your shoulders.

“I'm not really in the mood to listen to you.” Daemon brings the whip down again, making Mina scream. Oh, how you regret now trying to escape. You should have never tried. “Next time, do not be so familiar with the help.”

The next time he hits her, it's you who starts crying. Mina shakes her head and pinches you, but you still beg.

“Daemon, please. Please, no more.”

He ignores you, cracking the whip again. You scream with her. The coppery scent of blood fills your nostrils, and you know he has to be hitting the same spot on purpose because there is no way he is drawing blood this soon without being cruel. The next time the whip goes down, you throw both of you on the ground, trying to protect her from more hits. The whip hits you around the shoulder.

“You just never learn, do you?” Daemon pulls you off Mina, kicking and screaming. “Willing to do anything to protect this whore who has done nothing to help you.”

“Please, please. I will take it for her. Please, she only got me the key, surely that's not…” You keep on pleading because while you might not have known Mina a lot, it was a horrid thing, watching someone be whipped because they tried helping you. Her only crime was trying to do the right thing, when no one else dared to. Bravery.

“Oh? You wish to trade places? As if you were some worthless little whore?” Daemon taunts, still holding you in his arms.

“Daemon, please.”

“You are my wife. Perhaps once you were to be a worthless little whore. But you are mine, now.” His hand brushes the curve of your neck. A threat and a caress, all rolled into one.

“Something else! Something else! We can negotiate, please.” At this point, you would agree to anything, desperate as you are to save Mina’s life.

His eyes glimmer. He has what he wanted.

“Put the girl in the cells. I will see to her in the morning. Right now… I have to tend to my wife.”

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autismprotocol · 2 months

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TMAGP Theory Board (S1 EP 7)

Dang that episode was a RIDE Hope everyone had a relaxing week because after the newest protocol episode I am screaming!! so lets get right to it

What Happened in Episode 7: Give and Take

Celia seems to know something about the powers with her references to the buried and the flesh in the opening conversation with Alice

Celia recognizes Chester's voice!! since the introduction of Celia's last episode, I wanted to see how she would react to hearing Chester and Norris and we got that in this episode. It's safe to say that Celia recognized Chester's voice as Jon. This piece of evidence makes me almost 100% sure that this Celia is the same Celia/Lynne from Archives

Jon is Back!!! after Chester's statement (more on that later) we learn that Sam has been getting emails from someone named Jon. He also mentions it in an internal email. This helps support the theory that Jon and Chester/FR3-d1 are fused somehow which is what I (and a lot of the fandom) have been thinking. This leaves me with a lot of questions how else can Jon communicate through FR3-d1 with the outside world? Are Martin and Jonah sentient as well? Also, my big question is if this is the first time Jon has been able to signal to the OIAR Staff or if he has been trying to get them to listen since he manifested in the world and Sam was the first one to notice him or is this his first attempt to make contact. I'm interested to learn more about how Jon will continue to influence Sam. I think he's either trying to warn Sam about the OIAR's true intention or is he looking for some way to escape FR3-d1 and needs Sam's help.

This week's statement involved a place called Hilltop Centre branch of the Oxford people's trust. if you were like me and my roommate all your lore alert bells started ringing the moment Hilltop was mentioned. for people who are new to the Magnus Universe Hilltop Road is a major location for avatars (usually web-aligned ones) and also was the childhood home to the desolation avatar Agnes Montague. Hilltop is a big deal in TMA. Hilltop Centre being located in Oxford also lines up nicely with where we know Hilltop Road is located. I'm interested to know if we will hear anything about the house at 105 Hilltop Road being student housing because if that is true then we can connect the statement giver Anya Villette From MAG 114 to being from protocol's world. if that's true there could be a way to get to the Archive Universe through the gap in reality (a wormhole that exists where the house was built) Anyways definitely will have to listen for any more mention of a place called Hilltop in Oxford

Gwen was promoted by Lena to external liaison and is officially "In" It's time to learn the OIAR's secrets! after doing some research into the job title of external liaison it seems that Gwen is almost gonna be acting as a messenger between the OIAR and another party which is unclear at this time. my guess is it has something to do with Starkwell which was the private military contractor that was mentioned in Episode 4 but that's just a guess and me trying to fit in pieces that have not found a snug place in the lore yet. could be someone else (I'd love to hear your thoughts)

Remember our Buddy Klaus from Episode 4 who we thought was killed by Lena? turns out Klaus is still alive we learn through Gwen and Lena's conversation, that Lena was paid by someone to kill Klaus but failed.

Colin is more paranoid than ever! could be because of the eye or the institute but he does not want to be near technology right now.

Ooh boy that was a lot I'm still reeling from this episode so I'll leave it there for now. honesty I'm most stoked to hear Jon's back in the story and excited to see what role he'll play in Protocol.

Hope you guys have a wonderful week ask box and comments are always open and I'll be back next week for the episode 8 debrief/theory crafting

-Echo

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aphroditelovesu · 5 months

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A Son for a Son

— summary: Lucerys Velaryon's death left you devastated and you knew you would do anything for Rhaenyra and to avenge him. Even at your family's expense.

❝warnings: mention of death, threat, revenge and angst.

❝ 🐉 — lady l: just a little drabble with angst, it takes place after Luke's death. After seeing the season 2 trailer, I felt like doing something and I hope you like it!

❝word count: 700.

You were there when Rhaenyra, your best friend and your sister, received the news of her son's death.

Of the death of Lucerys Velaryon.

You saw all the emotions flash across her face. Disbelief, sadness, anger and mourning. You witnessed it all, your heart heavy at the death of sweet Luke. You loved that boy as if he were your own son, so sweet and so pure.

He didn't deserve to have an end like that.

Your heart was heavy with the pain of loss, while anger boiled over not having been able to stop it. You felt suffocated by sadness, but a cold fury pulsed in your chest, an unbearable mix of emotions that slowly consumed you.

You couldn't stand staying in the Dragonstone hall, you needed to leave that place. Walking through the rain, each drop confused with your tears, and each thunder echoed the storm that was your state of mind. Dark clouds swallowed the sky, reflecting the internal storm that raged within you.

It should have been me instead, you thought. You should have gone to Storm's End and tried to gain the Baratheon's support.

You couldn't believe that Aemond would have been able to murder Lucerys. Although you were always aware of the conflict between the two, especially after Luke took out Aemond's eye, you never thought he could take revenge like that.

You had known Aemond since he was a baby, always taking care of him when Alicent asked and now he had murdered your nephew in cold blood. You knew it wouldn't end there, that there would be revenge.

Rhaenyra would never accept her son's death without taking revenge. Your heart ached and felt even heavier when you realized the consequences that would come from this.

You shuddered as you remembered Daemon's cruel words, "An eye for an eye and a son for a son."

The echo of Daemon's words reverberated endlessly in your mind, like sharp shrapnel piercing your soul. The "eye for an eye, son for son" echoed like a distorted mantra, a merciless promise of revenge that tore at your heart, already dilapidated by sadness. Each syllable carried the weight of an imminent threat, an unsustainable burden that consumed you.

There was nothing you could do to stop it, though. Viserys' death left the Seven Kingdoms fragile and the dragons danced. Anguish enveloped you like a dense fog, leaving you aimless, lost in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Fear mingled with you distress, knowing that seeking justice would only fuel the cycle of pain and destruction.

The feeling of helplessness enveloped you like a dark veil. You relived the moment countless times, desperately trying to find a way out, an action that could have prevented the tragedy. But Viserys's death seemed an inevitable fate, a cruel twist of fate that threw the Seven Kingdoms to the brink.

You felt like a powerless spectator in the face of greater forces, trapped in a power game in which you were just a fragile and insignificant piece.

When you closed your eyes, you could hear the screams of pain that Rhaenyra let out upon hearing her son's death. And Daemon's promise of revenge.

You were powerless against it. You couldn't help her or Aemond. You couldn't do anything, not when you were just a pawn in the middle of a war to come.

But you when you thought you would never see Lucerys' sweet smile again... You knew you would support Rhaenyra through anything.

Memories of Lucerys' enchanting smile echoed in your mind, a constant reminder of what was at stake. Supporting Rhaenyra meant choosing a side, a loyalty that required personal sacrifices. That required you to sacrifice a side of your family that you remembered so fondly.

You would always be there for her. Even if it meant that innocent people would have to suffer. After all, you were at war.

At war against your own family.

You closed your eyes and allowed yourself to cry, knowing that your choice was made. They would pay for what they did to Luke. You would be sure of that.

You smiled pitifully. Indeed, an eye for an eye and a son for a son.

#hotd #yandere hotd #yandere house of the dragon #asoiaf #house of the dragon #a song of ice and fire #imagine #drabble #imagine angst #angst #rhaenyra targaryen #daemon targaryen #lucerys velaryon #yandere #sorta of #yandere rhaenyra targaryen #yandere daemon targaryen

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ladyalicentshightower · 2 years

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Not Viserys winning father of the year awards amongst the fandom when he's been a pretty shit dad to Rhaenyra and she's legit the one kid he acknowledges 💀💀 I doubt he could tell Aegon and Aemond apart before Aemond lost an eye and I can see him calling Helaena by Rhaenyra's name at some point (like how in Fire and Blood Jaeherys called Alicent by his late daughter Saera's name when she read to him). I'm convinced Daeron is squiring at old town like he was in fire and blood and Viserys has just completely forgotten his existence

#hotd #hotd spoilers #house of the dragon #house of the dragon spoilers #rhaenyra targaryen #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aegon targaryen #helaena targaryen #daeron targaryen #viserys targaryen #alicent: I'm writing a letter to daeron is there anything you would like to say to him?#viserys: daemon? why are you writing to daemon?#alicent: daeron?#viserys: who?#alicent: our son? the one you sent to squire in oldtown?#viserys: i think I'd remember if we had a son who's name was one letter different to my brothers #viserys: in fact i do Alicent do you mean the one who lost an eye?#alicent: *screaming internally*

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bless-my-demons · 11 months

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Redamancy: Chapter Four

Jasper Hale x Reader

Series summary: What happens when your soulmate is a vampire that struggles to maintain a diet of trying not to kill you? Common sense says run for the hills, nothing is worth your life - but my heart is whispering why not, what’s there to lose?

Warnings: Almost-car accident? Talk of getting smushed by a car.

Notes: Finally, a little something-something! I’m trying to post on the weekends to have some sort of schedule, but I have zero impulse control… so here it is a day early!

Word Count: 2146

Series Masterlist

• January 25th, 2005 • Forks High School •

Jasper

Not only am I lucky enough to spend lunch with Y/n, but some godly force must be watching out for me in that today’s history assignment allowed me to team up with her and learn more about her.

Her energy is absolutely fascinating and it almost worries me that I’m internally compelled to want to spend even more time in her presence. Two days and I’m already a goner, Emmett is going to have a field day interrogating me tonight.

Which leads me to now, after completing our history assignment with only a few minutes to spare, I’m escorting her to her car in an effort to prolong this addiction to her attention.

“Where are you from?” I ask, curious to know anything about her.

“Texas. Well, Dallas more specifically.” She’s still watching the ground as we walk, nervousness pouring from her.

“Why Forks? You couldn’t of picked a more completely opposite environment.” I miss my home state, and if it weren’t for my adversion to the sun - I would return.

“My parents divorced.” She continues before I could apologize for the intrusive question, “Happily divorced and I protested the whole ‘stay together until she graduates’ bullshit.” Fingers gesturing around the air quotations.

She trails off after that, circling back to our history assignment that no doubt has her still worked up. The Civil War, I cringe internally at today's topic since it’s a sore one for myself - having lived through it and fought in it.

“All I’m saying is, maybe history class should be more focused on the lessons learned, than just the events themselves.” She states rather passionately while inserting the key into the lock on the driver’s door of her car.

“To recognize and avoid in the future.” I respond, leaning my back against the rear of the small vehicle as I scan the wet parking lot packed with kids.

“Exactly!” She pops her head up, an excited smile in place as she garners my gaze again.

But just over her shoulder my eyes flick up to catch the sight of a blue van headed our direction a little too quickly for such a busy spot. A car horn blaring has her turning in its direction and the gasp I hear across the parking lot from Alice sends me into action. I grab Y/n by the waist and spin her against her car, so that my back might take the brunt of the hit, but it never comes as the rear of the van just barely slides past us. I relax the grip I have on her and tear my eyes from hers as I spin my head in the direction of the vehicle, ready to yell at the driver for being so reckless. The words die in my throat as I see where it’s headed - straight for Isabella Swan.

“Bella!” Y/n screams, but it’s lost in the screech of tires and the headphones in her ears that are keeping the outside world out.

Just as I’m about to damn us all to save another girl from this idiot driver, Edward flashes past to stop the van from crushing the Sheriff’s daughter.

“Fuck.” I whisper, glancing back to where my other adopted siblings are standing next to their own vehicles - faces unreadable, but emotions blaring alarm.

“I’m sorry, I have to go. Please be safe getting home?” I ask her urgently as I peel my fingers from where they want to stay gripping her, safe and close to me.

“But Jas-“ she starts, a little shell shocked at my quick action of saving her and the close call with her friend.

A whistle from Emmett interrupts her before she can interrogate me, so I flash her an apologetic smile before jogging at a normal human pace to the familiar silver Jeep. My hands flex in my lap the entire tense ride home, warm and tingly from when I gripped Y/n to protect her fragile little human body.

If we weren’t vampires already, this family meeting about to take place would definitely give Carlisle a full head of gray hair.

• January 26th, 2005 • Forks High School •

Reader

“Hey, mind catching me up on what that was yesterday?” I immediately bombard Jasper as I sit across from him at what I’ve mentally deemed ‘our table’ at lunch.

He glances up from his sketchbook with a look that says he wasn’t prepared for my blunt line of questioning.

“The saving you from certain death part, or?” He leaves open ended for me to clarify.

“The part where Bella was alone next to her truck, but your brother teleported to her side AND somehow the van skidded to a stop right before turning them both into pancakes?” I’m not pulling my punches with my queries, after having spent last night stewing over what I had seen.

“He wasn’t that far from her when I moved you out of the way, I must’ve distracted you enough that you didn’t see him walking to her after he got out of class. Plus, the van wasn’t going that fast, maybe when it hit the back of her truck the tires got traction and he could brake properly.” He answers, turning his gaze back to his sketch and resuming his work.

I don’t really buy it, but I mull over my recount of yesterday afternoon as I pull my lunch from my bag. Was I so focused on Jasper the moment he put his hands on me? Was I so soda-strawed in on Bella being in the way of the van that I missed Edward?

No, something isn’t adding up. I know that van was hauling ass in the parking lot, I was going to yell as much at the idiot driving before I saw it headed for Bella. But I can also tell I won’t be getting the answers I want from Jasper. I can tell from the rigidity of his spine that he’s worried I’ll ask more questions. I mean, his recount of the accident isn’t out-landish, but I know what I saw!

I need to talk to Bella.

“Yeah I guess that makes sense.” I acquiesce. I see him deflate a little with relief as I pick at my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Thank you for saving me, by the way.” I add nervously, a little heat working it’s way onto my cheeks.

Jasper glances up to my face and with a small smile, “Anytime Y/l/n, anytime.”

• January 27th, 2005 • Forks High School •

Reader

“Bella!” I yell down the hallway, catching her as she slams her locker shut. I jog over to her as she turns towards the exit, everyone that has Mr. Banner for Biology is going on a field trip today.

“Hey Y/n, what’s up?” She questions, seeing the look on my face.

“Tuesday, parking lot, what the hell happened?” I jump right into it.

“Tyler must’ve lost traction-“

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it. Edward was nowhere near you.” Cutting off her redirection. “Jasper won’t budge, he insists I was distracted and didn’t see his brother before the accident.”

Bella glances around the hallway and decides to pull me into the empty female bathroom for some privacy.

“Edward is avoiding me, I was asking him the same questions when I was at the hospital and he refused to answer.” She answers nervously.

“It’s weird, right? I mean, one second I’m unlocking the door to my car, and the next Jasper spins me around to protect my body with his. And then I see Edward jump over the tailgate of your truck when I thought Tyler’s van was going to end you.” I’m just rambling the thoughts that have been pinging around the last two days.

I can see her hesitate, “You can talk to me, you know? I kinda don’t have any friends besides you, I mean - if you want to be friends?” I tack on the last part, worried I’d over stepped.

“Yeah no, of course - I um, I could use a friend to vent to.” Bella glances down at her shoes, picking at the sleeves of her sweater as the both of us exit the bathroom. “He’s coming on today’s class trip, I’ll talk to him then and see what I can find out.”

“Perfect, want to sit with me on the bus?” I ask, walking out of the building for the student parking lot where the buses are waiting.

“As if I’d risk getting stuck sitting with Mike Newton, absolutely.” She jokes back. “I’m going to grab my book from my truck, I’ll be there in a sec - save us a seat!” She yells as she jogs to her vehicle across the parking lot.

As I board the first bus I can hear Mr Banner yell at everyone loitering in the parking lot, “Yo yo yo, hey guys c’mon! We gotta go, we gotta go! Green is what? Good, let’s go!”

A few moments later Bella joins me in our claimed seat, book in hand looking a little frazzled. I see Mike pass us with a forlorn expression on his face, “Oh God, what happened?” I ask.

“He asked me to prom and I told him to ask Jessica, please don’t make me talk about it.” She answers with what I assume is a shiver of discomfort.

I want to laugh, but I just grin instead. “Your not-so-secret admirer fumble is safe with me, Bells.” I knock my shoulder into hers to tease her a little as I crack open my own book I brought for the bus ride.

• Community College Greenhouse •

Reader

Walking alone in line through the greenhouse, my hands drift over the different sprouting vegetables. Behind me I can hear Mr. Banner giving a spiel on “compost tea” and how its derived from table scraps and other organic waste. Every now and then my fingers float over the soft petals of flowers placed sporadically through the hundreds of food-producing plants; earlier it was explained that they encourage pollinators to visit.

Even though I’m a smidge lonely since Bella is hanging back with Edward, I’m glad to be surrounded by greenery instead of stuck in a stuffy classroom.

Just as Tyler Crowley pushes past with a clear mug of what looks like poop/dirt water, I spot Alice just ahead standing to the side of the isle with Jasper to allow students to flow by. When I get within arms reach, Alice loops her elbow through mine, almost like she could sense my loneliness.

“So,” she drags out the word cheerfully, “Enjoying the plants? Fresh air? Freedom from school?”

“Oh absolutely,” I glance over my shoulder at Jasper following behind us silently. “I’m surprised you’re not off in a corner doodling flowers, Hale.” I catch him duck his head and chuckle under his breath as Alice watches our interaction, surprised.

“And isolate myself away from your commentary? Never, Y/l/n.”

“Oh, Emmett’s opinions on your drawings are too much, but mine aren’t?” I smile as I turn to look at new plants as we pass them in our slow walk through the final greenhouse.

“My brother isn’t nearly as interesting.” His response catches me off guard and if it weren’t for Alice’s grip on my arm I would’ve stumbled on the wet concrete.

“As I live and breathe, Jasper Hale flirting-“ but Alice doesn’t finish her sentence due to Jasper snaking out a pinch to her ribs, her flinch forcing our hold to separate. Before I could chide Alice for teasing her brother for just being nice, Edward storms up to the three of us.

“Ready to leave?” He glances between his siblings, pointedly ignoring me so that I wouldn’t feel the obligation to join them.

“Edward-“ Alice says disapprovingly, but he pushes past us without waiting for an answer. She looks at me apologetically before skipping after him.

“Sorry about my brother, he’s insufferable when he’s in a mood.” Jasper offers as explanation as we watch the two of them exit the greenhouse.

“I get the feeling he’s always in a ‘mood’.” My fingers emphasize the last word with air quotations and it draws another chuckle from the gorgeous boy at my side.

“Touché.” He says with a grin. “I better catch up before they ditch me, see ya around darlin’.” He weaves his way through the crowded isle and out of sight before the heat settles in my cheeks.

I manage to file outside and towards the buses with the rest of my class after I gather my wits. I spot Bella already in our shared bus seat with a sad expression. “Wanna talk about it?” I ask as I sit.

“Not right now.” She answers, turning to look out of the window.

#twilight #jasper hale #jasper hale x reader #jasper whitlock hale #redamancy series #bless-my-demons #twilight fanfiction #jasper hale fanfiction #jasper whitlock #female reader insert #jasper hale twilight #jasper hale x female!reader #slow burn #romance

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bi-disaster-yn · 2 years

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Kinktober 2022 | Overstimulation

Pairing: Alicent Hightower x fem!Reader

Summary: Reader is determined to make up for the lack of pleasure Alicent experiences in her marriage.

Contains: top!Reader, bottom!Alicent, overstimulation, fingering, strap on sex 18+, Minors DNI!

A/N: Absolute gay brainrot over Alicent in her nightgown in the scene below. Just 1 chance Emily Carey I’m begging!

Every time Alicent climaxed, it’s like she’d came for the first time again. Even though with your help she was no longer a stranger to desire, she managed to surprise herself with how good it felt every time. You were only too happy to keep reminding her.

Her pretty features contorted in pleasure as she bounced on your fingers. You sat with your back against the headboard, admiring the beautiful queen riding you and chuckled internally at your own luck. You curved your fingers inside her and circled her sensitive bud skilfully with your thumb.

Your free hand reached up to undo the drawstring on the bodice of her nightgown, revealing her soft and supple tits that bounced in rhythm with her. Still looking up at her, you reached forward and latched your mouth round one of her hardened nipples, smiling against her skin as she threw her head back in intense pleasure.

“I’m going to do it again.” She warned with a breathless moan, positioning her hands on your shoulders. She had already came once on your fingers and now you had decided to overwhelm her.

“Please do.” You grinned devilishly up at her.

Before, Alicent’s body had never been treated as her own but as a mere pawn in a political game much bigger than the both of you. It was your own personal mission to ensure that she felt as much pleasure as possible to make up for the lack thereof she experienced from her husband, King Viserys.

Your thumb danced over her clit, increasing in pace as she began to grind herself against your fingers. She bit on her lip, squeezing on to your shoulders as her body started to tremor.

A scream escaped her throat as your fingers still worked on her with vigour. You kissed along her collarbone, whispering small tokens of encouragement.

One of her hands flew from your shoulder to clasp over her mouth. The servants knew that she wasn’t with the king tonight and she was desperate not to rouse suspicion. Her nights with you were her saving grace and she’d do anything not to jeopardise that. Such a task was made near impossible with your clever fingers in her pussy.

As her orgasm started to subside, she looked down to you and kissed you hungrily, mewling slightly into your mouth as you pulled your fingers out of her. It wasn’t long until your hands found her waist and without breaking the kiss, you had spun her round on to her back and were on top of her.

“It’s still sensitive.” She told you in between kisses as she squirmed beneath you. It was clear from the way you had one of her wrists pinned down and were pulling her nightgown up that you wanted another one out of her.

“That’s what makes it better.” You replied, pulling her nightgown over her head so she was completely naked in front of you.

Her milky skin looked even softer in the pale moonlight. Really, it was a shame that such a beautiful body had not been worshipped before. In truth, the King’s neglect of his wife’s happiness angered you but also served as motivation to make up for his shortcomings and make her drunk on you.

You pulled off your own robe to reveal a leather strap, complete with a wooden cock - the very sight of which made Alicent’s eyes widen as she propped herself up on her elbows to inspect it.

One of your friends who worked at a brothel had told you about such an instrument that they had used before on the men from court. You had regaled the story to Alicent one night while she lay on your chest. Whilst you both giggled, you couldn’t help but notice how she looked at you fervently and then went silent, as if she was considering you with it.

“Where did you get that?” She enquired, looking up at you with doe eyes that inspired a deep fire within you.

“That doesn’t matter, what matters is what I’m going to do to you with it.” You replied, closing the distance between you both with another deep kiss.

You guided the cock towards Alicent’s entrance, slowly pushing it in and eliciting a sharp gasp from her. She put her arms round your neck, looking down at the gap between you to see the cock seated deep inside her.

You began to slowly roll your hips and couldn’t help but smile as she arched back so that her chest met yours. Your lips found her neck as you began to confidently thrust deeper.

“Is that good, my sweet one?” You mumbled against her skin.

“Yes.” She whimpered, tears forming in the corner of her eyes from all the stimulation.

“All for you, my queen.” You nipped at her neck and curved one of her legs around your hip in order to make her feel as much of your cock as possible. She winced at the further intrusion and dug her nails into your shoulders, dragging them down your back.

You hissed at the pain but enjoyed it simultaneously. Your hand once holding her wrist now moved to press on to her sternum, holding her in place on the bed while you wildly rutted into her.

Clearly, you had found her sweet spot as Alicent began to desperately mewl and wail beneath you. She made some attempts to thrash around as though her body couldn’t possibly contain all of the pleasure. The tears rolled down her face now as she cried out.

“It’s too much!” She pleaded with you. “I can’t!”

“I know you can.” You smirked down at the true beauty before you. Brunette locks scattered across the bed surrounding Alicent’s face with her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth hanging open. A woman overcome.

You moved your hand previously on her hip to her mouth and slipped three fingers inside. She suckled sweetly on them, moaning against them which, although muffled, sounded like she was being pushed over the edge.

Her hands flew from your back to the sheets at either side of you, raking at them and gripping on them for some sort of reprieve. The young queen spasmed in pleasure beneath you as you continued to fuck her through her orgasm. She bit down on your fingers, clearly overpowered and strung out by all the stimulation.

“That’s it. See, I told you the sensitivity made it better.” You cooed at the delicate woman beneath you who was panting when you pulled your fingers out of her mouth.

Her chest heaved as you placed a single lingering kiss to her lips before laying opened mouthed kisses down her still convulsing body, with an obvious intent of continuing to please her.

“You can give me one more, can’t you?”

***

Tag List: @freshmoneyalmondathlete @laenordeservedbetter @horny4knives @ajordan2020

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throwaway-yandere · 1 year

Text

"Aren't You Supposed To Hate Me?" (Yandere Modern!Il Dottore/Reader)

CW: mild yandere

the real a/n: if you see me putting too many sylvia plath references, no– no you did not. Also, webttore rights. I promise he's not that bad bakery anon pls don't kill me-. ALSO LOGO'S MADE BY ESTHER ANON!!!

Mother of Klee, Alice’s note: When your bakery opens, can you make some Eton mess? What? “That’s not on the menu…?” Well, you should add it! My darling Klee looks adorable eating strawberries! Oh, but you're not leaving Teyvat Pro, right?

Yandere! 1k Idol Match-up Event

---------

According to what people have said about you, you exude calmness. And that it’s a strength. That your soothing and somewhat “motherly” presence puts you one step forward more than most people. But why isn’t your composure congruent with the frantic screaming inside of you that begged this lunatic to quit clutching your baking supplies?

Damn, this isn't the time to NOT be assertive, assistant (Y/n). Pull yourself together.

"Please stop. You're strangling it."

"We all die, (Y/n). The sooner you internalize that, the better."

The man in front of you is none other than your boss: "Il Dottore", the man behind the idol group ADDICKTZ's creative decisions. You have been given the responsibility of maintaining order among the original 4 ADDICKTZ members while he deals with the second batch after he chose you out of the other 22 interviewees.

"Sir, we're just baking. Please use a proper measuring cup. Aren’t you supposed to be a doctor–"

"Master. Not sir. I suggest you speak to me in a more respectful tone, Assistant (Y/n). The mere fact of your utility does not make you indestructible."

"I understand that very well, sir– Master, but please put the dough down. I cannot allow you to do the frosting at this rate."

Dang Akademiyan scholars and their honorifics.

Zandik huffed, unsatisfied, before leaning back on his chair.

"Mind you, I'm a licensed surgeon." He boasted snarkily. "I'd certainly outmatch you when it comes to steady hands, assistant."

"Well– shame that a medical degree does not automatically mean you'd be good at art, then."

"(Y/n), did I hire an imbicile? Answer me, who exactly are you working for?"

"You, Master Zandik."

"And my occupation?"

" ADDICKTZ’s Creative Director–"

Zandik smugly raised an eyebrow.

"... I admit defeat."

ADDICKTZ values both of your artistic inputs. Even after work hours, you've done what you can to support DCKZ. You helped Diluc choose a haiku to confess his emotions not long ago, and more recently, you aided Zhongli to find inspiration in contemporary poetry for his lyrics. Sir Zandik, on the other hand, would help the group's plans progress from simple masquerades to a magnificent mashup of VISUAL Kei and distinctive pop elements with unbuckled bones facing the front view just tasteful enough to adhere to the unit's usual aesthetics.

Of course, these tasks are obviously trivial in comparison to what your "real work" entailed, and the CEO would split hairs if you joked about retiring. The doctor is no different; in fact, he is the most guilty of this dependence. Normally, superiors wouldn't break into their staff members' closed bakery at 2 in the morning on a Saturday, but Il Dottore has a few loose screws.

Partly, it's your fault too because Zandik has a crush on you.

That's not your ego talking– he admitted it three days ago. Maybe you would've accepted that confession if he didn't utter another word, you did hear Sohrah and the other staff members mention that he's some eye candy. The nose, the eye pits, the full set of pearly white teeth– those mean nothing when the person is Zandik. His personality is as foul as the things Ayato bought in the ADDICKTZ's hotpot game. You’re never crossing the water for an obvious red flag.

Following his direct confession, he went on to enumerate all of your faults in a psychopathic and alphabetical order. As to add more salt into the wound, Zandik brought out printed pictures and pointed at all the blemishes on your face that needed fixing before tossing a plastic surgeon's business card at you. What an absolute jerk. Not the most romantic confession out there, but he did ask you out, right?

WRONG.

After his long spiel about being burdened by unnecessary dependence on you, he gave you an incentive to "look more unattractive during work hours" with a pay raise.

So, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy. Yet, you can't loathe Zandik when he's THAT honest about his avid repulsed fascination. The man is mad, but being mad doesn’t make him stupid. He wants the exact opposite of the likable behavior reinforcement theory coming from you. Zandik would sooner receive the loving embrace of an iron maiden than be in a rendezvous. He wholeheartedly believes that love is an illusion of a Greek necessity– whatever that meant.

You were ready to argue when he pulled out a contract that Zhongli had revised for added credence. As self-preservation reared its not noble but necessary head, your anger left you. His proposed numbers were bafflingly astronomical that you might just quit your job after the first pay…

The moon has nothing to be sad about once it witnesses your dreams bear fruit. Zandik knows that as well, that's why he visited your little bakery before its opening day, demanding that you make him any type of pastries. Unfortunately, you're the type who would adjust your schedule for others and not the other way around.

Zandik wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeves. "Mind if I strip?"

"E-Excuse me?" You chuckled nervously. "Strip your apron, right?"

"Hair extensions, assistant." He clicked his tongue, amused. "With some common sense, you would’ve discovered that they get in the way and that these two long strands are artificial. Clearly, you lack some degree of rigor expected for an assistant."

Should’ve expected as much. This is the same man who cut off Childe's hair because he's "so damn tired seeing everyone in this forsaken group have the same fucking rat tail." You're pretty sure the only person who thought it was mildly amusing was Dainsleif.

Still… Last time, he told you those two strands were part of his hair. Zandik is not the type who would pettily lie for a joke. He's as straightforward as CEO Alhaitham– for better or for worse. Maybe he has a twin brother or something…

No, that’s just inconceivable.

Zandik watched in amusement as your forehead creased.

"You should've worded that differently… Doesn’t matter. Is there a flavor you’d like? Chocolates or...?"

He answered immediately. “Strawberries. Saw Alice ate some with her daughter last night.”

“Definitely it's not because it's your favorite, I’m aware,” you mused sarcastically. “Since you’re not actually into strawberries, might I suggest chocolate?”

Zandik glared. “Why?”

You batted your eyes at him playfully. “Oh, doctor, don’t you know chocolates have the love drug? As Langston Hughes would say “Have you dug the spill of Sugar Hill? Cast your gims, on this sepia thrill–”."

“Debunked. It’s laughable that you would insinuate such an incorrect notion.” Zandik scoffed loudly. “Chocolates don’t directly pass phenylethylamine to our nervous system, you’re more likely to excrete these pathetic sweets off your a–”

Never been a romantic. Dottore somehow loves to make it a point to remind you of that foul personality trait of his in every conversation.

“Alright, that’s enough. It’ll be strawberry flavored.” You sighed as you placed the tray inside the oven. “Might I say, you’re acting rather… cocky, for a lack of a better term, with how I should handle my work.”

“In my many years of living, I’ve learned that arrogance is a side-effect of truth and intelligence.”

“Yes, but your methods of holding that dough is quite barbaric. Please let it go.”

“Tsk.”

Dead hands, dead stringencies– Zandik simply lacks the talent for baking due to his rigidity. He dropped the dough and you smirked for a second, relieved. You secretly have a competitive side and you'd hate to admit that you're scared he might just beat you at your own game because of the frostings.

“Master Zandik, please just sit down. There are empty chairs at empty tables–”

He rolled his eyes, crossing his legs on your table. You tried not to scream at him about hygiene and barely succeeded. “Friends are all dead and gone– I know. Do not think you can reference Les Miserables without me knowing, baker.”

You shook your head as you set the timer. While you were preoccupied, it seemed as if the doctor just couldn’t sit still.

“Hmph, this is the only thing of interest I’ve found in your precious little bakery thus far.”

You turned to look at him.

Zandik paused in front of the small wall of photographs you had on display. A smile crept on your face as you remembered how proud you were of organizing the photos of your friends and family into a heart-shaped mosaic. There is a tiny square space in the middle and he correctly inferred that will be the center will be used to display a photo of the bakery's opening day. Be that as it may, his attention lay elsewhere.

"You had a violent streak, didn't you?"

"... Pardon?"

"You were the "problem child", that's my assessment," Zandik smirked, detaching a photograph from your wall, which surprised you since you've had trouble easing them free.

He specifically picked the photo you took during kindergarten with your grandma.

"You had scraped knees and elbows but you don't have that stereotypical dumb boyish smile. You seem to have quite a pronounced frown. Would I be wrong to assume you weren't well-liked in your school–"

“Put it back.” While you do generally dislike being put under a spotlight, the cause of your harsh delivery stems from his unpleasant phrasings.

Zandik pretended not to hear you, "–I'm not teasing you. I would know this because I had a photo similar to this one."

For a moment, you saw a flicker of melancholic humanity in your otherwise monstrously rigid employer. You thought that vulnerable display would be brief, but the hollow chuckle that echoed proved that this event will mark a milestone in your "work" relationship.

Master Zandik is opening up to you.

"Unlike this cute and happy memento, I don't have a grandmother who would take a picture with me. I’ve lost them all in the fire." He muttered, his voice low and his eyes squinting. "Hence the reason why I squandered most of my hours burying my nose in textbook after textbook. Pantalone and I had to prove ourselves worthy of living a life outside the orphanage. But this picture…"

Your boss grumbled. "This picture looks awfully similar to the only childhood picture I have taken. A large frown, beat-up uniform– a rage that I can relate to. I understand your child self all too well. Too well, in fact, that I feel the urge to burn this photograph like what I’ve done with mine."

He traced his thumb around your young self's image, shockingly intimate.

You blinked incessantly, trying to process all the information that he told you. First, your boss has no family left. Second, he’s an orphan raised alongside sir Pantalone. Third, he burned the only picture he had when he was a kid. You would pinch yourself but this conversation is jaggedly real.

As sensitive as this topic may be, your skepticism slips out as easily as breathing. "You burned your only childhood photo?"

Zandik ruminated.

"Curious as to what I would've looked like? You don’t seem to find my decision very agreeable."

"Who would?" You didn't mean to whine, but the tone of your voice made you sound like complaining. "What possessed you to do that?! Now no one would know what you looked like, not even yourse–"

"I didn't look too different as to who I am now," Zandik answered, his usual confidence coming back. "Only back then, shades of purple bruises would overlap my face, arms, legs, and stomach. If I loathed my natural features I would've done something drastic to tweak my appearance."

"Of course, you would, hair surgeon." You jokingly muttered Childe's best Dottore insult.

"What was that?"

For the sake of the hair Ajax is trying to grow out, you need to change the subject, fast.

"Master Zandik, I have to ask– aren’t you supposed to hate me? Pray tell, what are you doing here then?”

It’s been bothering you since he walked in. If he wants his “crush” for you to disappear, then why the hell is he spending more time with you?

Surprisingly, Zandik was also stunned by your question. His eyes went wide, perplexed.

“... What are you talking about?”

“You know what I meant.” You deadpanned. “The contract, what else?”

“Contract?” He squinted. “What contract? Is it a contract revised by Zhongli?”

“An astute guess.” You mocked his tone. “Yes, it is. Perhaps we’ve handled so many workloads the past month because of Sir Alberich’s eye-plucking shenanigans that’s why you forgot. To put it simply, you ordered me to act less attractive in exchange for a pay raise.”

“What?”

He looked at you incredulously, as if you were joking.

“Is this some kind of twisted joke?” Zandik huffed. “I would do no such thing. That’s...”

His demeanor shifted once, then twice. After a moment of silence, he nodded.

“Forgive me, you’re right. I did propose that contract, haven’t I?”

“Yes, Master.”

“And I also confessed my affection for you as well?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Pity.” He muttered, his tone grieving. “There should be no other person who can understand me more than I do.”

Zandik glared. “But why on earth is He trying to sabotage us.”

He?

“What are you talking about?”

Zandik gritted his teeth and smiled. “No matter. There’s no need for concern, darling.”

…

Did Master Zandik always have shark-like teeth?

He reached out and ruffled your hair slightly, but there is an ominous aura that lingered in his expression. It was akin to self-loathing, but not quite. Zandik pulled his hand back slowly, clenching it into a fist as he walked away.

You will never understand what he was talking about. After all, “Zandik” failed to mention the most important aspect of that photograph.

He had no parents, aunts, uncles, cousins… But the outcast did stand next to someone in that single childhood photo he had.

And that person was the picture-perfect imitation of himself, the perfect “sibling”.

Il Dottore laughed.

Now, if he could just throw him in the fire too…

Ansytea: Thank you so much for joining the match-up event Bakery Anon! Please don't chop, cook, and serve me to faceless!ayato–

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