#i think front facing pupie would help with that

[bumpscosity]

i got this fakie a while back and i'm finally starting to plan some custom painting hmmm

[starrynightmuse]

Sign of the Times 🏛⏳️ I. Broken Dragonfly Wings

Aemond Targaryen x reader, Library of Alexandria AU

(Title inspired by the Harry Styles song)

Blurb: It's summer in Alexandria, Egypt, and the heat has reached sweltering heights. Children dash toward the banks of the Nile, eager to find relief in the cool waters while ladies fan themselves under the shade of palm trees. Thick mud huts keep families cool under the boiling sun. It would be 1,892 years before the first ice cubes would be invented and nearly two millennia until air conditioning. Even Jesus Christ wouldn’t be born until another 48 years. But you have the teachings of Aristotle and the works of Euclid. You're the first and only female scholar at the Library of Alexandria, the first institute of its kind. All your life has been spent in the pursuit of knowledge — until the arrival of a mysterious young scholar named Aemond. 

Series warnings: period typical misogyny, ancient academia, teacher x student relationship (but they're the same age), violence, fire, sexual content (18+), reader is loosely based off of Hypatia of Alexandria, Targaryens x Ptolemies crossover, character deaths, inaccurate history for the sake of storytelling, accusations of witchcraft, debates on fictional religions, Plato, Daemon being a menace.

Word count: 5,380

Series Masterlist

Your heart was racing, terror coiling in your stomach like a serpent, but you refused to let it show as you looked out at the mob of angry faces around you in the pavilion.

“Traitor!”

“Death to the witch!”

“Kill her!” 

You knew there was no escaping this. This was the end. Yet, even as fear flooded your chest, you refused to let go of your pride. You held your head up high as Prince Daemon approached you where you kneeled. He looked down at you, his cold eyes gleaming in sick satisfaction.

"I'm giving you one last chance, witch," he said, his voice hard and uncompromising. "Renounce your unholy ways and convert to the Faith of the Seven, and you shall walk away unharmed."

You looked up at him, refusing to back down. You hypocrite, you thought. When you spoke, your voice was steady and firm. "I cannot.”

The prince's expression darkened. He stepped closer to you, his lips close to your ear so that no one would overhear.

“There is nothing left for you. It's over. Save yourself and the crown will grant you mercy,” he hissed.

You spat at his face. "If the right to think is treason, then I embrace it proudly. I refuse to remain supplicant to a crown that fears the power of knowledge and labels it treachery."

Daemon's lips formed into a cruel snarl. He stepped back and turned to the crowd, opening his arms in a dramatic display. "The punishment for witchcraft is death!" his voice boomed. The crowd erupted, snarling and roaring like a pack of lions.

Your heart raced as the people closed in with stones in hand, hungry predators circulating their prey. You took a final deep breath, bracing yourself for the onslaught. The first stone hit you, a dull throb of pain that quickly gave way to sharper, intense sensations as more stones followed. You feel your knees collapsing to the hard floor. In reflex, you cover your head with your arms. You shut your eyes, and the last thing you saw was the memory of a single blue eye.

🏛⏳️

6 months earlier.

There's a buzzing in the air, and not just from the hum of people in the atrium outside. Inside your classroom, a large blue dragonfly lazily flies in circles, your students taking turns swatting at it as it zips by. It’s an epaulet skimmer, or an orthetrum chrysostigma, a common dragonfly found around Egypt. Last month, you helped survey them with a fellow scholar who was putting together an account of all the various insects along the Nile River delta. The research project was commissioned by the Princess Helaena Targaryen herself, whom you've heard was quite fond of natural history. 

In the midst of your lecturing, the buzz of the insect feels amplified. In front of you sit nearly fifty pupils, all perched on wooden benches. Most of them are in their teens and early twenties, and all of them were young men with restless energy with wandering minds. While a few showed genuine curiosity, you knew that attendance was merely a formality to half of them, who were only present because their parents were wealthy aristocrats. Yet, you knew it was your duty to broaden their minds and instill some semblance of knowledge into their minds before they go on to graduate and become lords who make decisions that impact hundreds of people.

“Whether you believe in the Seven or the old gods, we accept that the divine has created all that we know,” you say, your voice carrying across the room. “Yet, the mechanisms behind how their creations work are a mystery to us mortals.”

There's a blur of blue near your eye when the dragonfly makes a landing on your nose. You swap it away and continue. 

“For example, what are the gears that drive a drought? Elders of the past have said that a drought is punishment from an angry sun god. Holy men today say it is the repercussion of having vexed the Seven. But how, precisely, do these divine beings bring this drought upon us?” You pause, pacing around the room. “Like observing the work of a craftsman, we can observe the handiwork of the gods. We can observe that volcanic eruptions are one tool that the gods use to give us droughts. Likewise, miasma from a plague, which spews vaporous acid into the atmosphere, can cause rising temperatures and dry up rivers. (Modern Fact check: Miasma does NOT cause plagues. They are caused by infectious bacteria and viruses.)

“Every natural disaster has forces, or causes, behind them. Although perhaps only the gods may know the truth of the workings behind these events, philosophers and believers of science have theorized why certain disasters come to be. Take earthquakes, for example. Compared to droughts, it is much harder for us to determine how earthquakes are created. Aristotle, for one, suggested that it is caused by winds in subterranean caves.”

One of your pupils seated on the front row raises his hand. Ebony curls, dark eyes that remind you of beetles, his robes a deep plum that only money can buy.

“Perhaps Aristotle failed to consider that earthquakes could just be Atticus's mother walking to the market,” he says, a cocky grin spreading across his face. His friend gives him a hearty slap on the back, nearly doubling over with laughter.

You offer a tight-lipped smile. "Thank you, Flavius." 

Some of your students were more mature than others.

Flavius's jolliness is short-lived, however. The dragonfly suddenly decides to dart into his eye and he lets out a startled shriek. He swats at the insect and tumbles forward off the bench. His friend roars even harder with laughter. Meanwhile, the dragonfly falls onto the floor, its delicate blue wings now broken. A couple students in the back crane their necks in curiosity as Flavius stomps his feet on the insect's body, crushing it mercilessly against the tile floor. Tiny blue limbs smear across the tiles, its wings in pieces like shattered glass. A life snuffed out in the blink of an eye.

Flavius settles back onto the bench, straightening his toga with an air of nonchalance. "Apologies, miss. Please, continue," he says.

You choose to ignore his interruption, redirecting your attention to the rest of the class. 

“When we attempt to unravel the mysteries behind the divine's creations, we begin to understand the natural world,” you say, thinking about the dead bug in front of you, its blue wings, the blue of the Nile, all the species of flora and fauna that have survived for eons thanks to its life-giving waters. “This is why we study the discipline of science.”

“Beyond these walls, I have heard many who deem it to be blasphemy,” a voice interjects. 

Your gaze shifts to a young man at the rear of the room. You've never seen him before, not in your classroom nor around the Library. If you've seen him, you would know. With his sharp features, nearly white hair cropped close to his head, and a leather eyepatch covering an angry scar on his left eye — his was not a face you would forget. 

“What do they call you?” You ask curiously, piercing blue eye meeting yours. He seemed a bit older than the rest of your students — perhaps in his mid-twenties, around the same age as you. You briefly wondered where he was from. His features stood out in a sea of dark haired Alexandrians.

"I am called Aemond, ma'am," his voice remained composed and respectful. "Just Aemond." There was a refinement in his speech that hinted of a privileged upbringing, yet the absence of a surname intrigued you. Perhaps he was an educated slave, adept at tutoring and managing the finances of the master's household — literate slaves were not uncommon in the Roman Empire.

"And what have you heard, Aemond?" you inquire.

"It is said that scientific inquiry is seen as an offense to the Seven," he responds evenly, referring to the gods. "Questioning their creations is considered sacrilegious." Several students nod in agreement around the room.

You paused for a moment, gathering your thoughts.

“It is true that outside these walls, the belief that science is sacrilegious is held by many people,” you say slowly. “Perhaps even now, some of you are wrestling with the idea, torn between conventional thinking and what you are learning at this institute. If this is the case, I implore you to consider this —” 

You look out at the faces of your pupils. Some are focused and deep in thought, while others are frowning. A lone blue eye is fixed on you.

"—What act of love is greater than seeking to understand the object of your affection? Mathematics, physics, and astronomy are not merely academic pursuits but they are expressions of love. They are avenues through which we seek to comprehend and appreciate the intricate beauty of our world.” You gestured around the room. “I am aware that some of you are followers of the Seven. Some of you are devoted to the old gods. But science does not seek to refute the existence of one God over another, nor does it attempt to debunk the existence of the divine altogether. Science seeks only to understand.” You look in Aemond's direction. He's watching, listening intently. “In attempting to understand the natural world, we may better love the divine and appreciate their creations.”

🏛⏳️

The remainder of the class concluded smoothly, and due to the sweltering heat, you dismissed everyone earlier than usual. Despite the hour not yet reaching midday, the air was thick with humidity, making the classroom feel oppressive. You had no desire to keep your students in the stuffy classroom for longer than necessary.

As the others rush to leave the room, you notice that Aemond was kneeling down and using a handkerchief to clean the dragonfly off the floor.

“Thank you,” you say to him earnestly. His brow is furrowed in concentration as he delicately holds the insect through the thin white cloth. He picks up a broken piece of an iridescent blue wing, the shimmer catching the light.

"It's an epaulet skimmer," you remark softly. But you're not looking at the bug, you're looking at him.

"Orthetrum chrysostigma," Aemond responds, using the scientific name. You regard him with curiosity. 

“My sister has a fondness for insects," Aemond explains. "She is extremely gentle with them. She maintains an extensive collection in her room — beetles, caterpillars, dragonflies, and the like. But she only gathers them once they've passed on. Her heart is too big to confine them before they've lived a full life." He gazes at the broken wing in his hand with a hint of sadness. You suspect that he is thinking of more than the fate of the squashed bug.

“Some cultures believe that dragonflies were once dragons who were tricked by a jackal to change shape into insects,” you say, looking at the wing in fascination. “Once they became a dragonfly, they couldn't transform back. As a result, they represented change and illusion.” 

You notice that Aemond's gaze is now fixed on you, a blue eye that reminds you of iridescent wings and the shimmering surface of the Nile on sunny days. You think of mirages in the desert, blue lapis lazuli on polished gold rings, the holographic shells of scarab beetles. 

“They must've been very grand in their past lives,” he remarks.

There's a short silence as you observe him, unsure of what to make of this strange new addition to your class. As your gaze shifts from his eyepatch to his eye, you notice that he's studying you too. Suddenly, you feel very exposed, as if he was somehow reading your entire life story just by looking at you. 

Breaking the tension, you extend your hand. "I realize I haven't properly introduced myself. It's been a pleasure having you in my class," you say, stating your name. He accepts your gesture, clasping your hand in a firm shake.

“You're the daughter of Theon. Your father is the greatest mathematician in all of Alexandria,” Aemond says. “I know who you are.” 

“Do you study mathematics?” 

“No. History and philosophy,” he replies. “But I've read enough across all the disciplines to know who the greats are.” 

“I don't think I've ever seen you around here before,” you note.

"I just started my studies here," he explains. "I arrived last night."

"Where else have you studied?" 

“Nowhere else. All my education has been from tutors hired by my family at home.”

"If you don't mind my asking, where do you come from?" 

He hesitates. “I've been around,” he says at last. 

🏛⏳️

That afternoon, you decided to teach your next class in one of the classrooms overlooking the sea. Arriving early, you unlatch the tall, arched windows, hoping to coax a gentle breath of ocean breeze into the room. As the soft light of the late afternoon filtered through, you arrange your teaching materials as the first of your students trickled in.

The class was on Euclidean geometry. As it happens, this was one of your favorite subjects to teach. You loved to move around the room, using various objects — such as a discus, a sphere, and even a pineapple — to illustrate geometric shapes and their properties. It was more than just memorizing formulas; it was about seeing and understanding the spatial relationships and practical applications of mathematics in the physical world.  

Two thousand years from now, Euclidean geometry would be the foundation for computer graphics, radiology, and geographic information systems. Without Euclid, you wouldn't have video games or anime. There would be no x-rays to help doctors treat broken bones. Without Euclid, there would be no Google Maps, nor would you be able to stalk your crush's location on Snapchat. 

Abruptly, you are cut off mid-lecture as a series of bold knocks echo off the door. You excuse yourself and open the door cautiously, finding yourself face-to-face with six armored men adorned in gold cloaks. You step out into the atrium.

"What is your business?" you ask, your gaze sharp and guarded.

“Prince Daemon Targaryen wants to speak to Theon of Alexandria. I'm told you're his daughter,” the guard at front says firmly.

“My father is indisposed. Whatever business you have with him, you can discuss with me.”

A sudden laugh rings out across the atrium. Every movement in the hall comes to a standstill as scholars pause their tracks and turn their heads. In front of you, guards quickly part ways for a tall man with long silver hair. His armor clinks as he strides towards you, his eyes mischievous like those of a jackal, reminding you of the ancient depictions of Anubis on temple walls. Adorning his shoulders is the same golden cloak worn by his men.

It was the unmistakable Prince Daemon Targaryen, brother of King Viserys and the consort of the crown princess Rhaenyra. But to the smallfolk, he is known as the merciless commander of the City Watch. 

Daemon looks at you like you are the scum on his shoes. “I don't have time for games, girl,” he says mockingly. “Where is your father?”

“Like I've said, he is indisposed,” you repeat, meeting him with a steady gaze.

“I have come a long way from the palace,” he says, offering a false honeyed grin. “You will fetch him for me.” 

You give a smile that mirrored his. It was common knowledge that Prince Daemon frequented the company of his mistress in the city more than he did his own wife at the royal palace.

"I speak the truth when I say my father cannot be here right now, and I apologize on his behalf. However, I am willing to assist you,” you assert calmly.

"This does not concern you," Daemon retorts dismissively. "I am here on business concerning your father's governance of this... academic institution."

"I am a professor here and a senior member of the Library of Alexandria," you counter, maintaining your composure. "After my father, you will find no one more knowledgeable about the affairs of this institute than I am."

Daemon scoffs, his tone condescending. "There are matters too serious to discuss with a woman.”

“Then I'm afraid you will have to come back another day, my prince.” 

“Where is your father?”

“He is sick. Unless you have a direct order from the king, I would prefer not to disturb him from his much-needed rest."  

The unspoken truth hangs heavy in the air — the Library is under the protection of the crown, and Daemon, despite his authority, is not the king. The prince's expression darkens, a sneer painting his features as his knuckles grip around the handle of his sword on his waist. You find yourself locked in a tense staring contest, both unwilling to yield. Moments tick by in silence, each waiting for the other to give in. Then —

“Very well,” he concedes, letting go of his grip on the sword. But you knew from his expression that this was far from over. Daemon casts a disdainful glance around the atrium as if the place offended him before turning and walking away from you. His gold cloaks follow him, their armor clanking all the way to the main doors of the library. 

It is only when the last of them exited onto the street that you allow yourself to release the breath you've been holding.

🏛⏳️

“Daemon Targaryen? What was he doing here?” You hear Cregan before you see him.

You're in the far corner of the main reading room, kneeling before a crate with a new shipment of scrolls that came in from Greece. Gently opening the lid, you discover a signed note from the head of the Platonic School of Athens. Ἕν οἶδα ὅτι οὐδὲν οἶδα. Αὕτη ἡ γνῶσις ἐμοῦ ἐστιν, it reads at the end. One thing I know, that I know nothing. This is the source of my wisdom. It is a quote by Socrates.

Cregan emerges from behind a shelf, his gray eyes wide with exasperation.

“I can't say that I haven't expected this,” you say to him, picking up a scroll and lightly dusting it off. “It is no secret that Daemon puts up with us only because of the pharaoh.”

“Well, yes. But to barge in here and demand for the Professor—” he means your father Theon.

“He's been sending us threats for months.”

Cregan paused. “When did this start?”

“Four moons ago, when King Viserys reinstated him as Lord Commander of the City Watch.” 

Daemon had been the commander of the city watch once before, but that had been years ago, and back then he was more interested in dealing with criminals in the worst parts of the city. But after some scandal with the Princess Rhaenyra, Viserys had exiled him to Rome. Now, he was back and had regained both his old post as leader of the city guard and the Princess Rhaenyra, whom he took to wife. However, this time, Daemon was turning his policing to the University of Alexandria, more commonly referred to as simply the Library. Apparently, scholars are the new criminals.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Cregan asked, clearly frustrated.

“I didn't want to burden you with it," you reply honestly. "You've been occupied with your research with Princess Helaena these past four moons.”

Cregan rubs his eyebrows. “What has he been threatening?”

With a sigh, you rise to your feet, making space on the shelf for the new scrolls. Cregan joins you, handing over scrolls from the crate as you arrange them carefully in their designated spots on the shelf. 

“He wants to shut down the Library if we don't — and I quote his words — ‘tone down on the science’,” you explain. "He's pushing for censorship, insisting that everything that is taught and published here must be 'safe' for the public. He claims it's about protecting the moral well-being of Alexandrians."

Cregan snorts derisively. "I wonder what his wife thinks of his moral well-being."

"That's an ad hominem attack, Cregan," you chide gently. But you're smiling.

“We're the best scientific research institution in the Mediterranean,” he says. “And, let's face it, we're probably the best in the entire world. We owe it all to King Jaehaerys's proclamation over 50 years ago, protecting our intellectual freedom. Even Daemon Targaryen can't derail something like that.” 

“Daemon doesn't like anything he can't control,” you say. “Nor does he like taking no for an answer.”

“He's a cunt,” Cregan muttered angrily. “His word isn't law but he sure does want to act like it. Did you hear he's been trying to ban all Northerners from entering Alexandria? Unless they're slaves, that is. It's utterly absurd. He's a Northerner himself. His entire family hails from the north—well, not the North, but north of the Mediterranean. Valyria is a small city-state in Greece. Still, that's north of us. If he wants only true Alexandrians in the city, maybe he should consider leaving as well." The Targaryens, although originally from Greece, had become the longest-reigning dynasty in Egypt, despite their non-Egyptian origin.

"What does Princess Helaena think?"

"Of Daemon?"

"Of the North."

Cregan blushes slightly. "She's mentioned that we should visit there together someday," he admits. “For research purposes, of course,” he adds quickly. 

You grin. Cregan has been your closest friend since childhood, and you swear you've never seen him as happy as he's been the past few months.

"She wants to see the direwolves and the aurora borealis,” says Cregan. “I promised her I'd show her around Winterfell when we go." Winterfell, Cregan's hometown, nestled in a far-off corner of the world where snow and frost dominate most of the year — a large contrast to the sandy dunes of Egypt.

“You like her,” you mused.

“Don't be absurd,” Cregan says, but he's failing miserably in hiding a smile.

There's a rustling among the shelves behind you, and the next thing you know, you're face to face with a single blue eye that reminds you of ocean water and iridescent wings.

"Sorry, I was told that the texts about Plato are in this section?" Aemond asks.

"Oh. Yes. Absolutely," you reply quickly, gesturing around you. "I mean, they're all here. Everything on this wall is Plato. We've just received a new collection of his works from Greece and we just finished cataloging and setting them up. They're on this shelf. Here." Your words stumble out awkwardly, and you feel your cheeks flush with embarrassment.

“Perfect,” Aemond says, looking at you. Neither of you move. Cregan eyes the two of you with amusement. 

“Well, I was just about to head out,” Cregan says cheerfully, sashaying past you. You turn, widening your eyes and mouthing no to him. Cregan simply grins as he disappears behind the bookshelves, leaving you with Aemond. 

“You read Plato?” you ask.

Aemond nods. “I am an admirer of his work,” he says. “You were one of my first introductions to him, actually. I read your thesis on him, An Exploration Into the Metaphysics of Plato, when I was sixteen.” 

“I can't imagine there would be many copies of that,” you say with amazement. “I wrote it when I was—”

“Sixteen,” Aemond says. You blink. He clears his throat. “I've been a follower of your work,” he adds shyly.  

“Oh. I'm flattered.” You’re blushing.

“Is it true that you started studying at The Academy when you were fourteen?” He means the Platonic School of Athens, founded by Plato himself over 300 years ago. Most scholars called it The Academy. It is the first university to ever open in western civilization.

You nod. “I learned mathematics and astronomy here, but my father wanted me to get a hellenistic education on top of it, so he sent me to Greece. I stayed there for four years before returning to Alexandria.”

“I have a brother who studies there,” Aemond shares, leaning against a bookshelf. “My mother, being an Athenian herself, insisted he be sent there. He writes to me sometimes, telling me about the professors he works with. I had considered studying there myself.”

“What made you choose Alexandria over Athens?”

Aemond smiles. “I'm at the center of the world here. It seemed foolish to want to go anywhere else,” he says, his gaze sweeping the library around him. After a pause, he asks, “What made you want to teach?”

“The fear of oblivion,” you reply. "It's the realization that everything we do, everything we learn, and everything we create could be forgotten someday. Teaching, for me, is a way to combat that inevitability. By sharing knowledge, by shaping young minds, I can hope to leave a lasting impact — a legacy that outlives me."

Aemond nods thoughtfully. "So it's about leaving a mark on the world?"

"In a sense, yes," you affirm. "It's about contributing to something greater than myself, ensuring that knowledge endures beyond individual lives and fleeting moments."

He smiles faintly. "That's a noble pursuit."

"It's what drives me," you conclude. As you look at each other, you feel his gaze tracing over your face with a strange emotion. Awe? Admiration? Before you can decipher his thoughts, a scholar approaches the shelf behind you, prompting you to awkwardly step aside.

"I hope you find the resources on Plato you're looking for," you say to Aemond, refocusing on the moment. You pause. "We're hosting a seminar on Plato's metaphysics tomorrow afternoon in the Rose Hall. You should join us."

Aemond smiles. “I’d be honored to.”

🏛⏳️

Daytime in Alexandrian summers can be hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, but when the chill sets in at night, the city transforms into a completely different land. It is under the cloak of darkness that Alexandria truly comes alive.

You’re wrapped in a headscarf, its tail fluttering in the gentle wind from the Mediterranean as you navigate the narrow streets of the night market. Oil lamps and torches cast a soft, flickering glow as shadows danced across buildings decorated with a mix of hieroglyphs and hellenistic art. On the streets, you hear people speaking in both Greek and Egyptian, but also Persian, Moroccan, and other various African and Asiatic dialects. Various aromas filled the air— spices mingled with the savory scents of grilled meats and the sweet notes of baked pastries and delicacies from the far corners of the world. It was the New York City of the ancient world.

Weaving between stalls adorned with colorful fabrics and gleaming trinkets, you spotted one of the gold cloaks from earlier that day. Upon noticing you, he gave you a brief, curt nod before turning his attention sharply towards a group of rowdy children who were blocking the path of a passing wagon.

You make your way to an apothecary stall, securing the medicine your father needs before turning to leave. Suddenly, a hooded figure trips over a wooden crate and crashes into you, causing both of you to tumble to the ground. You fall flat on the cobblestones, his weight on top of you. Your basket with the apothecary vial shatters on the road.

“Ow!” he yelled. You struggle to push him off and get to your feet, then reach down to help him up, steadying him as he sways unsteadily. His hood falls back, revealing a mess of unruly white curls. 

Prince Aegon Targaryen. You’ve seen him a few times while going around the city. The eldest son of Queen Alicent, known to frequent the streets of Alexandria often. Aside from Daemon, he was the only royal that most of the smallfolk could recognize by appearance.

"Prince Aegon," you say cautiously, helping him steady himself. "Are you alright?"

He blinks a few times, focusing on you with bleary eyes. "Why, hello," he slurs slightly, attempting a lopsided smile. For a prince, he seemed dirtier than Diogenes and his barrel.

"Let me help you," you insist, guiding him away from the scattered shards of glass. You maneuver him towards a nearby bench, ensuring he sits down safely.

"I’m alright, I’m fine," he murmurs, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He groaned and vomited on the ground next to him. You pat him on the back awkwardly as he empties his stomach.

“Did my mother send you?” he said abruptly.

“What?”

“My mother. She sent you, didn’t she? I can’t catch a break these days,” he grumbled. “The woman is a menace. She’s become crazier since my brother got exiled. I can’t even drink in peace now. She’s sending her spies everywhere.”

You frowned. “I’m not a spy, my prince.”

Aegon wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sits back heavily on the bench. He tilts his head up at you, scrutinizing you, and then he sighs and hungs his head.

“Forgive me,” he mutters, almost to himself. “I’m tired of the games. Tired of the scrutiny. I’m tired of the standards that she sets for me, and I’m tired of her disappointment when I fail to meet them. Can’t she see I don’t want any of this? Can’t she just let me be?”

You hesitate, unsure how to respond to the prince's candidness. He was clearly drunk and you’ve only just met him, and you’ve heard unsettling rumors about him. Stories of his frequenting brothels and fighting rings, of fathering illegitimate children and neglecting them. But in this moment, he seemed far from the crooked prince that people whispered about. He seemed like a child in need of comfort.

“Your mother worries about you,” you say gently. “She only wants what’s best for you.”

He scoffs bitterly. “Does she? Tell me, have you ever had a mother who would rather marry you to your own sibling for political gain than let you live your own life?”

You shake your head slowly. “I cannot say I understand fully, but I know you carry a heavy burden.”

“Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be free of it.” Aegon leans back, staring up at the night sky with weary resignation. “My brother was lucky. I’d do anything to exchange places with him.”

You recalled hearing news of Queen Alicent’s second son, who had been condemned to work in the mines of Nubia as punishment for the murder of his nephew. The usual penalty for murder was death, and much worse if the victim was a royal, but since the criminal was a prince himself, it changed a few things. The Nubian mines were typically reserved for lesser crimes in Alexandria.

“The one who was exiled to Nubia?” you asked Aegon.

He chuckles bitterly. “My brother didn’t get sent to Nubia. Mother loves him too much for that.”

You stayed quiet, not knowing what to say. You had a feeling that you weren’t supposed to be hearing this piece of information. Yet, Aegon didn’t seem to expect a reply. He’s looking up at the stars, as if he wished to fly off into the heavens and leave his miseries on the ground.

“Thank you,” Aegon finally said, breaking the quiet that had settled between you. Thank you for listening, thank you for not judging, thank you for watching out for my drunken mess. He rose to his feet, a bit unsteady but more composed than before. He took out a pouch of coins. “This is for… what I broke,” he said, gesturing to the remnants of the vial around you, shards of glass glittering under oil lamps. You thought of the broken dragonfly wings from earlier in the day.

You accepted the pouch gingerly. What he gave you was worth much more than the cost of the medicine, but you didn’t want to offend him so you decided not to mention it.

“Should I call the guards to escort you back to the palace?” you asked.

Aegon blinked, his gaze drifting momentarily. “No, no,” he said, waving dismissively. “They’re my uncle’s people. They don’t like me.”

"Will you manage on your own?" you pressed gently.

Aegon straightened his cloak and mustered a tired smile. "I always do," he said. 

With that, the prince turned and started to walk away. You watched as he disappeared into the narrow streets, his figure gradually blending with the shadows.

Chapter II: Coming Soon

[bostongirl13]

Piano, Thanksgiving and heart attack

A/N: I wrote this with the intention of continuing this story ➡ New Dodger photo  , but it can safely be treated as a one shot.

Summary: I think the title explains it all 💙

Warnings: age gap, Scott and Chris are assholes, swearing, mistakes

Words: 1,5k +

TUESDAY 

You growled in frustration not being able to remember a single word and what was in the linguistic pragmatics tasks.

"Stupid subject" you muttered, throwing your pencil across the room and letting it hit the wall. Dodger, who was lying on the couch behind you and keeping you company, raised his ears to the sound.

You've been sitting in the living room with your back against the sofa for a good five hours because your lecturer thought up an exam the day before the long weekend. Because, of course, speech acts, language functions, the theory of speech acts, and the communicative intention are so damn important that they can't wait until next week.

"Fuck" you cursed under your breath and rubbed your tired eyes. You felt your head starting to ache. And tears fall from my eyes from staring at the laptop screen for a long time. You needed a break, but you knew that if you do it, there is no chance that you will go back to studying. Being stubborn and hard to give in by nature, you took a deep breath and started reading the definitions and tasks once again.

Chris, of course, knew how difficult and hard this item was for you, so he was always as quiet as possible, occasionally bringing you a bowl of fruit, coffee, or tea, and ordered take-out food. He was loved. Even though you didn't thank him and just nodded your head, or just said nothing and paid him no attention, he knew you appreciated his help anyway. But seeing you sitting another hour in front of the computer with red eyes and tired, broke his heart. He couldn't watch his love work to death, and he knew that if he asked you to take a break, you wouldn't. So he came up with an idea, the implementation of which would make you leave your studies.

So he went to the piano standing against the wall and after a few minutes of choosing what he wanted to play, he put his fingers on the keys and caused the first notes to come out of the instrument.

You stretched and flipped through the notes page when you heard like music fills the air without effort, the sound rushing in and around every person in the room. You smiled and closed your eyes, leaning your head against the couch behind you. You listened to the melodies played by your boyfriend, feeling it sweep your whole body. The best thing about music was that it gave you strength and motivation. The variety of music in the universe is so diverse that there is something for everyone to enjoy. Music doesn't worry about anything; that’s the beauty of music.

You turned to Dodger and stroked his head.

"Dad is probably giving us a sign that there is enough study for today"

Dodger licked your face. “Okay, okay, that's it. Come on "you got up and stretched again. The dog jumped off the couch and followed you into the room where Chris was playing.

Chris was sitting in sweatpants and a navy blue sweater. His long fingers moved over the keyboard of the instrument, pressing the keys in the correct order so that the emerging notes formed a melody.

You walked up to him and hugged him from behind. "Thank you," you whispered in his ear and kissed his cheek.

"I'm glad you finally got away from studying. Do you like what I play?

"Very" you sat down next to him and put your head on his shoulder "Can you play any more?" you asked.

Chris kissed your head and started playing again.

Now sitting close to him and the instrument, you could hear and feel the musician much more clearly than before. Dodger lay down on his bed near you and listened too. Your eyes immediately felt heavy. You closed them, but you tried to stay awake. He had time, music surrounded the space him. You had to admit that of the many talents Chris had, this one was one of your favorites.

"I think it's time to sleep, Princess" you nodded and you let him rise you from chair. You wrapped your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist, holding tight. "I guess I should start talking to you Koala" he laughed and you pressed your face against the hollow of his neck.

After a warm shower and putting on something to sleep, you both cuddled into each other, or rather you into Chris not allowing a minimum of a gap between your bodies. Even though you had an important exam tomorrow, you felt calm and knew that you would do well tomorrow.

THURSDAY

Quick update: there was no exam because it turned out that the lecturer did not have time to prepare the questions. You were relieved, but you were also furious because you could spend this time with your beloved men. However, you will not turn back the time, and what was now mattered. 

You sat snuggled up to Chris on the couch in his mom's living room and watched as two pupies and Dodger attacked Scott on the floor. You tried not to laugh because you knew the video would end up on Instagram, but you really couldn't help but see this scene. Even Stella giggled and watched the whole thing happen. You put your cheek to Chris's shoulder when he finished recording.

"All right?" he whispered to you, seeing your eyes freeze at one point, you were thinking something

"Yes. I'm just happy. Thank you for taking me with you to your mother's Thanksgiving. Maybe I shouldn't, but I feel like I'm surrounded by my family."

"How could I not take you with me," he said in an offended tone. The invitation was obvious to him and he saw no other scenario for the day. "Honey, you shouldn't feel bad about being comfortable with my family. On the contrary, I'm glad you feel that way. It means a lot to me. And I can assure you that they also treat you like a family member." he kissed you on the lips to which you heard "ugh!" and laughed seeing Stelle covering her eyes.

 Later that same day

You, Chris, Scott, and Dodger came back to Chris's house. All the way you couldn't stop laughing at the guys whining about eating too much.

As soon as you entered the house, the three men took their place on the couch in front of the TV. You rolled your eyes and being a good girlfriend, you went to the fridge for a beer.

"What have I done to deserve you," Chris said, taking a cold bottle of amber drink from you.

"Don't get used to it too much" you kissed him, "I'm going to take a shower" you add and disappeared down the hall.

"Don't you dare to let her go," said Scott, being sure you couldn't hear "If you do, I’m gonna kick your American ass." he took a sip.

"Funny." Chris laughed, "Don't worry, I'm not going to let her go."

Getting more comfortable after showering, you put on leggings and Chris's hoodie. Completely unaware that a trap awaits you as soon as you exit the master bedroom. 

You've been moving around Chris's house by heart. So instead of looking straight ahead, you looked at the phone. Chris and Scott were standing behind the wall so that you couldn't see them and both of them, with video recording, waiting for you. After a while, they heard your footsteps and they both looked at each other. Chris showed three fingers as he counted. 3... 2 ... 1 ...

"Y / N !!!" they both shouted giving you a heart attack.

"Aaaaaaaaaa ... !!!" you screamed, terrified, and you jumped up and you slipped and fell. Chris grabbed you at the last minute and pulled you close. "Are you crazy ?!" you snarled.

Your heart was beating dangerously fast in your chest, your breathing couldn't slow down. Both guys were laughing when you thought you were having a heart attack.

"I'm sorry, Princess, but you were the only one I hadn't scared off yet." 

"Be careful I don't scare you, you asshole," you threatened by hitting him on the chest. "How old are you? 5?"

"Oh, don't say you haven't got used to our childish behavior yet." Scott smiled at which you rolled your eyes. 

"Sorry," Chris repeated and kissed the top of your head.

"You guys are so cute," commented Scott.

"That goes for you, Scott too. You both are on my blacklist," you narrowed your eyes.

Chris hugged you tighter, feeling your heart beating fast. You hugged him, cuddling up to him and trying to calm down.

About an hour later you managed to play on them and scare them. In both cases you recorded everything and with a smile on your face, pleased with yourself, sent them the video, which they both later uploaded to Instagram. 

[eldritch-essor]

the Christmas Switch

Prompt: Satan gets Christmas letters from kids who misspell Santa’s name. 

It’s one strange day in Hell indeed when someone dares to interrupt Satan’s afternoon nap. 

“Ex-Excuse me, Sir—” Satan cracks a single eye open, studying the postman in front of him who’s somehow managing to simultaneously sweat like a broken water fountain and tremble at the near frequency of an electric toothbrush. Rather understandable, the Devil thinks, considering that the poor man’s standing in Hell, directly within blasting range of the ruler of said land. 

“Yes?”

The postman jumps at his voice, lower than usual from his recent nap and twice as menacing, though Lucifer would probably just dump a cup of water onto him. Trembling even harder, he involuntarily retreats a few steps away. Not like it would help him in any way. 

Satan sighs, rubbing at his temples with a clawed hand to ward off the incoming migraine that’s sure to set in sooner or later. 

“What brings you to my domain?” he asks slowly and clearly, making sure not to move too quickly lest the postman gets a heart attack. 

“I— There’s a— no, I mean—” the man starts, stumbling over his words as he frantically roots through his satchel, spilling several letters in the process. Satan raises a single eyebrow as he watches. The postman finally manages to produce a neatly stacked set of envelopes of varying sizes and colours, and Satan vaguely muses at how miraculous it is that he hasn’t dropped any of the letters into the pond of lava right next to him yet. Clearing his throat, the postman starts again, proffering the stack towards Satan with a hand that’s trembling so hard he’s actually amazed the man hasn’t managed to shake the words right off the paper itself. “I mean to say, you have— your post, S-Sir.”

Satan nearly chokes on his drink. 

Letters? He wonders, internally backtracking. And for me, of all people? It’s only when the postman replies that he realises he said it out loud.

“Yes, Mr. Sa— I mean, sir.” The postman tentatively takes a step forward, eyes honed onto the Devil for any sign of movement that would presumably send him running like the wind. After detecting no threat — or at least, as minimal of a threat as one such as Satan could pose — he quickly lays the letters down at Satan’s feet, holding out a clipboard and pen towards Satan gingerly. “N-now, would you please sign here to declare that y-you’ve received your mail?”

The second Satan manages to scrawl what should resemble a signature onto the space indicated — it’s not as if he’s ever needed to write, that’s Lucifer’s job as the accountant — the postman snatches everything back and disappears in literal seconds. Satan watches the man’s rapidly receding back and contemplates how he made his way into Hell in the first place.

After he’s certain the postman’s long gone, Satan picks up the stack of letters thoughtfully wrapped in a length of twine string. “Letters for me, huh.” he mutters as he picks apart the knot, dumping the five envelopes onto his lap.

For lack of a better term, they were all covered with the brightest colours that a crayon could conjure. And they were all labeled in the shaky handwriting of children who have just mastered how to write their first letters. 

tO sAtAn, the envelopes proudly declared, in various colors. Unable to hold back his curiosity, the Devil slit open one of the envelopes with a pitch-black fingernail and glanced at the letter within.

dEar saTan, the letter starts. mY name iS EmiLY, aNd i am 6 YERs Od. (It took a few moments to adjust his eyes to the assorted sizes of the letters. ivv bEN a GOOd GIRL THis YER, aN i wOULd ReeLy LUvE a pupy fR CRissmass! pRETTY pLEasE?  YOU COULd COmE OvER aNd pLay wiTH HER, two!   Satan finds his lips cracking into a smile as he decides the brown coloured blob on the bottom of the page is most probably a drawing of a dog. 

Picking up the other letters, he opens them more eagerly, devouring the content within like a man who’s been deprived of water for a long time. Except, he doesn't exactly need water to survive (demon and all) but that’s beside the point. Timmy would like an action figurine (whatever that was), Ann wanted a new teddy, and the other two letters were written in penmanship that the Devil simply couldn’t decipher, even when he took out his reading glasses and squinted at the crayon scribbles so intensely the letter nearly went up in flames. 

And no, the Devil certainly did not accidentally singe a hole into one of the letters in the process. 

“LUCIFER! I DEMAND YOU READ THIS FOR ME, THIS INSTANT.” 

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Out of everything he’s put up with over the past few centuries — not that Santa would ever admit that he was ancient — getting ambushed by a cloud of ash and sulphur was definitely a first. And that was saying something, considering how often he’s been tripped up by a devious string of bells wrapped around the kitchen in a childish attempt to catch him out during the job. And just don’t mention the cookies and milk. Santa didn’t know who started the ridiculous notion that he’d like twenty million cups of milk and double the amount of chocolate cookies during one night, considering how they’d forgotten one crucial fact: he was lactose intolerant. Also, who in the world in their right minds would think one man would be able to stomach enough cookies to sustain a small army in one night? Ridiculous.

Well, there was a reason why Santa didn’t sneak into houses via the chimney anymore. Not that Satan seemed to care, that is.

Santa blinks. Wiping the soot off his glasses to the best of his ability, he squinted hard at the figure in front of him, internally wincing at the scolding Mrs. Claus would definitely give him for getting his suit dirty again. That was Satan, all right, with an innocent ‘deer in the headlights’ look that had no business being on his face. 

“What are you doing here, Satan?” he asks, furiously wiping his glasses, as if he’ll be able to banish the sight of the Devil in a crude mimicry of his own outfit. Satan shrugged nonchalantly, with a grin so big Santa half expects to be eaten whole. It certainly looked… ominous. The barely disguised, unadulterated glee behind was even more so.

“I’ve been asked to deliver some Christmas presents!” he chirps, and Santa swears, if Satan’s smile was creepy, Satan chirping was horribly terrifying. Had he managed to overthrow God or something? He should just— wait. 

What?

“Little Emily has specifically requested for me, so you can just move along,” Satan says smoothly, leading Santa to the door. 

Santa finds himself standing next to his reindeer — who are coincidentally having a staring match with Cerberus and Hades, who are somehow perched on the roof — when he finally processes what’s going on — oh no. 

Immediately, he runs back into the house, making sure not to wake up the inhabitants of the house when he proceeds to have a whispering match with the Devil.

“Look, Satan,” he starts, trying his best to be reasonable. “You don’t have to strain yourself like this. I’m sure I can manage to cover the five kids who’ve accidentally written your name on their letter on my rounds. How about you just head back to Hell and, I don’t know, take a dip in one of your lava pools?” He was interrupted by a barely suppressed growl and oh, that was why people don’t usually like Satan; he mused as he was confronted by a rapidly reddening face and glaring red eyes. 

“She wrote to me, Santa.” Satan hisses, waving a piece of paper that’s somehow singed in a corner and covered with crayon but the word ‘sAtAN’ is vaguely distinguishable in the top left corner. “Me.” Satan puffed his chest out in childish triumph. “Not you.”

Santa sighs, pinching his nose with a still soot-covered hand. Of course, this would happen.

“This happens every year, alright?” he says in an attempt to pacify the beast. “Some kid misspells my name, and the post office is usually smart enough to redirect it my way. One of them must have slipped up this year, and that’s why this happened.” 

This, however, seems to be the wrong thing to say, as steam metaphorically — or is it literally? — starts pouring out of the Devil’s pointed ears.

Santa quickly decides that he’s not paid enough to deal with Satan on top of delivering presents to another couple million houses before dawn — and that’s already five minutes he could’ve used to get that done wasted — and so he just roughly jerks the basket out of Satan’s hand before ruffling through his sack — a little girl would probably love a doll or something — when sharp needle like teeth latch onto the hand that was holding the basket.

Satan watches calmly as Santa frantically pries the teeth of the small creature off his finger.

“Down, pup.” he says once he’s decided Santa has had enough punishment — the insolent brat — and the creature obediently lets go, diving back into the basket before Santa can see what it is.

“It’s just a puppy,” Satan says soothingly. “Nothing wrong with that, right?”

“I suppose.” Santa concedes as he bandages his bleeding finger. “Now, no giving them anything inappropriate, alright? Or I’ll make sure never to let a single letter reach you again, no matter how many typos there are. Deal?”

Santa’s never seen the Devil grin so widely before. And so, he reluctantly allows Satan to leave his present at the Christmas tree. He supervises as Satan carefully leaves wrapped presents that look somewhat safe — a plastic sword, a teddy bear, a few figurines — under others. 

At last, all the houses have been visited and dawn is peeking across the horizon. Santa lays sprawled across a particularly overgrown roof as he watches the sunrise with his reindeer — and never in a million years would he ever imagine — Satan, Hades and Cerberus, who’s still staring at Rudolf, growling.

“This was a good year,” he says, satisfied with his work. After all, he managed to deliver all the presents, and on top of that, Satan didn’t burn anything down! It was an accomplishment in itself. “Next year, if you want, I’ll teach you how to make gifts, so you don’t have to buy them from stores.”

“Buy gifts?” Satan looks at him quizzically. “Why would I have to do that? I’ve practically got everything they could ask for stowed away somewhere in Hell. A sword was just plain easy. I did have to bribe Hephaestus to make some of the figurines, but it’s pure luck that Cerberus’ kit had pups this year.”

Santa feels a sinking sensation in his stomach as he processes this. 

“You did WHAT?!”

-vrei.essor

[rainbow-sides]

A Hand to Hold: Chapter Seven

Summary: Patton befriends an isolated boy at his high school and soon develops feelings for him that aren’t just friendship. Navigating a relationship of any kind with Logan Barry isn’t easy, but it sure is worth it!

Pairings: romantic Logicality, possible background Prinxiety but I haven’t decided yet

Word Count: 1,739

Warnings: talk about bullying, ableism from a parent, very brief mention of Deceit, mentions of abusive therapy (implied ABA), food mention, mild spoilers for Doctor Who, anxiety, school stress,

Notes: ATTENTION I am no longer using a taglist. Instead, please follow and click notifications for the blog @rainbow-sides-fics. I’ll be reblogging all of my old fics there as well as any new ones I’ll be posting. Alternatively, A Hand to Hold is now available on AO3. Love you guys! <3 ~Martin

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six

___________________________________

“GCAT PUPY PUPY,” Virgil chanted, his palms pressed to his temples. “Guanine and adenine are purines, cytosine and thymine are pyrimidines. Right?”

Logan nodded. “Correct. Well remembered.”

“Thank God for mnemonics.” Virgil popped a chip into his mouth. “Okay. Okay. What else is on the study guide?”

“It says to understand 5’ and 3’ directionality, decoding amino acid sequencing, and be able to explain the process of DNA replication as well as translation from DNA to proteins,” Logan said, summarizing the study guide for what was probably the fourth or fifth time. Although he knew that Virgil obviously knew the material, he got anxious during tests. He had asked Logan to help study with him so he felt more prepared.

“I feel like I know all of that, but there's got to be a catch, right? I'm gonna fail. I'm gonna fail.” He started to breathe too quickly.

Chex, who had been resting on the floor next to Virgil's chair, sat up. She nudged Virgil's leg with her nose and let out a soft whine.

Virgil buried his hand in the fur on the back of the dog's neck and took a deep breath. “No, I'm probably not going to fail. I've never failed a test in this class before, and I've been doing all the work.”

“I don't believe that you will fail,” Logan agreed. He twisted the ring on his finger, not sure what else to say. 

He wanted to help Virgil, but anxiety was complicated and Logan wasn't great at complicated emotions. Logan figured it was probably best to leave that to Patton. And Chex, of course. The sweet black lab was so in tune with Virgil's anxiety that she could tell even before he started to have an attack and would remind him to redirect his energy into more productive avenues.

“Would you like to keep studying?” asked Logan. “I have vocabulary cards for the whole unit, and there is always a vocabulary section on the test.”

Virgil nodded. “Sure, vocab practice sounds good. Hey, um, thanks again for coming over to study with me. It's nice to have a friend in that class now, I'm less stressed about it.”

Logan thought that Virgil still seemed very stressed. He didn't voice that opinion. “Codon,” he said, holding up the first vocabulary card.

“Uhh, uh, it's any series of three nitrogen bases that code for a specific amino acid, right?”

“Correct. Peptide bond.”

Virgil looked up at the ceiling. “It's...uh, well, peptide is referring to proteins, so...bonds between proteins?”

“Bonds between amino acids,” Logan corrected. “Okasaki fragments.”

“Oh shit,” Virgil muttered. “Um, something about the leading strand?”

“Lagging strand. Okazaki fragments are the stretches of DNA that are copied piece by piece on the lagging strand,” said Logan. He spun the ring on his finger again. He hoped that Virgil wouldn't get worried that he wasn't getting all of the vocabulary right.

“Right! I remember now.”

“Operon.”

“Oh, hey, I know this one. A group of genes that are functionally related,” Virgil said.

“Correct. Intron.”

They kept going until all of the vocabulary cards had been discussed. Logan put aside the ones that Virgil had struggled on so he could keep looking at them later.

“Seriously, thank you so much for coming and helping me out,” Virgil said. “I feel much better about the test on Thursday.”

Logan flicked his hand up near the side of his face. “You're welcome,” he said.

“I don't think I'm going to be able to cram much more into my brain right now, I need a break. Hey, how's the Doctor Who marathon with Patton going?” Virgil wondered.

With a slight bounce in his seat, Logan replied, “We watched Boom Town this weekend! On Wednesday afternoon, he is coming to my house to watch Bad Wolf and The Parting of Ways!”

Virgil leaned forward. “Oh, man, you're already almost to Nine's regeneration? Does Patton know it's coming?”

“Yes, and he says that he will miss Eccleston, but that he's seen David Tennant in other things and is looking forward to meeting Ten,” Logan said happily. He hummed to himself for a second before adding, “I am looking forward to reaching Ten's episodes, he is my favorite modern Doctor.”

“I gotta say, I like Capaldi. He's grumpier. More my style. Though Tennant at the end of his run is cool, he gets dark and edgy.” Virgil grinned. “The new season with Jodie Whittaker was freaking fantastic, too.”

“Much agreed,” Logan said. “I appreciate having a larger group of companions again, and the diversity has improved recently.”

Virgil scratched Chex behind the ears. “Yeah, big team TARDIS's are fun. One of my favorites was at the end of Journey's End was when they were all flying the TARDIS like she's supposed to be flown.”

Logan nodded. “May I ask you a question?” he said suddenly.

“Yeah, course.”

“What does it feel like to you when you are excited about something? Such as when you are talking about or watching Doctor Who, or listening to the music you like?” Logan asked.

There was a long pause as Virgil thought about that. “It makes me happy, I guess.”

“How does it physically feel?” Logan pressed.

“Oh, jeez, I'm not sure. It almost makes me feel peaceful? Like, um, listening to my music makes my mind slow down for just a little while. My body feels more relaxed afterwards. Same with watching something I like. It's a comfort, almost.” Virgil tapped his fingers against the table. “This is a tough question, dude.”

Logan leaned back in his chair. “I apologize.”

“No, it's okay. Really, I just need to think for a minute. Um...it feels warm in my chest sometimes. I guess that's about it. Well, starting a new episode almost feels like anxiety for me. But then again, most emotions turn into anxiety for me. That's just how anxiety works,” Virgil said. Then he asked, “What does it feel like for you?”

Putting his hands on his chest, Logan says, “I'm not sure. I have alexithymia, so I have a difficult time labeling emotions. I can sometimes describe it in physical sensations, though. And my excitement about my special interests feels like my heart and my lungs and my stomach are all on fire, if being on fire felt good and didn't hurt.”

“Sounds intense.”

“It is.” Logan looked down as Chex put her head against his leg. Her sweet brown eyes blinked up at him, and a soft warmth spread through his chest. “Hello,” he said. “Hello, Chex. Your ears are very soft.” He stroked her head.

“She wants to make sure that you're okay,” Virgil said. “She...she can hear changes in people's voices and checks up on them, even if it isn't me.”

“I'm alright. I don't have excellent volume control, or tone control. I never know what I sound like, exactly.” He couldn't tear his eyes away from the beautiful dog. “But I suppose that talking about my experiences with emotion do cause me some distress, which could have emerged in my voice without my noticing.”

Virgil stood up and walked over to the living room. “Want to come sit over here, Lo?” he offered.

“Um, alright.” Logan went over to join him. Chex followed him, and all three of them sat down on the ground. “Why?”

“Why does talking about your emotions distress you?” Virgil asked.

Logan froze up. “Because they are difficult,” he said slowly. “And I do not understand them. I do not like talking to people about things I do not understand.”

“Are you worried that someone might tell you that your emotions are wrong?”

A confused, bad feeling swirled around inside him. Chex laid her head and front paws in his lap, and he felt calmer. “Perhaps, but I'm not sure that I understand the question,” Logan admitted, running his hands down the dog's fur. It was almost as soothing as a full-body stim, and the pressure of her weight against his legs added to that effect.

“I mean, do you think that someone will come along and tell you that the way you are labeling your emotions is wrong? That the words you use to describe your experiences are incorrect?” Virgil tried to clarify.

“Yes, that is what happens.” It had happened many times before. The way he tried to describe what he was feeling to his mother or to his therapists had often been misinterpreted or simply ignored because it didn't make sense. Logan had learned to keep quiet about what he was feeling.

“But you're talking to me about it, even though it...scares you?” Virgil checked. “Is that right?”

Logan shifted. “Yes.”

Virgil smiled. “I think that means you trust me. Thank you.”

“I do trust you,” Logan said. “And I have learned that you and Patton and Roman are worthy of my trust. You've never once tried to make me act normally, or made fun of me.”

“It sucks that the bar is so low,” sighed Virgil.

Logan kept petting Chex. “I don't know that that means, exactly, in this context.”

“Um, it means that I don't think that somebody not laughing at you or trying to change you into something you're not should be the bar, the threshold or limit, for whether or not you can trust them. I mean...I guess what I really mean is that it sucks that you don't get that from everyone. In a perfect world, nobody would make fun of anyone or try to change them,” Virgil explained.

“But we do not live in a perfect world,” Logan reminded him.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. I know that very well.”

Chex whined softly and raised her head to look at Virgil. Her tail thumped a few times against the floor, and he scooted closer to put his hand on her back. He closed his eyes. Logan didn't say anything. They sat there petting Chex in silence for a while, and it was a soothing silence. Logan felt much calmer and less bad by the time his mother arrived to pick him up and take him home. 

He sat in the living room and watched Ian flutter around his plants as the afternoon trailed on. His mother chatted to him as she cleaned and prepared dinner, but he wasn't listening. He was off in his own head, trying to imagine a perfect world.

___________________________________

Sorry for the long wait and the fairly short chapter! I’m working on the next one. But also I’m going back to work next week, and school starts a couple weeks after that, so who knows when I’m going to have time to write? Ah, well. I’ll do what I can.

And hey, check out Time and Time’s Turning if you like my writing! It’s a fairy AU with eventual Royality and Analogical. Also, it has art!!!!! <3 ~Martin

[afanoftheglassscientists]

The Glass Scientists...Midnight Predictions?

Pupy and his creatures hath returned and I immediately wanted to start this week’s predictions after last week’s page.  If the tgs tag wasn’t so cozy I might have made like seven different posts by the time this Sunday.  As it stands I feel like if I do more than three posts a week I’ll end up swallowing everyone else’s hard work because of the frequency.  These posts are long because I still have some restraint left in me to wait...but then I spend way too long on this post and Monday rolls around...whoops.  So now this is...a Glass Scientists MIDNIGHT Predictions post!!!

Anyway tailors are scary and they scare me, but I wonder why Jasper’s a little frazzled at the thought of them?  Also Jekyll what are you doing with Jasper’s collar?  Are you straightening it or loosening it?  I hope its the latter because my child must be set  f r e e.  F R E E   H I M  !  !  !

After exploring these questions regarding tomorrow’s page I’ll be talking about Jasper’s immunity to the nightmates.  Last week I actually came close in predicting that Jekyll can still concentrate on doing productive things like helping Jasper, but last page reminded me of what makes Jasper unique in the story as well as my predictions made for this chapter as whole.  It also reminded me that Jekyll’s desire to be depended upon is going to be even more prominent now than I thought, and its going to get worse before it gets better.  Hopefully it gets better.  Please let it get better Miss Sabrina.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you this one was going to be long folks.  

Tomorrow’s Page Predictions (Ch. 8, Pg. 8)

Tailoring Troubles

I feel I need to acknowledge the elephant in the room here:  Jasper is queer.  This isn’t up for debate.  Sabrina made it very clear that almost everyone in The Glass Scientists is Bi, and she specifically referred to Jasper and Jekyll as queer.  I don’t think its much of a stretch to assume Jasper doesn’t feel great about being measured because of this aspect of him, which he might not be proud of yet and is also scared of what might happen if that part of him is revealed.  Not to jump the gun here, but maybe Jasper calling himself a monster in Chapter 2 wasn’t in reference to him being a werewolf.

“I’m not a real scientist!  I’m not even a real human anymore!  I’m...just a monster.”

“Just” meaning “what’s left for them to be,” and not “what they’ve become.”

However I’m not going to get into specifics as to why Jasper’s identity plays into his fear of tailoring here, because I think that requires us knowing more about how Jasper actually identifies, which at this point in time is still pretty vague.  So instead I’m making a list of all the other reasons why Jasper might not want to meet a tailor.

Tailor might judge him for his usual attire.

Tailor have long snake-like ropes that wrap around you that don’t have cute doggy faces so whatd the point I ask of you.

Tailor might make comments about Jasper’s body like, “oh nice collarbone,” or “you could lose some weight a bit here,” and it might be a nice gesture to ease tensions but don’t

While being measured Jasper is scared breathing will mess with the measurements and consequently almost passes out.

Jasper has a bunch of bites and scratches all over his body due to his creatures (plus the werewolf that bit him) and he thinks its fine and normal but the tailor might faint in horror.

If tailor accidentally pokes him he might jump out of his skin and attach himself to the ceiling.

Jekyll wht r you doin?

While Jekyll is making Jasper uncomfortable at the mention of tailoring he is doing something that would make me uncomfortable in Jasper’s situation.  Don’t just go messing with other peoples clothes, Jekyll!  Especially when its around their neck!  Anyway what he’s doing with that bow?

Option 1 - He’s rearranging the bow to make it even - alright fair, but he should have warned Jasper first!  I feel like a PTA mom ready to call the principal.

Option 2 - He’s removing the bow altogether - F R E E  H I M.  In Sabrina’s blog waaaaaaaaay back when one of the sketches introducing Jasper showed him sitting down looking like he just went through a sauna and is giving the dopiest look.  I feel like releasing him from the bow prison and being able to take a full breadth would give him the same feeling.  Listen we got the Hungry Jasper we will get the Dopey Jasper!

Option 3 - He’s replacing the bow with a bow that might suit him better - No keep it off let Jasper be f r e e.

Option 4 - He just wants to play dress up - I’M CALLING YOUR MOM!!!

Option 5 - Jekyll doesn’t have the chance because Jasper backs away at the thought of tailors - You win this round uneven bow.

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General Predictions

Before Chapter 8 started I predicted that Jasper would join the Concerned for Jekyll Club.  I was also going to add that if Jasper does try to show concern for Jekyll, Jekyll would hit back that concern and center it toward Jasper.  He wants to help and fuss over Jasper, and NEVER wants that help and fussing over to be geared toward him.  Being fussed over implies he has a problem.  Jekyll doesn’t have a problem, Jasper has the problem!  That’s why he needs to help Jasper, see?  Its important they keep that dynamic, otherwise Jekyll would have to confront his own issues and that’s just not as fun.

And what do you know: Lanyon, who is a professional Jekyll fusser-over, is deeply affected by the nightmates, but Jasper, who’s still preoccupied with his own worries, isn’t.  Hyde said so himself-

“Jasper’s the only person left who isn’t yelling at, gossiping about, or relentlessly fussing over Jekyll.  And that’s a problem.”

Now Hyde’s not mad at Jasper here, because this has nothing to do with Jasper and has to do entirely with Jekyll’s perception of him, which is as a reprieve, or to put in the Broadway show Wicked’s terms, a “new project.”  He’s a opportunity for Jekyll to practice his hobby, like a office worker getting the chance to write a few extra pages in his novel about snails.  And a novel about snails wouldn’t ask its author to take a break now would it?

Jasper’s not targeted by the nightmates because he hasn't done anything yet to change Jekyll’s view of him.  He’s a nice young man who has agreed to be a respectable mad scientist under Jekyll’s wing.  Both parties get something out of this arrangement, and there is no possible way for this to go wrong.  Easy peasy...

So How Does This Go Wrong

For me, there’s three ways for Jasper’s nightmate-free bubble to burst: Jasper confronts Jekyll, Jasper is negatively affected by Jekyll’s attention, or Jekyll is forced to recognize how dependent he is on Jasper’s need for his help.  Here’s how we could get to any of these points-

Jasper Starts to Put the Pieces Together - I still have my money on Jasper being more observant than he lets on, but is easily distracted by outside situations or inner fears.  If Jasper starts to remedy these self fears he might have a moment to register how Jekyll is much more enthusiastic about helping him than he is with, say, helping a sick elderly mad scientist up in the attic.  Or how Jekyll looks at his fellow lodgers and Lanyon versus how he looks at Jasper.  Or how Jekyll doesn’t seem to do have anything else to do on his free time.  Oh he still treats Frankenstein and go to important meetings, but if Jasper asks what Jekyll does on his off-time would Jekyll give him that same blank-eyed stare he gave him in front of his door?  I don’t think he’d be creeped out right away, but he might start to think that Jekyll needs to like, sleep or something...

Lodgers Gossip and/or are also Worried - The Lodgers gossip about Jekyll, that’s pretty clear from Hyde’s comment, which is why they’re affected by the nightmates.  And what’s this?  Jekyll seems to concentrate an awful lot on Jasper.  Why is that?  I think there might be a mix of Lodgers who will gossip about Jasper alongside Jekyll, Lodgers on Team Frankenstein who want to bring Jasper on their side of the playing field or at least out from under Jekyll’s “respectable” thumb, and maybe Lodgers who realize that Jekyll treating Jasper like his personal therapy tool is, like, bad and want to either tell off Jekyll or tell Jasper this isn’t a great situation.  Jasper might not see it as a serious issue, but he might be inclined to start doubting it.

Lanyon Confronts Jekyll on it OR Tell Jasper About Jekyll’s Situation - Hyde’s annoyed at Jekyll being around Jasper basically because Jasper’s NOT doing things that Lanyon would do, which is hilarious given how much Hyde tooootally hates Lanyon.  So wouldn’t it be funny if Lanyon was the one to burst the bubble?  Anyway there’s a likely chance that Lanyon will notice how Jasper seems to be the only Lodger who doesn’t see Jekyll stressed, because he doesn’t realize that he’s the de-stresser.  And if he does than Lanyon will have to first go, “Really Henry, ANOTHER werewolf!?” and then go, “How do I handle this situation in regards to Jekyll’s problems, not to mention finding Hyde?”  He might find issues with their dynamic (n-not that he’d be jealous or anything! b-b-baka!) and tell Jekyll he should probably take a break, or tell Jasper he needs to refuse Jekyll’s help every single time he offers it, because it could hurt Jekyll in the long run.  He could also try to set aside his concerns and use it to his advantage.  Jekyll doesn’t seem to want Lanyon’s company or answer his questions, but maybe if Jasper asked questions Jekyll would be more willing to give answers, even if its not truthful answers.   I do a lot of predictions centered around problems Jekyll, Jasper and Hyde have, along with a little bit of Rachel’s flaws, but I think I might talk more on Lanyon’s faults as well at a later date.

Frankenstein -  Just Frankenstein.  That’s it.  That’s all it takes.  I’ll leave you to imagine how she’d affect the situation.

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Okay I need to stop here.  I might come back to the topic later because it involves Jasper but for now I think it filled my quota.  I hope you enjoy this while we wait for tomor...this morning’s page.

And since this is a midnight post...

That’s it for this midnight prediction.  Now go to bed!