#or something like that if his hubris would let him

[indulgentcosmos]

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Bonus 13: Beware the Grapes of Wrath.

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[trianglegoddess]

I'm Still Standing

The League felt like they had a strong sense of Phantom’s power. After all, they wouldn’t have asked him to join the team, otherwise. He’s strong, he can fly, and due to his supernatural nature, he’s amazing on recon and stealth missions. He’s also incredibly reliable, and smarter than most people give him credit for. He’s a natural hero, a more snarky Captain Marvel, some news outlets have been saying. Always saving people with just the right words to say, with a humble smile on his face. 

Phantom, with all of his power, seemed untouchable in every definition of the word. 

And then they got invaded by Darkseid. 

It wasn’t the first time Darkseid had invaded Earth, but it was the first time bringing armies so large, the first time he’s attacked all over the world to spread the League thin. It is single handedly the worst alien invasion Earth has ever had. 

Batman, bleeding out on the sidewalk, Wonder Woman knocked unconscious and restrained by a nearly egregious amount of henchmen, Superman, weak from the kryptonite Darkseid had shot him with. Thankfully it had missed all the important bits, but with that bullet inside of him, Superman was also down for the count, as well as dozens of other League members. 

If it hadn’t been for Phantom, they would have lost. 

Phantom, who’s never been seen without a smile on his face until now. Phantom, who’s never had so much as a scratch on him, until now. Phantom, who has only ever been known to be kind and compassionate, even to his villains, until now. 

Usually there’s this sort of warm, comforting feeling that radiates from Phantom. It feels like a nice breeze on a warm summer’s day, a nice cup of hot cocoa, your favorite song. It’s a feeling of safety, as if everything will be alright just because he’s there. 

Here, though, something else, something much stronger, is radiating from him. It practically rolls off of him in huge waves, making those conscious around him more aggravated, more on edge.

Phantom pulls himself off of the ground. His suit is torn, and his green blood splattered on himself and the ground. He spits a glob of it out, along with a tooth. 

“Still, you stand,” Darkseid says, as if tired. “Do you not tire in the face of your own demise?”

“As long as I’m still standing, you won’t ever win,” Phantom says. His voice is low and threatening, reverberating eerily off of the broken infrastructure that surrounds them. It sends a chill down everybody’s spines, though if Darkseid is affected, he doesn’t show it. 

“Your comrades have fallen, your militaries have failed, and you have no other help arriving. Pray tell how one singular human will be able to take me down!” 

Phantom doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he walks forward so that his friends are behind him, and braces himself. Darkseid, unable to contain his own hubris, lets Phantom come closer. 

Phantom takes in a deep breath, as if he’s about to speak.  

Instead he wails. 

Any remaining glass shatters, raining down upon them as green sound waves push back the offending forces. 

And it’s loud, of course. The ears of Darkseid’s minions are bleeding, and many of them are either dying because it’s too much for them to bear, or they’re killing themselves to give themselves some modicum of relief. But it’s also more than that, more than noise. 

It’s mourning. 

The first feeling that overwhelms everyone is anger. Phantom’s anger at Darkseid, at the destruction, at the fact that he just can’t catch a fucking break and it’s not fair. The second, is the sadness. It weighs down upon their shoulders, suffocating them like smog. It invades every part of their being-their lungs, their joints, their very hearts-and it presses and presses and presses until there’s very nearly nothing left. 

Phantom still pushes on. He is nothing if not persistent, driven to fight, driven to protect his people, his team, his friends, his family. No mortal being could ever hope to have a lung capacity like this, but Phantom is no normal mortal, and Darkseid is finally starting to come to terms with that. 

The last wave of overwhelming emotion is more of an idea than it is an actual feeling. It’s not a threat, per se, but a promise. A promise to do everything in his power to destroy Darkseid and his forces permanently and with prejudice. A promise that no matter how hard Darkseid fights, he will not win. 

A promise that, if knocked down, Phantom will stand back up, and he will not lose. 

Eventually, after what feels like eternity, the wail dies down. There isn’t a single member of Darkseid’s army that’s still on their feet or in the air. Phantom collapses down to one knee, and bright, white rings flicker around his person for just a moment, before he wills them away and stands back up. 

It’s less walking towards Darkseid, and more stalking. They are not on equal footing. Phantom is the predator in every sense of the word, his anger and grief still radiating off of his body in ways that Darkseid is unable to comprehend. 

“Do you yield?” Phantom asks. His eyes are blazing green, burning into Darkseid’s very soul. It is a sort of animalistic, primal instinct deep within him that tells him, run, run as fast as you can. Darkseid’s hubris, however, remains unmatched. 

Even as he stares Death in the eye. 

“I do not,” Darkseid says. He tries to get to his feet, but his body won’t listen, still weighed down by the effects of Phantom’s wail. 

“Then as Phantom, King of the Dead, I hereby condemn you for the rest of your afterlife.”

“Don’t count your eggs yet, boy,” Darkseid spits. “I’m still alive.”

“No,” Phantom says, in a tone adjacent to someone who’s giving their condolences, “You’re not.”

Phantom gestures beside them, and Darkseid spares a glance and sees…Himself. 

His corpse is splayed on the ground, blood spurting out of his ears, nose, and eyes. He stares lifelessly up at the sky. The blood is still leaking down the sides of his face. 

“You’re dead now, Darkseid, and therefore under my jurisdiction. Due to your extensive list of crimes you will not receive a hearing, just your eternal damnation for the sins you’ve committed.”

Phantom waves his hand, and green chains and manacles appear on Darkseid’s wrists and ankles before he’s dusted out of existence, sent to his eternal punishment in another dimension. 

As soon as he’s gone, Phantom collapses to his knees. 

He’s not sure how long he’s there, sitting in the blood of those he’s killed, before Wonder Woman comes over. She’s covered in gashes and bruises and blood that isn’t hers, but she still stands tall and proud. A battle won is a reason for celebration, after all. 

He glances behind her, sees Superman taking Batman into his arms and flying off. 

Diana doesn’t ask him questions about how he’s feeling. A victory is a victory, sure, but not without its price. 

Instead, she holds out her hand. Danny grasps it, and allows her to help him to his feet. 

“As long as you can stand, you can win,” Diana says. “I think I’ll have to use that for my next big speech.”

“By all means,” Phantom tells her. “Just be sure to credit me.”

“Deal.”

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

02 / 627 words

You challenge Gaz to a pushup competition. And lose. What did you think would happen?

He keeps at it, though, maybe as a flex. Half-envious and half-curious, you lay on your stomach with your arms folded under your chin and watch him go. Gaz pushes himself up and down at the same even pace. You could always saboratge him, shove him over, but the satisfaction wouldn't last. Especially with his self-righteous ass taking it as permission to be a martyr about it. Wouldn't be the first time.

"Can you do those one-handed?" you ask him.

He glances at you. "Doesn't do much good for my triceps, but yeah, I can handle it."

"So what? Triceps, pff. The point of one-handed pushups is looking cool."

"If you can pull it off."

"Can you?"

"Obviously."

Gaz pushes up a little harder, repositioning one hand so it's centered under him when he comes down. The other hand he puts behind his back. To your disappointment, he continues with ease. He holds his body in perfect alignment despite the sheen of sweat glazing his skin.

"Wow, fine." You make yourself sound as unimpressed as possible. "Of course you can do it with your dominant arm. What about the other one?"

Gaz switches sides without missing a rep, making it look just as easy. You frown.

"That what you meant?" he asks.

"Yeah. Yeah. Okay, that was smooth," you admit.

"It's all in the form. Keep everything straight and taut. Can't do it properly if your body's all loose and jerking around."

"Uh-huh," you say absently. "What about weighted pushups? Like what if there were something on your back?"

"I've done it before. How come you want to know?"

"Just wondering what if I, like, sat on your back while you did it. Do you think you'd be strong enough?"

"Ah, is that it?" Gaz grins. He pauses his reps with his arm taught but slightly bent, bracing him in a plank. "Try it."

"Really?"

"I can take it."

"I'm heavy."

"Mmm, sure you are. Come on."

Gaz lowers himself to the ground. You hesitate, but he's not letting you back out. He's calling your bluff and he knows it.

"Chickening out?"

You huff and push yourself to your knees. "You wish."

You feel like a ton of clumsy bricks, lowering yourself down onto his back. You really try not to think about how your hand lands right above his shoulder blade or how his tank top leaves so much of his muscled back and shoulders exposed or how your ass slides against the firm curve of his lower back. You pray you're not too heavy. But Gaz either doesn't notice or doesn't mind. As soon as you're situated, draped over him sort of on your back and sort of on your side, he resumes his reps. Slower. Like he's accommodating you as you adjust.

You keep as still as you can. Gaz is as focused and professional as ever. But this is a bit more intimate than you anticipated. Damn him for forcing you to contend with the consequences of your actions. It's impossible not to notice and feel his back muscles at work. His strength is impressive. You're dismayed at the very idea that you thought you could beat Gaz in a test of arm strength. Hubris, that's what it was.

"Is this... helping? The weight?"

"Helping my training? Yeah, it seems to be working. You're good resistance."

"Oh. Thanks. Glad to be of service."

"Yeah? You feel alright on top of me?"

Your cheeks go a little pink at his phrasing. "Yeah. Best seat in the house."

"Is it?" Gaz wears a cheeky smirk, though you can't see it. "Keep it there, then. I like a little extra motivation."

...

[part 1] / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5

more Gaz / masterlist tag

[waitimcomingtoo]

Just to Learn That You Never Cared

Pairing: Peter Parker x reader

Synopsis: always leaving class together to go fight crime leads people to think you’re dating when in reality you’re barely even friends. That is, until you agree to fake a relationship to keep your secret life a secret

requested/idea by @usoppsstar

Masterlist

“Oh, hey. Your girlfriend left this in class.” One of Peter’s classmates said as he tossed Peter a hoodie.

“Oh. Thanks.” Peter said before realizing what the person had said. He turned the hoodie over in his hands and recognized it as yours. His face warmed up in a blush when he realized you had just been mistaken for his girlfriend. He shoved the hoodie into his bag and wondered if he should tell you or not.

Peter saw you later that night on a rooftop you frequented often. You were in your suit, as was he, but had your mask sitting beside you. You were munching on a bag of chips and wordlessly extended them to him when he landed on the rooftop beside you. He smiled graciously and took a few before sitting down next to you. Your knees were touching but neither of you moved away.

“You left this in physics, dingus.” Peter said and handed you your hoodie.

“Oh, thanks. We had to run out of there so fast to save that lady. I must’ve left it behind.” You smiled gratefully and pulled it over your head. Peter felt bad that his high tech suit had built in heaters and your homemade suit was probably leaving you freezing every night. He wanted to suggest sharing his warmth, but he didn’t want to overstep.

“I know. Thank God she called the police on those kids for selling lemonade without a permit. I’m really glad we left a test to go witness that heinous crime.”

“It’s not all bad. We did get to see the cops arrest her for wasting their time by making a fake police report, which is always satisfying. And the kids gave us free lemonade. But I think calling it “homemade” was bullshit. I know Minute Maid when I taste it.” You replied, making Peter chuckle.

“You’re right. Both those things were enjoyable.” Peter agreed. “But I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I feel like we have to leave class every other day.”

“I know. Why did we have to pick a college in such a Karen ridden neighborhood?” You sighed.

“Because we wanted to go to the good school with the good science program. We should’ve known the neighborhood would be full of bored housewives who call the police whenever they have a minor complaint. It was our own hubris.”

“It was.” You chuckled and said looked over at him. You exchanged soft smiles before you looked over at the city horizon. Peters eyes never left you and he cleared his throat to get your attention.

“So, uh, my aunt and I were gonna get Chinese food later. At the place that got shut down for being a front for money laundering but that was really just a front for a second Chinese food chain.”

“Oh, I love that place.”

“Yeah. It’s great.” He nodded. “Anyways, you should totally come-“

Peter was cut off by the police radio he wired to his phone going off. He rolled his eyes and checked what the alert was.

“Damn it. Robbery at the bakery on 9th.” He told you.

“Lowkey, I’d do the same. Their cream puffs made me cream.” You said as you put your mask back on.

“Haha, yeah.” Peter chuckled. “Wait, what?”

“You should get some sleep. I’ll handle the robbery. But I’ll catch you tomorrow, Parker. Get home safe.” You saluted him before falling backwards off the building.

“I love you too.” Peter sighed.

“Did you say something?” You asked and popped back up.

“No.” Peter quickly lied.

“Okay. Well, see you tomorrow.” You waved to him and disappeared again. Peter let out another sigh before swinging home.

The next day, you ran after one of your classmates once class was let out.

“Hey, Carly. I emailed you my notes from the class you missed.” You told her.

“Thank you so much. You’re a life saver.” She replied. “Oh, and could you tell your boyfriend that band practice is in the gym today?”

“Yeah, sure. No problem.” You agreed. She was about to walk away when you realized what she had said.

“Wait, what am I saying?” You wondered. “Who’s my boyfriend?”

“You know. That guy with the prescription shoes.” Carly answered. You tilted your head in confusion until you realized you knew exactly who she was talking about.

“Wait, Peter?” You laughed in surprise. You expected her to laugh too and reveal she was just kidding but she looked completely serious.

“Oh, right. Peter. Why do I always think his name is Timmy?” Carly wondered.

“Because he looks like a Timmy. He gets it all the time.” You waved your hand. “And his shoes are not prescription. He just bought women’s platform shoes because he wanted to be taller and didn’t think anyone could tell.”

“We can.” Carly mumbled.

“I know.” You agreed. “But, I’m getting off topic. Timmy is not my boyfriend. I mean, Peter is not my boyfriend.”

“Whatever label you guys use, can you tell him that wind ensemble is meeting in the gym instead of the choir room? The sopranos kicked us out again to practice or do drugs or something.” Carly explained. You furrowed your eyebrows at her and tried to figure out if she was joking or not.

“The label? I’m so lost. Who told you that Peter’s my boyfriend?”

“Nobody told me.” She shrugged. “Everyone just knows that you guys are a couple.”

“Well how would they know something that isn’t true?” You asked and folded your arms.

“I mean, it’s not like you guys try to keep it a secret. Between all the whispering and staying close by each other. Plus you’re always sneaking out of class together or showing up late. And if one of you is absent, the other always is too. It’s been like that since high school. People just put two and two together I guess. Why, did you want to to be secret?”

“I didn’t want it to be anything. We’re not even dating.” You insisted and felt like you were going crazy.

“You don’t have to deny it.” Carly laughed. “I know feelings are weird and gross and stuff and you’ve never been the relationship type, but I think this guy is good for you. He brings something out in you. I don’t know. But you guys are cute. I love seeing the nice loser and assertive pretty girl troupe in real life.”

“Oh. Well, thank you.” You calmed down momentarily and smiled a little. Carly walked away and your smile quickly faded when you remembered what she had said. You looked around the hallway and saw another student holding an instrument.

“Hey. Band nerd.” You called out to him.

“Me?” He asked and pointed to himself.

“Yes, you. You had to let go of your saxophone case to point to yourself. Have you seen my boyfriend today?” You asked him.

“Peter? I haven’t seen him since yesterday in-“

“That sentence better not end with “wind ensemble” or I’m gonna lose it.”

“It was wind ensemble.” He said quickly.

“I’m leaving.” You shook your head and walked away from him. You pulled out your phone and went straight to your schools “campus sweethearts” page on instagram. Sure enough, there was a picture of you and Peter sitting next to each other right at the top of the page. You had your head thrown back laughing at something he was saying and he was looking at you fondly. You let out a shocked gasp and before walking out into the courtyard to look for Peter. You spotted him on a bench and smiled.

“Yes. Thank you, small campus”. You pumped your fist and went to sit next to him.

“Oh, hi. I was just thinking about you-“

“Someone is spreading a horrible rumor about you.” You cut him off.

“Oh no.” Peter frowned. “What is it? Is it bad?”

“Horrible.” You shook your head. “Peter, they’re saying you’re in wind ensemble.”

“Oh, I am.” Peter shrugged.

“Huh?”

“I play the clarinet . See. Clarinet.” Peter said and lifted up his little black clarinet case.

“Huh?” You said louder.

“I used to play in high school, pre-bite but post 9/11. I saw a flyer for orchestra on campus so I joined.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” You practically shouted. Peter knew you weren’t happy but felt strangely honored that you were so upset over him not telling you something about her personal life.

“Because I know how you feel about band nerds.” He replied. “And you and I don’t really talk about non-work related things. I didn’t think you’d care.”

“Are you kidding me? Of course I care.” You insisted. “My rumored boyfriend has been in wind ensemble this whole time and I didn’t even know?”

“Wait, rumored boyfriend? Who, me?” Peter asked in surprised.

“So you didn’t know about this either?”

“No. I mean, someone did refer to you as my girlfriend the other day but I thought it was just an accident. People think you and me are dating?” Peter asked and tried not to look as pleased as he felt.

“Apparently. I’ve had multiple people refer to you as my boyfriend today. And look. We’re on the campus couples Instagram page.” You said and held up your phone.

“Ew. We have one of those?” Peter grimaced and took your phone to see the picture better.

“Yeah. I honestly think the principle runs it.” You replied. Peter was quiet as he stared at the picture for a while.

“What?” You wondered.

“Nothing. This just a cute picture of us. And I think the only picture of us.” He said with a shy smile. You frowned and looked at the picture again before realizing he was right.

“Carly said people think we’re dating since we’re always sneaking off together.” You told him. Peter thought out this for a minute and then made another connection.

“Ohhhh.” He said and nodded his head.

“What?”

“This explains why the boys congratulated me on the bus back to New York after the Washington monument trip for losing my virginity at a historic landmark.”

“You lost your virginity on that trip? To who?” You whispered harshly and felt jealousy burning through your veins.

“You, apparently.” He laughed. “You and I disappeared to get the glowy alien egg bomb thing back and I guess everyone assumed we were off desecrating a national monument.”

“Oh my God. That was like 3 years ago.” You realized. “People have thought we were dating this whole time? We need to put a stop to this.”

“Yeah. You’re right. Or…” Peter trailed off and gave you a look.

“Or?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Or, we lean into it.” He suggested. “We let people think it. We encourage it, even.”

“Why would we do that?”

“People have been suspicious about where we go and what we’re doing since high school. We can only fake so many illnesses and I ran out of grandparents to lie about the death of by junior year. So if people already made up a reason, maybe we should let them think that. We don’t have to go out of our way to confirm it but we can keep the assumption going to keep them from finding out what we’re really doing.”

“So you think we should let people think we’re dating so they stop wondering about what we’re always off doing?”

“That’s exactly what I just said, yes.” Peter nodded.

“Hey. Be nicer to your fake girlfriend.” You said and smacked his arm.

“I’m sorry. I will.” Peter blushed and rubbed his arm. You felt bad for hitting him and wrapped both arms around him to rub them up and down. He smiled softly at you and you sat in comfortable silence for a moment.

“You play the clarinet?” You asked after a minute.

“Squidward made it look so cool.” Peter shrugged.

“Did he?” You asked, making Peter laugh.

“No.” He admitted.

The next day, you and Peter walked to school together with the understanding that from then on out, you were going to play the part of a happy couple. You weren’t going to go around announcing it to everyone or anything. You just needed to convince the few that didn’t already believe the rumor and confirm things for the ones who did believe it.

“You ready for this?” You asked Peter as you stepped into campus.

“I think so. Maybe we should hold hands or something. You know, since people think we’re dating.” Peter suggested and tried to make it sound like it didn’t matter to him.

“I guess so.” You shrugged and held out your hand. Peter eagerly took your hand and took note of the way it fit in his like it was made for him.

“This is weird.” You whispered to him, popping his bubble.

“Why? Are my hands sweaty?” He panicked.

“No. Just really, really hot.” You told him. “It’s just weird that nobody seems to care that we’re holding hands right now.”

“I mean, we are just two random people with almost no social presence.”

“That’s true. I guess I just thought people would care more.” You admitted as you looked around the campus. No one was phased by you and Peter, but he was too busy enjoying the moment to realize it.

“Are you disappointed?” He asked you.

“Yeah. I wore my best bra because I thought I’d be getting more attention today.” You frowned and adjusted the strap of your bra.

“It’s okay. I’ll take one for the team and stare at your boobs.” Peter assured you.

“Aw. Thank you.” You gushed and gave his hand a squeeze.

You got to your physics class and sat together at your usual lab table. Peter looked around the classroom while you carried on as usual.

“Maybe I should put my arm around you. You know, to really convince people.” Peter suggested with a shy blush on his face.

“Is that really something people do?” You genuinely wondered. “I feel like I never see couples with their arms around each other.”

“Actually, I don’t think I have either. But let’s try it anyway.” He said and wrapped an arm around you. You scooted closer to him so that you could comfortably lean into him. You quickly realized you didn’t hate it and let out a content sigh.

“Hm.” Peter made a little noise at the back of his throat.

“What?” You asked him.

“Our height difference makes this hurt my shoulder.” He leaned over to whisper in your ear.

“Then move your arm.” You whispered back.

“I can’t. I just wrapped it around you. It’ll look weird if I immediately take it off.” Peter said as he covered behind him to see who was looking.

“Or, consider this. Nobody in this entire city, and dare I say world, cares where your arm is right now.” You whispered harshly.

“Fine. I’ll remove it. But I have to give a reason.” He told you before loudly clearing his throat.

“Ah. Sorry, babe. I can’t cuddle you right now. My arm is sore from band practice.” Peter said loud enough for everyone in the classroom to hear him. You hung your head in shame and heard people murmuring about his strange comment.

“Oh God.” Peter gulped. “People are looking. They’re gonna know something is up. I have to put it back.”

He went to put his arm back around you but you stopped him before he could draw any more attention to the two of you.

“Just do this.” You whispered to him and pulled his stool closer to you and turned towards him a little. Your knees and were touching and you were now facing each other.

“That’s it? No one can even see this.” Peter said in disappointment. He thought being your fake boyfriend would bring you guys closer but you were sitting the way you always sat in class.

“It’s not about what people can see. It’s about proximity.” You explained. “We’re sitting closer together than anyone else is without being egregious about it. It’s a simple touch. If we’ve been together as long as people think we have, we don’t need to be wrapped around each other all the time. A simple touch to let the other know we’re there is all we need.”

Peter was silent as he stared at you following your explanation. He stared for so long that you felt yourself blush under the eye contact.

“What?” You asked him.

“I like the way you explain things.” Peter said simply. You quickly looked down so he wouldn’t see the effect that comment had on you and took a moment to collect yourself.

“It’s just something I thought of.” You shrugged.

“I know. But I never would have thought of that. Especially not as naturally as it did for you. You’re so quick.”

“Thank you.” You laughed shyly and found yourself unable to look away from him. Peter opened his mouth to say something to keep the momentum rolling but his phone interrupted him.

“Shoot. Sus-tivity on the b bridge.” He whispered.

“What the hell does that mean?” You asked at full volume.

“It means there’s suspicious activity on the Brooklyn bridge.” He rolled his eyes. “We have to act fast so I didn’t have time to say the whole thing.”

“But you just said the whole thing. And the abridged version. So it took twice as long.”

“Shh.” He waved his hand. “We gotta go.”

You reluctantly collected your things and took Peter’s hand to pull him out of his seat. Peter followed you out the classroom but the teacher cleared her throat when you walked by.

“And where are you two going?” She asked. You and Peter exchanged looks as the class snickered and murmured their theories about what exactly you were heading off to do.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Pepper. My girlfriend and I have to leave class unexpectedly. Please excuse us. It’s urgent.” Peter’s said politely.

“I bet it’s urgent, Parker.” A boy snickered, making serval classmates laugh.

“Gross.” You wrinkled your noses and looked at the boys in disdain.

“Fine.” The teacher sighed. “The only reason I don’t write you two up for skipping so often is because you somehow have the best grades in the class. Go on. Just get the homework done.”

“We will.” You assured her before leaving the room with Peter. Peter noticed that you didn’t drop his hand even when you were alone in the hallway.

“Hey, you know that teachers name is Dr. Zhang and not Dr. Pepper, right?” You asked him.

“Oh my God.” Peter gasped. “Is it really? I’ve emailed her so many times and said “Dear Dr. Pepper”. We have to drop out.”

You laughed and held his hand the rest of the way out of the building.

That night, Peter laid in his bed with his phone held close to his face. He had been trying to figure out what to text you to let you know he had been thinking of you.

“I had fun fighting crime with you today” He wrote out. He read it over before scrunching his nose.

“No. Too cringe. She is not gonna fall in love with someone that says “fighting crime”. I’m not Paw Patrol.” He said like it was obvious. He deleted his text and thought of another one.

“I had a good time today, we make a good team” He wrote out instead. He read it a few times until he found issue with it.

“Oh, you had a good time stopping those break dancers that were obstructing that Sbarro? That’ll catch her attention.” Peter said sarcastically and deleted the text.

“have a goodnight :)” He typed out and then shook his head.

“No. Wayyyy too horny.” He sighed and deleted it again.

“night” He wrote out and read it a few times.

“This is good. I can work with this.” He nodded. He was about to workshop it when a text from you popped up.

“pick a color” It said. Peters heart skipped a beat at the vague message and replied with the first color that popped into his head.

“blue”

“thank u” You wrote back within seconds. Peters heart stopped pounded and the disappointment that the conversation was over settled in. After all these years of fighting crime together, you two never really managed to make it past the coworkers stage. He was desperate for more but never knew how to get there.

“no homo but I had fun fighting crime with you today” You suddenly texted again. A smile tugged at Peter’s lips and he touched his as if it were your face.

“ok paw patrol” He wrote back. Back in your room, you were laughing at his text and trying to think of a witty reply.

“ur mad bc you know I’m the chase 🐶” You texted him.

“if ur the Chase then who am I?”

“plssss ur such a marshall” You wrote back.

“but that’s the third most important dog :(“ Peter replied.

“well yes but he’s cute and wears red so the little paw patrol shoe fits” You answered. A blush painted Peters cheeks over you calling him cute but he didn’t want to read too much into it.

“Im wearing red right now😳” He texted back.

“oh I bet you are” You answered, making him laugh. He kept the conversation going for about an hour before duty called once again. Peter groaned and put his suit on before swinging to the scene of the crime. He met you there and stopped the crime before stopping on a nearby rooftop to rest.

“These burglars aren’t very considerate of our sleep schedules. Who robs a Jersey Mikes after midnight? Or, like, ever?” Peter huffed as he tugged his mask off.

“I know. They’re always at inconvenient times. I was in the middle of painting my nails.”

“Can I see?” He asked in a soft voice. You pulled your gloves off and held out your hand for him to see.

“Look. Blue. But I only got half way through before Mike’s was targeted.”

“It’s okay. They still look pretty.” Peter complimented you with a soft smile.

“Thanks. You picked a good color.” You replied.

“What do you mean?” He frowned.

“I told you to pick a color. This is why.” You explained and held out your hand again. His eyes lit up at this new information and he took your hand to see your nails closer.

“You let me chose your nail color?” He smiled fondly.

“Well I didn’t know what to chose so I thought I’d ask the audience.” You shrugged and felt shy all of the sudden.

“Oh. And I’m the target audience, huh?” Peter smirked and turned towards you.

“I never said target.” You teased him and shoved him shoulder.

“I must be hearing things, then.” He shrugged as you both smiled.

“Yeah. Must be.” You said in a soft voice as you stared into his eyes. Peter gulped before making a bold move and taking your hand again under the guise of looking at your nails.

“Look at you. You even got my favorite shade.” He noted.

“You like “Eating For Blue”?” You pretended to gasp.

“Is that really the name of the color?” He laughed.

“Uh huh. It was apart of Essie’s baby fever collection. I almost chose “All In Blue Time” but that’s one tends to get little air bubbles and they give me agida. And I used to have “A Dream Come Blue” but it rolled under the sink so it belongs to the dust bunnies now.” You shrugged as you checked out your nails.

“Wow. This is all new information to me. So, are all nail polish colors named after puns and wordplay?” He asked as he stared into your eyes. He didn’t really care, but he was finally getting somewhere with you and didn’t want it to end.

“In my experience, yes. Not always color related wordplay but always something that makes you go yeah, I guess this shade of beige is what the word “ladylike” would be as a color.”

“This is blowing my mind right now.” Peter chuckled.

“You mean blue-ing your mind.” You corrected and tapped the side of your head.

“I think you inhaled too many of those fumes. Because that was not funny.” Peter said through a laugh.

“What?” You pretended to be offended. “You’re literally laughing right now. I’m so funny.”

“You are.” Peter admitted when his laughter died down. You stared into eyes for a minute before smiling.

“Is that what you rumored saw in me?” You asked him.

“Probably.” He chuckled. “I also heard a rumor that I think you’re really pretty. Like, the prettiest girl I was ever rumored to have allegedly seen.”

“Now you’re the one who’s looney from the fumes because that’s a straight up lie. I know you’ve seen prettier girls because I was standing right next to you when Anne Hathaway left that diner.” You said without making eye contact with him. Things were moving a little too fast and you needed it hit the brakes for a second.

“Oh, yeah. You’re right.” Peter forced a laugh and awkwardly looked over at the cityscape when he realized you were politely telling him to pull back.

“But I appreciate it.” You said after a beat of silence.

“Of course. Sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking saying that.” He laughed nervously. “I was just getting caught up in the fake dating. We’ve been doing it for so long that it felt real.”

“We only started this morning.” You reminded him.

“Right. Well, it’s late. I’m gonna go home.” He said quickly and stood up. He had just blown that and needed to leave as quickly as possible.

“Okay. Goodnight. See you at school.” You called after him. Peter swung home with tears in his eyes and went straight to bed, missing your text about having fun fighting another crime.

The next day at school, Peter decided to start over and push last night from his mind. He played the part of your boyfriend to the best of his abilities and opened every door, pulled out every seat, and carried ever book for you all day long. Then he did it the next day, and the day after that. He kept his mouth shut about his feelings day in and day out no matter how painful it was getting. You and Peter had finally moved past the coworker stage and become real friends so he didn’t want to sabotage it all by telling you that he spent his days wishing for more.

“What are your plans tonight?” You asked him one day as you walked out of class together.

“My aunt is going out with her friends so I was probably gonna watch a movie on my couch. But on my laptop with my earbuds in. Likely in my boxers. Likely with an entire package of Twizzlers. Why?”

“Well I was gonna suggest that we hang out but you sound booked.”

“Really? You want to hang out?” Peter asked with much more enthusiasm than he intended.

“If you want. I’m not doing anything as exciting as boxers and Twizzlers.”

“I would love to. I’ll put on pants for you. I promise.”

“Sounds good.” You laughed. “Text me your address, okay?”

“Sure. Or you could walk with me now. Unless you’re tired of me and need a break before we hang out.” Peter suggested as you left campus together.

“It’s funny you say that. I was just telling my mom the other day that I never get tired of you.” You said casually.

“You..you don’t?” Peter’s face heated up as he followed you down the sidewalk.

“I don’t. I usually need a break from other people if we’ve been together awhile but it’s different with you. It doesn’t feel like I’m using my social battery if that makes sense.“

“It makes sense.” He smiled shyly as your hands bumped against each others. He was about to make a bold move and take your hand despite no one being around but you suddenly moved it to hit the crosswalk button.

Back at Peter’s apartment, he awkwardly gave you a tour and wished he had picked up his clothes before leaving the house that morning. You didn’t seem to mind the socks and boxers strewn across his room because you were too focused on all the little things he kept on his shelves. You picked up a picture frame of your freshman year high school class that had you and Peter seated right next to each other. Your friendship had only just begun so you often forgot how long you knew him for.

“So this is your room.” You smiled and put the picture back.

“Yup. This is where the magic happens.” Peter said and immediately cringed at himself.

“Oh really?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah. This is where I practice magic. Wanna see?” He asked and picked up a deck of cards. You laughed and went over to take one.

“Is your card the ace of spades?” He asked.

“Queen of hearts.” You snorted and turned the card around.

“You’re the queen of my heart.” He whispered.

“Did you say something?” You asked as you looked at all his Legos.

“I asked what you wanted to do tonight.” He lied.

“I don’t know. We have the place to ourselves. We could do something rated R.” You said with a coy smile.

“Like what?” Peter gulped.

“Watch an R rated movie, you perv. Your aunt isn’t here to stop you.”

“You remember me telling you that I’m not allowed to watch R rated movies in the living room anymore?” Peter blushed at you remembering something he had randomly told you long ago.

“Are you referring to the time you watched Tusk at full volume while she had her friends from work over for the first time? How could I forget?”

“In my defense, I didn’t know what the movie was about. And I didn’t think her friends were gonna come into the living room and see that guy getting turned into a walrus.”

“Yeah, the title and cover art gave no indication that the movie would end that way. But that’s not a bad idea actually. Let’s watch something scary.”

“Okay.” Peter agreed and followed you out into the living room. He turned off the lights and got some snacks while you picked a movie. He hated scary movies but he was not about to tell you that. Instead, he sat on the couch beside you as a respectful distance and handed you a bag of chips. As the movie went on, you got closer and closer to each other. Peter had never really seen you scared before but you were practically in his lap just 40 minutes into the movie. You reached into the bag of chips at the same time as Peter and your fingers touched. You both froze and looked at each other as your faces heated up.

“Shit. I’m not wearing a condom.” Peter sighed, making you yank your hand out and laugh.

“You’re stupid.” You laughed and turned back to the movie just as a jump-scare happened. You screamed and jumped closer to Peter.

“This is so scary. Why did I pick this movie?” You asked as you drew your knees up and leaned into his side.

“Yeah, same.” He replied, not even listening. He couldn’t hear anything over the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. You were cuddled into his side with your head on his shoulder and knees in his lap with a blanket drawn up to your nose. He knew you were only cuddling him because you were scared but it didn’t even matter at that point. The movie went quiet for a minute and then made a loud sound, sending you to burry your face into Peter’s neck.

“Tell me when it’s safe to come out.” You whispered into his ear. Peter gulped and wrapped an arm around you to fully protect you from the movie.

“I will.” He said in a soft voice. You peaked your head out a few minutes later but stayed nestled into Peter’s side. You realized his arm was around you and smiled a little.

“Oh, this isn’t so bad.” You shrugged as the main character got eaten alive.

“I don’t understand you.” Peter chuckled and looked down at you. You laughed as well as you looked into his eyes. He was about to say something when another sharp sound from the movie caused you to jump.

“Hold my hand.” You blurted and grabbed his hand. Peter happily accepted and clasped your hand before holding it under his chin. You stayed in that position for a long time and watched the movie. You were both so focused on the screen that you didn’t hear May opening the front door and coming in.

“Hey. I’m home.” She said, making you both scream.

“Oh, hi May.” Peter greeted while he realized it was just her.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Parker. I’m-“

“I know.” She smirked. “I’ll just be in my room. But, Peter?”

“Yeah?”

“No going in your room with the door closed, okay? I’m home. And we have thin walls. Just keep that in mind.” She said, making Peter turn bright red.

“Got it, May.” He mumbled. She winked at you and disappeared into her bedroom.

“You told your aunt we were dating?” You whispered to Peter in confusion.

“No.” Peter answered honestly. “I guess she just assumed we were.”

“Wow. She’s just like the kids at school.” You shook your head. “I don’t get it. Why does everyone think we’re dating?”

“I mean…” Peter trailed off and looked down at your clasped hands. You hadn’t realized you were still cuddling and quickly jumped off of him. Peters heart sank and the longer he sat in the absence of your body heat, the more upset he felt.

“You just jumped off of me like I was sharp.” He said without looking at you.

“I didn’t want your aunt to see us cuddling and think-“

“And think what?” He snapped, cutting you off. You gutted your head back in surprise and let out a nervous laugh.

“Woah. What’s going on with you? She already knows about your secret life. We don’t have any reason to pretend we’re dating in front of her.”

Peter stared at you for a long time as the word “pretend” cut into him like a knife. Every time he thought you were going somewhere, he was reminded that it didn’t actually mean anything to you.

“Yeah. You’re right.” He mumbled and looked at the movie again. You kept your eyes on him and felt guilty. You had so much to say to him but you felt unable to speak.

“Peter-“

“I don’t think we should pretend to date anymore.” He blurted, cutting you off once again. Your eyebrows went up in surprise and you got a sick feeling in your tummy that you had just ruined something really important.

“What? Why not?”

“It’s stupid. No one even cares anymore.” He shrugged. “We don’t have to fake a breakup or anything but I don’t want to hold hands or play along anymore. I’m done.”

“What changed?” You asked in a soft voice. He was still looking at the movie while you were fully turned to face him.

“Nothing changed. That’s the problem.” He said and angrily got off the couch. You quickly caught his hand and he stopped. He looked down at the ground and let out a sigh. He knew it wasn’t fair to be mad at you if he hadn’t told you what was wrong. He slowly turned around and looked at you.

“Five years ago, you showed up to the same robbery at an all night CVS that I was at and I realized we knew each other from AP Spanish class because I had asked you earlier that day how to conjugate “poner” and you said “pusiste” and I laughed because I thought you were joking but you weren’t and then that night you heard me tell the burglar that he better“pusiste” the money back into the register.“ Peter began.

“Okay. Wow. That was a really long sentence.” You laughed softly. “But I remember that. I laughed and told you that you better remember that for the test.”

“You did. That’s how I knew it was you.” He smiled at the memory. “I failed that test, by the way. I still can’t conjugate “poner.” And I still think it means “boner” even though I know it’s a verb. But anyway, that night, I couldn’t sleep because I was so excited to have met you. Even though we technically already knew each other, that night put us in each others radars. I could not believe that I had met my match. You’re into science like me and sarcastic like me and you understand this side of my life because you have the same side. But despite running into each other on patrol almost nightly and seeing each other around school, I barely got you to notice me. I don’t think you even knew my name until we ended up going the same college. You called me “Timmy” all throughout high school.”

“You seriously look like one. It’s uncanny. I don’t know what it is.”

“I thought things would change when I found out we were going to the same college. The campus is so small I figured there’s no way we wouldn’t become friends. But even then, we hardly ever talked and when we did it was always about work. I didn’t even know where you lived until last semester.”

“I remember that too. The first night we really bonded was when you fell off that roof because you were trying to show me how to do a backflip.”

“Yeah, I’ve never been able to do a backflip.” He admitted. “I only said I could because you said you always wanted to learn how to do one and I assumed given my abilities I’d be able to do one if I just followed my body. But I busted my ass and you were kind enough to sneak me through your window and patch me up with some Scooby Doo bandaids.”

“It was all I had.” You shrugged.

“And you gave it to me anyway. Because you’re kind and compassionate and I’m just…I’m crazy about you.” Peter finally admitted. “I was so excited when we started hanging out more this semester but it always ended up crushing me when I remembered that we just doing it to keep people from finding out the truth. I really, really love our friendship and if I’m ruining it all by saying all this then at least I can die with it off my chest.”

“Wait, now I’m confused. Are you dying?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged. “It feels like I am every time you and I start to get close and then I remember this is all pretend for you.”

“So it’s not pretend for you?” You asked quietly. Peter stared into your heads for a minute and then shook his head.

“No. I was never pretending. I like you.” He told you. Your facial expression didn’t change as you stared back at him. Peter was really starting to panic until a smile tugged at your lips.

“Sit back down.” You told him.

“I’m sat.” He said and rushed it sit down. You nestled back into his side and laid your head down on his shoulder. Peter smiled and rested his head on top of yours, finally pleased with the way a conversation with you went. You both turned your attention back to the movie just in time for it to end.

“Hm.” You huffed. “That was supposed to be us symbolically finishing the movie as a real couple but it appears we’ve already arrived at the credits. Now what?”

“We could watch Tusk.” Peter suggested at the same time you said “We could make out.”

“I never actually saw Tusk but I always wanted to.” You gasped and hit his arm with excitement.

“Or we could do your thing.” Peter forced a laugh and tried not to sound as desperate as he felt.

“Let me see if I can find it.” You said as you scrolled through the streaming services on his TV.

“Or we could do your thing.”

Tag List 🏷️

@thebookwormlife @imanativeofswlondondahling

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[fairlyabookie]

Their Heart to You

Author's note: How they confess

Content: fluff

Leona finds courting a tedious process; he grew up watching his older brother courting a partner, getting married, and eventually, have a kid, whom he considered a handful. He had seen what love can bring first hand and often was asked about his love life by his brother. 

Most of the time, he hated these nosy questions, shouldering them off with a vague statement so they won’t be asked again. Leona told himself not to have his judgment be clouded by love - he had to make sure he had a clear and sound mind, enough to make adequate decisions and see to it that things get done. He casts his worries and other frivolous things to the side, focusing on nothing but himself and his academics for the time being. 

Admittedly, he didn’t think of you as a distraction per se; rather, he considered you as an equal, your strengths and weaknesses comprising your overall character. Sure, he entertained the thought of courting you, his thoughts meandering to your silhouette, your hubris around him, the poise you carried yourself; no doubt Leona found you entertaining. 

Love, a fickle thing, embodied itself in his time with you, listening to your words as you spoke to him with determined eyes; his honesty abundant, he was more than willing to give - though, executing his ‘love’ would be difficult. Matter of fact, he was clueless. 

As for courting you, he preferred to keep such sentiments and wait for the opportune moment to speak his peace. A watchful predator eyeing his prey, he waits until you’re by yourself to tell you, his charm, his authenticity. 

The Leech twin had a couple tricks up his sleeve when it came to wooing you: he won’t say that these notions would charm you, but rather, appeal to you on his interests and hopefully, have you show your interests to him as well. He greatly valued his friendship with you, often looking forward to seeing you as the day’s passing and wanting to speak to you on occasion.

He’d be subtle in his affections; often engaging in unprofessional behavior, as quoted from Azul and his own twin brother, to see you satisfied. Of course, he had to pull some strings to ensure you had a positive experience with him, after all, you’re the one toying with his heart. 

 To quote Azul, Jade would be a handful, as love captivated him like a spell. At times, the Dorm Leader would begrudgingly let Jade take the task so he can see you. Even at the sight of you, Azul knew not to impede Jade’s advances. In other words, Azul and Floyd would play Jade’s wingmen, regardless if they like it or not. 

Jade had his own ways of wooing, unorthodox methods an average one would say, where he’d plan on potential dates with just you and him and with no interruptions. He’d keep his cool, knowing very well that he can achieve his goal in conveying his feelings outright.  

If one can be honest, Jade had realized his feelings for a while; he yearned, he needed, he wanted to have your heart. Such feelings, he hoped, can come across you once the timing was right. He hated how heavy his heart weighed with such sentiments, yet alas, he hoped he played his cards well for this moment.

They say that the best way to steal one’s heart is through their stomach, and Trey took that personally. He knew everyone’s tastes, including yours. On that note, he’d make sure to bake your favorites when you had a bad day or when you had a craving. 

 The third year regarded you as a friend at first, but he found himself thinking about you when it came to baking, pouring his heart into this piece, gentle hands carving a delicacy that he and you can enjoy in private. 

Trey may not be good with his words, but he can think of something sweeter, something you’d like from his expertise. Sure, writing down his feelings would work, but he’d stick with his skills: baking. 

He’d spend hours doing trial and error with recipes, pouring in particular ingredients to see what would be the perfect taste for your pastry, careful not to ruin the surprise when he’d present this cake to you. His feelings towards you, initially a nuisance, came forth as a blessing as he spent more time working on this pastry and spending time with you. 

Love, as corny as it can be, seemingly made his works a tad bit sweeter. He can fathom the taste, a delicious warmth that enveloped him like a hug. Did he manage to achieve the perfect cake? He thinks to himself, satisfaction tugging at the corner of his lips. Trey couldn’t wait to have you taste it.

[powdermelonkeg]

Thoughts on the thunder wizard again.

Genuinely, I find Gale's relationship with Mystra to be fascinating when you consider all its facets. Unhealthy, imbalanced, definitely poisonous, but also very, very intricate with a lot of blurred edges to it. One of those things where you're both like "wow, what the hell, that's horrible" but also "that makes perfect sense for their characters, and while I would NEVER, I know why they would, and why it happened."

You've got a wizard who doesn't know what real love is, who thinks he's finally being shown it by the person he adores most. His greatest fantasy, his most potent joy, his most heartfelt aspirations, and they were all offered to him.

And he wants to see what all she's hiding from him, because of course he does. She's the keeper of all things forbidden to him. The empire of Netheril reached magical heights that will never be touched again, and all that knowledge is beyond her curtain. She loves him, right? Surely, if he proves himself enough, she'll let him grasp that power he so desperately wants.

And not even in the power-hungry sense! All that magic Mystra's locked up was accessible during Mystryl's reign. Think of all the answers to theories about the universe that are back there. Every question of "can this be done, and what would it do" would be answered, if he could just bargain hard enough.

She loves him, right?

Surely, if he proves himself enough...

And then, on the other hand, Mystra. Once Midnight, her human personality has been subsumed by the goddess of magic and her duty to the Weave. She has a responsibility to magic, she IS magic.

Then along comes this mortal boy who knows how to handle her Weave. Who doesn't try to wrestle with and dominate, who sings to it. He handles it with such ease and grace—it's not just that he could be Chosen, but he deserves it. To put her Weave in the hands of someone so intrinsically in tune with it, who understands its potential with a wonder like no other. Few enough can handle the raw power that comes with being Chosen, but this one? This one is perfect.

And he adores you. And you adore him, like one would a beautiful butterfly that's landed on their finger. And he's willing to be devoted to you in all things, not out of transaction like most of your worshipers are, but out of love for you, your craft, your magic. You're so deeply and utterly charmed by him.

And it's not like Mystra hasn't walked this path before.

She gives him what he desires, because what he desires is her. And, in a different way, she desires him. She wants him to be her representation in the world. She indulges his adoration with her own presence, and takes indulgence herself in mortal comforts. He's never satisfied with her answers, but who could blame him? She keeps a whole world away from mortals, because she knows what such unfettered power might bring about (again).

And the wizarding prodigy's ambition is lit (again).

And the height of power is reached for (again).

And she stops him (again, again, again).

She does care for him. She doesn't want to see her little butterfly burn himself, and she doesn't want to be the one to ruin those wings.

But then he's not a butterfly. He's a mortal, wielding a weapon of murder, of her murder, and he's brought it to her doorstep because she told him "no." And he's cut himself on it, he doesn't know what it is, but it's hurt him—and it's only a fraction of the hurt it could do to her. How dare he want her help after threatening her?

(He didn't mean to.)

(He only wanted to help.)

(He only wanted. How human.)

She doesn't help him. If he wants to pursue Karsus' weaponry, it's his responsibility, his hubris, that led him to injuring himself on it. She's furious. She's hurt. She's cold.

(What fools these mortals be.)

But then, there's a greater threat to her. Something that could drown the Material in Karsus' failings. And that little boy, who nicked himself on the sword he lifted, still wants her help.

It's a fair trade, isn't it? She'll forgive him, let him into her domain again, if he accepts his punishment and goes into battle for her. He picked up a sword, it's appropriate that he learns to use it in her name, right?

If he was telling the truth, he wouldn't hesitate. If he really wanted to serve her with the Netherese Orb, he would jump at the opportunity to do so. He would have to give up a few petty things in the process, ("petty," she calls mortality, as if family and home mean nothing, as if friends and love are finite. Because to her, they do mean nothing. Because to her, they are finite.) but it isn’t atonement without sacrifice, is it?

It's the tactical move. She's not above hurting one man to save a nation. It's not even the first time she's done it.

(Dornal Silverhand sends his regards.)

If he loves her, he'd die for her, because she'd let him into her paradise. If he doesn't love her, he won't, and she was justified in removing him from her grace.

He doesn't love her. Not anymore.

Does he hate her enough to try to take his dues?

Ambition has always been man's greatest folly.

[mo-mode]

Back on my Screenwriter soap box while watching PJO: They should have bought a bunch of oil diffusers.

(Edit: This post was made before someone pointed out to me that I missed a key line of dialogue, but my points and theories still stand for the same reasons backing up my original post so I’m not changing anything. The dialogue I missed lets us know that Hermes told Percy the lotus was being pumped into the air off-screen. It’s also implies (? I’m still on the fence about this one?) that Hermes told him what day it is, but I missed these during my first three watches because of how quick and vague it was. Which actually kind of supports my point on why visual indicators are so important. Without these, it’s easy to miss key information. And remember, it’s a kid’s show. ANYWAY my conclusions haven’t changed, and I still believe these edits would work better than the quick line of dialogue so just keep this in mind. Thanks.)

(I’m not being nit-picky. I swear. Just hear me out.) So the weirdest thing to me in episode six was how Percy just…learned everything so quickly without any visual indicators? Like they know time passed because it’s dark outside, but how did he know it was Thursday? They know they were affected by the lotus flowers, but how does he know it was pumped into the air? This irked me because even if he’s smart enough to figure some of this out himself (which he is) we as the audience should still be able to follow his thought process instead of learning after the fact.

What if there were oil diffusers?

So imagine the trio walks into the Lotus, figures out this is like the Odyssey, and decides not to eat anything. They waltz in super confident that they cracked the code, but they were wrong. How do we know? Because the moment they enter the crowd, we get an establishing shot of a lotus-branded oil diffuser letting out steam.

Immediately, we as the audience realize their mistake, making it just that more tantalizing to watch. As the episode continues, we realize they’re everywhere. There’s a diffuser in the plants, on the counter, between the game tables, always right out of the corner of our eyes. They just keep churning out lotus-scented oil into the air, which we can infer because we’re smart. (Remember that.)

Now when Percy realizes what’s going on, we know HOW they’re doing it and HOW Percy knows without being told!! Because they were there the whole time.

Onto Thursday.

Consider: A watch.

What if Hermes has the only watch in the casino until the trio walks in with their own?

Let’s give Annabeth one of those cheap, funky watches that gives the time, day, month, year, etc. Something you get from a kids toy catalogue. It’s waterproof, glows in the dark, has an alarm or whatever. I feel like Annabeth would have one of those. (And honestly, she might already. I forgot.) The most important feature for us, though, is the day. It clearly tells us the day of the week.

It’s pretty easy to establish that Annabeth has the watch. Just do it the same way they establish the date: Percabeth arguing over it in the truck. Annabeth shows him the watch. Establishing shot of the watch’s face. That’s it. No bells or whistles necessary. Then when they get to the casino, Annabeth checks it one more time (without an establishing shot, she just does it casually) and they walk in.

(It’s so easy. I promise.)

While Grover is walking around alone, he tries to check the time and realizes there’s no clocks. (Which ngl is super common in casinos already, but it’s creepy nonetheless.) Yada yada, he gets sucked in by Augustus and that’s how he gets got.

Meanwhile, Percy and Annabeth keep meaning to check the time, but every time they do, someone tries to hand them an appetizer or a drink, which makes them forget OR Annabeth’s hubris keeps her from checking. (Percy: Time check? Annabeth: Its only been five minutes. We’re fine. We need to focus.)

And that brings us to Hermes. After their chat, yada yada, Annabeth “leaves” and Hermes gets all cryptic, then he makes a BIG show of checking his watch, and THAT’S when Percy realizes something’s wrong because oh no they haven’t checked the time. So he finds Annabeth, they see it’s dark outside, they check her watch, and it’s Thursday.

“But we didn’t eat anything!” Annabeth says. Percy looks at the diffusers by the entrance. It dawns on him. “They’re pumping it into the air.”

That’s how you VISUALLY SHOW US THINGS instead of Percy just figuring everything out off-camera and telling us!!!!

Now, you may be thinking “Oh but do they have the budget for that??” Do you know how cheap these props are? Just bulk buy like six oil diffusers, slap a homemade sticker of a lotus flower on them, and keep moving them into every shot. And they’re quiet!! They wouldn’t interfere with the sound, the steam is visible enough to be caught on camera without messing with the lighting, they actually look really cool in some lighting, and they fit the atmosphere of a hotel/casino!! Then the watch is like $15, fits with Annabeth’s character, and totally matches her outfit.

It’s CHEAP! It’s EASY! It DOESN’T CUT INTO THE RUN TIME! It’s AESTHETICALLY PLEASING! ANNABETH GETS A SICK WATCH!! NO DOWNSIDES!!!!

The biggest problem with this show isn’t how accurate it is to the book or how much money they have or that they’re “Disney-fying” it. The problem is they are TELLING US things instead of SHOWING us. And not to beat a dead horse because everyone’s heard of “Show Don’t Tell” but like??? This is exactly why everyone is taught this over and over again in school?? Because people still do it anyway all the time???

There’s also something else I learned (or really just picked up) when I got my B.A. in Creative Writing: Good shows are predictable.

Whether it’s a case of the audience learning what’s going to happen before it happens or them watching the show again and realizing how obvious the answer was the whole time, audiences always want to feel smart. They want to interact with the material. If you don’t give them the opportunity to pick apart the mystery themselves by setting down clues, they’ll give up on interacting with the show and lose interest. That’s why you SHOW them things. There are several moments where this show is completely unpredictable, not because it’s complex but because it doesn’t let you predict it. That doesn’t make it bad—the comedy and character development is doing a great job of carrying the show’s weight so far. But it definitely doesn’t make the show good.

It’s like Rube Goldberg machines. Or dominoes! We don’t watch those crazy 1000+ domino videos so we can watch the last one fall. We watch it to see HOW they fall. Take one domino out, and it’s unsatisfactory. It doesn’t work anymore.

But some oil diffusers and a watch??? Little clues that make the realization that more visually appealing??? THAT’S SATISFYING

Anyway, these are just two things that could have been done, but weren’t. Most of the show is stellar. I think it just needs a little bit of editing here and there. I studied this for like years, and I needed to get this off my chest. That’s it.

Rick Riordan, if you ever see this, I am available for hire :) I would love to be a script doctor please please please please

[cynthiav06]

Listen, I read your post about Percy's strategic genius and I thought something.

Percy, Sally, and the entire Jackson family are descendants of Odysseus.

Sally is also damn smart, just look at how she competently got rid of Gabe and remained in full advantage.

And that is why how Athena treats Percy in this way.

He is a descendant of her beloved mortal, so similar to him in his mind and the son of her sworn rival, who tormented this very mortal and prevented him from returning home.

You seriously have no idea how GENIUS that headcanon is like holy hell the sheer depth it adds to everything is insane.

1. Athena begrudgingly guiding Percy in Titan's Curse, getting extreme deja vu (God's probably get that a lot) from the situation and how conflicting she gets over the mortal that is Perseus Jackson for his uncanny resemblance to Odysseus when it comes to his wit and his personality minus strangely the hubris.

Despite her disdain for him out of some strange loyalty, she tells him of his fatal flaw and how it would endanger him.

She let's her loathing for Poseidon get the best of her in Titan's Curse and votes to kill Percy and Thalia but Percy like Odysseus has both the wit and achievements she can't overlook despite her desperate intentions to and hence in the Last Olympian she acknowledges in her own subtle way that Percy is the greatest demigod of this age. That he's saved both the world and his friends.

2. Annabeth proud and confident as ever would be flabbergasted that Percy who she despite her supposed love for him undermines him almost always when it comes to his intelligence finds out that her mother has acknowledged Percy for his strategic mind and that he is the descendant of her mother's most favored mortal ever. (Maybe just maybe it will tone her hubris down a notch and then some, and if we are really lucky, a reality check)

3. Percy would laugh, probably shrug at the revelation. After all, stuff like that makes no difference to him.

4. But I can imagine if Sally knew beforehand about it, then how much hell must she have given Poseidon over it and probably still finds it to be a hilarious coincidence .

5. To Poseidon himself, it must have struck as an agonizing coincidence, but for the better, because for all of Poseidon's flaws, he loves his own intensely. His godly children, his monstrous children, his demigod children, and Percy, he loves most out of them all by his own words and he loves him so in some strange manner for the same humanity he scorned Odysseus for having.

Sally must have made him see the error of his ways, and even Poseidon for his quick temper would be loathe to not change his opinions on mercy then. (If the Queen among mortals tells you, you listen)

All in all, everything that happened in the Odyssey with Poseidon Odysseus and Athena would have come to a good closure with this.

That a millenia later by strange set of circumstances Athena and Poseidon begrudgingly acknowledged the folly in their perspectives from the times of Odyssey all because Poseidon met Sally Jackson and sired a demigod child who by a twist only the fates could make up turned out to be the descendant of Odysseus himself. (I reckon the fates must be cackling in glee at the whole thing)

PS: Hermes is having a blast with this news of Percy's ancestry.

No, but seriously, you have given me more pjo brainrot. (Now I hope this keeps you awake like it does me)

And on that note, Percy would totally canonly be the biggest fan of Epic the Musical, lol.

I have a feeling I am not going to stop talking about this now.

[starcurtain]

hihi sorry to rant in your inbox but i hate when people use aven's line about jade that says her kindness comes with a price to make their relationship seem worse than it is. while the ipc is. well. the ipc i dont thinl it would benefit her to harm him like theyre both stonehearts AND hes her subordinate. personally i think the price he mentions is like, testing him like she did in her social media post with the ores. it certainly would be less incongruous with her want to guide those that come after her..

I think that people really struggle with Jade. They took one look at her dommy mommy appearance and her status as one of the top three in the Stonehearts and they just want her to be unrepentant evil soooo bad.

Don't get me wrong, she is definitely a master manipulator and she definitely has a specific personal goal she's working toward using the IPC as her vehicle to do so. Her overall idea of creating an endless vortex of desires that can't ever be sufficiently met is very Voracity-coded and not really the kind of idea a very well-adjusted person would be espousing. We have no idea how loyal she really is to the IPC's goal of aiding Preservation against Destruction in the War of the Aeons.

But she's also, over and over again, been painted as having "True Neutral" moral alignment in-game. She's literally xxxHolic's Ichihara Yuuko with a bad case of capitalism: She always demands a price, but never asks more than is fair.

It's literally Fullmetal Alchemist's first law of alchemy: Human kind can not gain anything without first giving something in return. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost.

All of Jade's exchanges are equivalent and none of her customers enter into a bargain without understanding the price they are paying. In fact, she won't even let Firefly try to make a deal at all without doing her research in advance to truly realize the extent of what she is asking for. Jade is inherently an honest businesswoman.

The issue is that greed is all-encompassing. The ability to have any wish granted is a temptation that virtually no one can escape in the end.

Therefore, I think the best way to understand Jade is as the Honkai Star Rail equivalent of Mephistopheles. In the legend of Faust, the eponymous Dr. Faust longs for more in his life--he is endlessly pursuing knowledge and power, but has hit the limits of his own ability. He meets the devil, Mephistopheles, who agrees to enter into a pact with him: Mephistopheles will fulfill all Faust's wishes while Faust is still alive, but then Faust's soul will belong to the devil when he dies. The deal is fairly presented. The terms are not unclear: If Faust agrees to the bargain, he knows what will happen to his soul in the end.

Mephistopheles doesn't trick him or force his hand when it comes to this bargain. Faust could say no. He could resist. But he doesn't. He agrees, because human greed and pride are simply that overpowering. He thinks he's smarter than the devil; unlike the thousands of others who have come before and suffered damnation for their deals with the devil, Faust thinks he is different, better than others, more deserving... The actual temptation doesn't come from the devil. It comes from human hubris.

Like Mephistopheles, like the serpent in the Garden of Eden, Jade merely presents the choice--it's humanity's endless desire that leads to the downfall.

It's a snake and an apple and a contract for a reasonnnnnn, Jade haters.

So, I don't think that Jade represents any danger to anyone who can resist temptation. Firefly walks away from Jade's exchange entirely unscathed. Trailblazer isn't pressed into surrender.

But Aventurine?

To be honest, I think his relationship with her is a bit more complicated.

Aventurine likes Jade. She did him a solid when he was at his lowest in life. His character stories make it clear that he views her as, essentially, someone "safe" in the IPC, unlike other Stonehearts.

But... I do agree that Aventurine approaches Jade more cautiously than he approaches others. And I think that probably stems from a couple of different factors:

Jade has positioned herself as Aventurine's "pseudo-mother," and Aventurine responds to her as if she, indeed, a mother figure he has to obey. He is more respectful of her than anyone else we see him interact with in the game--Diamond and Opal get called by name, but Jade is always "Ma'am." Which is very close to "Mama;" this is not an accidentttttt. When Jade disrupts his banter with Topaz, Aventurine immediately does as he is told, hands over his room card, and simmers down. Even in joking social media posts, when Jade asks Aventurine to do something (judge the uncut jade stones she sent him), he does it even when she rejects his high demand for profit sharing.

But:

2. Jade actually failed Aventurine's moral litmus test. From the beginning of his adulthood flashbacks, we see Aventurine explicitly troubled by the fact that his human dignity was denied and that a market value was assigned to his existence. And not even a high value. He was sold for pennies. It's the ultimate mortification, and we can tell it is still bothering him to this day because even "future" Aventurine brings up the sting of that bone-deep insult during Aventurine's long walk through Penacony. In response to the indignity, Kakavasha gave his original master a moral test: Kakavasha says that he'll go willingly into the hellscape of the death maze if his master will give him 30 copper Tanba, just half his market value. His master refuses, demonstrating that he does not view Kakavasha as a human being, worthy of any respect. By refusing this tiny, insignificant request, the master exhibits his utter moral depravity, from which there is no return. In response, Kakavasha ultimately kills him and takes the 30 copper coins he asked for (nothing more, nothing less) from his corpse.

When Kakavasha meets Jade, he then makes the exact same demand: He wants 30 copper coins and exactly 30 copper coins. At this point, it is very clear that--to Kakavasha--the coins are emblematic of his value as a human being. (I promise you, somewhere in his apartment right now are the 30 bloody coins he took from his master's cold corpse.) His freedom, his dignity, his worth... All of these things hinge on being able to acquire the original 60 Tanba coins. Thus, those who refuse his requests for the coins also symbolically refuse his request for basic respect, his request to be seen as an equal human being who deserves to not be reduced to mere pennies on a bill of sale.

And Jade refuses this request. She treats the demand for Tanbas like a paltry sum and instead ignores the specificity of the request to give a general "We'll give you riches beyond your imagine, more than you could have ever thought to want." But that isn't what he asked for. She stepped over the request he actually made in order to supplant her ideas, on her terms. Kakavasha made the tiniest, most easily completed request in the world, and in failing to actually just respect what he personally wished for, Jade demonstrated that she ultimately will not really respect him.

Just like his slave master, Aventurine represents a value on a page to Jade. For this reason, even if she extends pseudo-maternal behavior to Aventurine and he laps it up like a starved kitten drinks up milk, we see that he remains more cautious toward her than he does to any other female character in the game. Aventurine comes across as more comfortable talking to Acheron than he sounds when he talks to Jade... Because in failing the most basic and seemingly meaningless test, Jade revealed exactly to what extent Kakavasha can--and cannot--trust her.

Does Jade actually mean Aventurine any harm? No, I really don't think so, and you're right, those who claim that she does are really over-exaggerating Jade's negative traits, mostly because they've almost universally got a strong anti-IPC agenda and hate everything from the IPC except Aventurine on principle. Everything in Jade's character stories points to her honestly wanting to develop the hidden talents of others, to "polish" rough cut stones into true gems, and to see her fledglings thrive. Kakavasha is someone she picked up out of the dirt and dusted off. If he excels, that means her faith was well-placed, her judgment was correct, and her team as a whole excels.

It's exactly like a business owner who takes great pride in producing a fantastic product. Only when the product succeeds can the business itself succeed.

But business owners see their products as objects, not equals.

Jade is a fairly neutral figure and I think she wants to see Aventurine grow and achieve greatness. But at the end of the day, their relationship is very predicated on the notion of investment (Jade puts up the original capital to make Aventurine great, and he repays her faith in him by generating wealth for the IPC). It is clear she just can't be trusted to value Aventurine as a person above a means of profit--and Aventurine knows (and accepts) that too.

[danielsarmand]

honestly i think what i don't understand is why people expect certain things from certain characters. like why do you expect armand to earnestly give two damns about claudia and madeleine, or about anyone else beside himself and perhaps louis, or lestat, or people he has personally developed feelings for and/or entertained a relationship with? hell, why do you expect lestat, even, to truly care about claudia? louis is the one who wanted her, and for his own selfish reasons, no less! to make himself feel better about himself, to feel righteous and good, to feel like he'd atoned for his sins, to feel cleansed. and sure, he came to care for her, to love her, but never enough. never more than he loved lestat, never more than he loved his own pride and hubris.

and that is because each and every one of this characters is selfish, has been selfish, will be selfish. vampires are monsters. they are what's left when you're no longer the human you were, and some of them weren't good people to begin with, and some others have hundreds of years of abuse and trauma in place of human bones, and most of the times both things are true. louis has been warned time and time again, claudia has been warned time and time again, they have even been warned—multiple times—by the people who ended up hurting them the most. they were told there's no such thing as a good vampire, they were told to keep to themselves, they were told to leave, they were warned both with words and with actions. they proceeded to ignore all the warnings, all the signs, and to turn into wretched little things themselves in the process, because that's how it goes.

it confuses me, is all, to see posts where people are so outraged about armand not doing anything to stop what happened, or about him manipulating louis into believing he couldn't, because why did you expect him to? armand is not a good, immaculate entity. he operates under his own set of morals, his own rules, always has. at no point in the show was the audience meant to be fooled by him. we were always meant to be wary of him, because he is a 500+ yo vampire and we do not have a single example in favour of any vampire, really, let alone one so old and powerful. you cannot in your right mind ask this of armand. you cannot ask of him to be a decent, morally irreprehensible character who does the right thing and saves the day, because he was never meant to be that character for you, nor was it ever implied that he would. you cannot ask someone to be something they aren't and then get mad when—well, they're not.

the show is set in a future where things have gone very clearly awry, and the set of characters we are left with were never meant to be easily digestible, regardless of what you wanted them to be. otherwise, they wouldn't be all we're left with. so by all means, be mad at armand, be mad at lestat, be mad at louis, curse their names until you can't anymore—they deserve it! none of them, none of them, is exempt. but the surprise? the absolute confusion as to why they'd do what they each have done? nonsensical. they did all of those things—and more—because they were never good enough not to. they were never heroes. that's really all there is to it.

[bacchusbasil]

Analytic Deep-Dive of Stanford Pines

Something I don't see talked about like AT ALL is how arrogant and selfish Ford was.

Man literally has delusions of grandeur all throughout Journal 3 and Book of Bill. He decides not just to look at the big picture, but the frame, wall, room, and building it's hung up in.

Fiddleford spent days putting together a whole thesis for Ford that would change his life and give him everything Ford dreamed of; money, renown, credibility, but it still wasn't enough for Ford.

Even when everything fell to ruin and he realised that Bill was trying to end the world, his big dumb nerd brain just couldn't let go of his research, not even for the sake of the world.

(This is kinda long so I'm cutting it; more below)

If he had destroyed the Journals like his first instinct told him to, Bill wouldn't have had blueprints. No one would be able to summon Bill. None of the information in the Journals would have reached any hands, much less the wrong ones.

But Ford was just so *adamant* about preserving his research, he decided that instead of removing the tools of destruction, it'd be better to kill a god instead.

His own hubris lead to everything that happened. Stanley pushing him into the portal, Gideon getting his hands on Journal 2 (an elementary school was a *great* place to hide a book of spells), the whole time thinking he was sticking it to Bill, when really he was playing into his hands.

Ford was a selfish man, and Bill enabled him by filling his head with flattery and praises.

Even after the Portal incident, Bill's influence still lingered in Ford's mind.

He still thought he had to do everything alone, that only he had the power and intelligence to destroy Bill once and for all. And some of his experiences only confirmed that belief.

Journal 3 details a dimension Ford visited where the Portal Incident never happened. In that dimension, Parallel Ford achieved everything Ford dreamed of. PStan listened to PFord, PFord reuinited with his PFiddleford, and PFord found a way to both stop Bill and keep his portal. This is a dimension where Ford got to have his cake and eat it to.

While I vehemently believe Parallel Ford learned many lessons about the importance of trust and community, I wholeheartedly believe that 46'/ Ford only saw this as a world where people listened to HIM, where he was in charge and in control, and everything worked out because of it. I fully believe seeing this dimension further drove our Ford to the conclusion that being the lone scholar was the right thing to be.

He held onto this belief even after coming home, even after reuniting with his brother, and continued to hold on to that mistrust and toxic independent mindset.

His character development didn't start until he played a table-top roleplaying game with a 12 year old boy.

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 77: Alexander's Grave

Previous > Masterlist

tw: mind control, body control, captivity, psychological harm

November 1816

Lex's focus was razor-sharp, as it had to be. Over the past months, he'd learned to hone it, to not allow himself to falter through night-long sessions working on the same piece over and over. He played until his fingers were sore, sang until his voice could barely be heard, did whatever his master commanded, because the alternative was always worse.

Tonight, he had been singing a piece by a composer he'd never heard of before the start of his service. Perhaps it was written by a vampire like his master -- he didn't dare ask. It was difficult, stretching his range, with a tricky rhythm and several key changes. Nonetheless, Lex persisted. Four mistakes. Three now. Five. Two. Seven. Three. One. One. One.

Lex was certain that he'd never be allowed to hear the word 'zero' come from his master's lips. There would always be some fault, even if it was something inaudible to human ears. One mistake was the best he would ever do in this place, allowing his master the pleasure of disciplining him while keeping his punishments light.

He couldn't stop to wonder how long he would be expected to endure this. If he were lucky, his master would someday find a new plaything and discard Lex, his duties diminished to mere housekeeping like most of the other thralls in the manor. If he were unlucky, he'd die like this. Either way, he'd eventually be free, even if only in death. In death he could indulge his unwanted desires to see his family and feel sunshine, if he wasn't cursed enough to be thrown into hell.

Until then, he had to pursue perfection at any cost.

And so he sang the piece again, discarding feeling for precision. When his master was in a good mood, he would explain some of Lex's mistakes and offer instruction along with his correction; when he wasn't, which was more often the case, the beatings would be his only teacher. He would have to work out his faults for himself based on what got him a higher or lower number of mistakes.

Tonight seemed to be one of those rare good nights. His master saw fit to correct his posture and occasionally inform him of which notes required improvement. The blows from his crop were light as well. Lex cherished these evenings, his only break from misery.

He sang the song through, applying every one of his master's instructions, making sure they were all implanted in his mind deeper than his own name. When he had finished, he waited for his number, hoping it was low, perhaps even a one.

Instead, his master stared at him, brows furrowing, considering something deeply.

Lex tried not to let the fear show on his face. This kind of silence was something new, and in this place, the new always meant disaster. He had somehow managed to make a mistake so terrible that his master was contemplating a new punishment for him. Maybe his hubris in assuming he'd done well was the mistake.

Maybe he'd be sent to the basement again.

The Maestro stood without a word, his eyes boring into Lex's very soul as he trembled. A part of Lex wanted to drop to his knees and beg and plead as he had at the beginning, before he'd learned that it only fueled his master's displeasure. All he could do was wait.

Finally, his master spoke. "We will go out tonight."

Out. What did he mean? What punishment was this? Surely he couldn't… "Outside, master?" he asked, risking a question.

"Yes, child, outside. I have something to show you and something to tell you. Follow."

Thankfully, his master's power pulled him along in perfect step, because now Lex was trembling hard enough that he might be unable to walk on his own. Before he'd learned his lesson, the outside world was all he dreamed about, imagining himself allowed to see the moon and stars and feel the fresh air on his face once again. But he knew very well that his master was not taking him outside as a reward. There were never rewards in this place. This would be some new torment, one that needed to take place outside, one that he'd have to get used to, learning all over again how to hold in his cries and keep his face neutral.

Maybe his master was finally going to release him from service, in the only way that he ever would.

In the entrance of the manor, the Maestro opened a musty closet to produce a wool coat and hand it to Lex. Lex was so surprised at being given anything, much less something beneficial, that he stood with the coat in his hands, shocked.

"The coat is for wearing. Or have you forgotten that in less than a year?" the Maestro said. "I told you that my intent is to show you something. It is not to have you freeze to death."

"Yes, master. Thank you for your consideration, master." Lex put on the scratchy wool coat, which smelled of dust and cedar. A scarf, hat, and gloves were pressed into his hands next, all of them black, and Lex put those on as well. It was the first he'd been dressed in anything other than his customary uniforms since that fateful night he'd arrived in this place.

The rush of cold air as his master opened the front door was a shock. It wasn't because of the cold -- the manor was almost as cold as the outside -- but because of the movement, the freshness. He'd gotten so used to the air being musty and stale that he almost couldn't take the sensation of the wind, a pleasure he didn't deserve and had long since given up on.

Regardless of what kind of punishment that was to follow, at least he'd been able to experience the night air once more.

There was a few inches of snow on the ground, crunching under their feet as they walked. It was a clear night, the half-moon pale and shining overhead. Lex would have liked to wrap the scarf more securely against the cold, but his movements were being controlled as usual. Thankfully, he was free enough to look around.

There were very few people or carriages out on this chill night. Lex guessed it was probably well past midnight. The taverns they passed were firmly shuttered, and there weren't even candles visible in the windows of buildings. It was if the entire city had been frozen by his master.

The fresh air and peace were enough to lull Lex into a sense of calm until he realized that he recognized the streets all too well. Panic gripped his chest with an intensity that he didn't know still existed within him -- because they were only a few blocks from his family's home.

No, it couldn't be. Anything but that. A spark of defiance rose where he thought he had nothing left. He'd been good, obedient, even in the face of his master's absolutely unreasonable demands. He'd given his master no reason at all to threaten his family.

It was a small relief when they turned down a different street, away from the home he'd grown up in. At least his master didn't have violent designs on them.

Even with his terror, a small part of him longed to see the house again, to have the small chance of catching a glimpse of a familiar face through a lighted window. If only he had his free will back, just for an hour…

No, those were treacherous thoughts that did him no good. They only stole his focus away from his studies and his service. It was better if he never saw his family again. He was grateful for even being allowed to leave the house at all.

The street that the Maestro had turned down was familiar, too, one he had often traveled. It wasn't long before they passed the church his family had attended, the one where he sang in the choir for years, back when music was something to love and not something to perfect. He thought it coincidence until his master came to an abrupt halt right in front of it.

"Our destination."

Lex couldn't help the confusion that crossed his face, quickly squelching it in favor of a neutral expression. Wasn't a vampire forbidden from entering a church? But surely his master knew that, so his thoughtless question would only earn him a reprimand at best. "Yes, sir," he said instead.

The Maestro strode onto the church grounds with no apparent ill effect, Lex strung along behind him as usual. They passed the building proper and began to walk up the snowy hill into the small graveyard behind. It was the graveyard where his father's grandparents were buried, where they would often leave flowers. And to Lex's horror, his master was headed straight for that family grave.

His parents must be dead. His master must have killed his parents. That's what he intended to show Lex. There was no other explanation.

His master stopped in front of a simple tombstone with a winged cherub carved on the top. Lex looked with horror to see exactly what he expected -- his father's name. Alexander Strand, born 1795, died 1815.

It was his father's name, but not his father's year of birth. Lex, trying to fight back tears, realized what he was actually looking at.

"Is this… my grave, sir?"

"Yes."

The momentary relief that his parents weren't dead gave way to fresh horror. His parents must think that he's dead. Of course they did, why wouldn't they -- when he disappeared without a trace and hadn't been seen in a year.

There were flowers on the grave, flowers still fresh even in the snow, that must have been laid there very recently if not that very day.

Lex felt emotions swelling up that he had thought he'd burned out of himself. His family and friends had held a funeral with no remains, losing all hope that he'd ever return, perhaps around the same time Lex had lost that hope himself. Someone still mourned him enough to bring flowers. Did his mother cry at his grave? Did they still think of him kindly?

If they knew what he had become, would they wish that he had truly died instead?

His master must be showing him this to extinguish all hope that he'd ever be rescued. But Lex had lost that hope long ago, and his master surely knew that. So the Maestro must only have brought Lex here to be cruel, to take pleasure in Lex's pain.

"I will allow you to speak your mind, child."

Lex knew better than to think he could ever speak freely without threat of reprisal, but his master clearly expected him to say something. "I see that my family thinks I'm dead, sir," he said, the most neutral observation he could muster, the waver in his voice giving him away. He'd resigned himself that it was better this way, back when he'd been locked in the basement, but he still couldn't keep his composure.

"You have been bound to the service of a dead thing," said the Maestro. "You are dead in every way that matters, are you not?"

It hurt to admit, and he loathed his master for forcing him to say it. Perhaps it was that one small spark in him that didn't want to die yet, the tiniest kernel of defiance that he kept hidden away, that still howled at having his life and youth stolen from him.

"Yes, sir," he managed finally, throat dry. "I am."

"Do you know why I am showing you this?"

"To keep me in my rightful place, sir," he said, hoping a deferent enough answer would spare him more pain. "To ensure that I don't falsely believe that I may be rescued."

"I do not need to drag you halfway across the city in the frigid cold simply to keep you in your rightful place. I have dozens of effective techniques that can be administered with only the tools I keep on my person and in my home, as you're well aware."

The correction didn't come with a blow or humiliation. His master was being unusually patient tonight. Lex's fear of reprisal was at war with his desire to have a conversation, any sort of conversation, after so much solitude. "Then the reason is not punishment, then, sir."

"That's correct, it is not." The Maestro looked up into the night sky as if searching for something. "I have brought you here because it seemed like a fitting place to inform you of my decision."

"Your decision, sir?" And just like that, the false calm was broken, because Lex could only imagine one sort of decision that involved him. "Are you going to kill me, sir?"

"Yes."

So there it was. His master's patience had finally run out. Lex would be free. Free of the need to try to live up to an impossible notion of perfection. Free of hunger pains and the sting of whips and the ache of loneliness. Free to stop quieting any desire that did not please his master, to imagine that he might someday reach a better world.

It should be a relief, but now that he was staring death in the face, Lex found he was still so frightened. What could he possibly be frightened of? He'd already resigned himself to the idea of spending the rest of his life in his master's service. Death would be a mercy. He should welcome it.

And yet, perhaps because it was the first time in so long that he had seen the stars and felt the wind on his face, he couldn't quite bring himself to want to die.

"I'm not going to kill you here and now, child."

"You're not, sir?" Lex's voice betrayed how close he was to sobbing.

"I have made the decision to give you the ultimate gift and the ultimate punishment," he said. "When the time is right, I will kill you, and I will make you into a wretched creature like me."

The dread Lex felt when he thought he was about to die was nothing compared to the dread he felt as those words sunk in. His master was going to turn him.

He'd be a monster like his master, feeding off of the blood of innocents, sowing nothing but misery and pain wherever he went. And it would never end. He would be immortal, denied even the mercy of death. He could be chained to his master for decades, for centuries, trapped until he withered away into an empty husk that no longer even remembered what it was to be human.

And if he did die, if some kind soul drove a stake through his heart, there would be no better place for him. He wasn't sure if he believed in hell, but he certainly didn't believe that creatures like his master went to any sort of better place.

An awful smile grew across his master's face. "You seem unappreciative of this gift."

Lex tried to choke out some appropriate answer, but his mouth was dry. He was going to be beaten for being unappreciative, broken and tortured on his own grave, the resting place he would never get to use because he would never be allowed to rest.

"No, sir," said Lex, knowing what he was bringing down on himself. "I don't want it."

Ice cold eyes bore into his very soul, and Lex tried not to flinch away. "You are right not to want it. For once, your lack of appreciation is warranted."

And like nothing had happened, the Maestro began to stride out of the graveyard, pulling Lex along like a toy on a string. Lex tried to steady his nerves to keep his knees from caving as he was forced to walk.

A vampire, he was going to be a vampire like his cruel master.

No. No, he wouldn't.

Perhaps he didn't get a say in what sort of monster he became. Perhaps vampires were only demons wearing the flesh of the innocent. Perhaps even his master had been a kind man once.

But if he retained any influence over himself, any at all, he vowed to not be like his master.

Even if he were forced to drink blood and take a thrall, he would never, ever treat them like his master treated him. He would be gentle and kind and put them at ease as much as he could. He wouldn't live in a bleak cage of self-made misery. If he couldn't defy his master in any other way, if he couldn't dodge his horrible fate, then he could at least vow not to perpetuate the cruelty any further, if only to spite the vile wretch who'd cursed him.

Previous > Masterlist

The Maestro was in an especially good mood that evening. Lex was not.

Next week, Oliver has his spell lifted.

Thanks for continuing to read this story!

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[almondmilktargaryen]

Duty & Sacrifice (Part Two)

Summary: Aemond is married with two kids to Floris Baratheon, as it was his duty. But it's when he ventures into Flea Bottom in the night that he faces his sacrifices.

Couple: Aemond Targaryen/Fem!Reader

Category: Flangst

Content: Memories of sexual trauma. Violence, violence, violence. Trying to refrain from spoilers but the degree of violence is referenced in part one, so please take this vague warning seriously and be cautious if you still choose to read. Please be kind as I'm very nervous as to how this will be received. Aemond's hubris will be his downfall and I mean it.

Word count: 7.4k

Also on my Ao3

Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four ✍️

A/N: Okay, I caved. I’ve written a part two to Duty & Sacrifice AND have a part three on the way (maybe a part four). Tagged everyone who asked about a part two so you all can find it :))

Also we're going to pretend Chataya and Alayaya were around 200 years before they were for the sake of the story ✨

“I can’t fucking believe it,” Criston hisses. The heat of his anger billows from him like smoke from Vhagar’s nostrils. Aemond feels it against his back as they walk (Criston almost stomping) across the cobblestone paths. He wears the same old brown wool cloak and hat as he had when they were last here, before the Dance.

“I know,” Aemond responds plainly.

“I expected this from Aegon. As would anyone. But you, Aemond.” Criston staggers as he lectures. After years of reflection and buckets of blood on his hands, his anger still gets the best of him, even in the smallest of ways. “Honestly, what would your mother say about all this?”

“She’s gone, Cole.” That’s all he can say. She was taken by the winter fever shortly after Aegon’s second coronation and Helaena’s suicide. Aemond suffered plenty in all three areas. Criston saw. And he was there when Aemond still needed a parent; helping him through his losses and the choices his brother made as king. It is why Criston volunteered to help with the City Watch while also remaining on the Kingsguard to help him. He became a father to Aemond.

And fathers asking their children what their mothers might think of their wrongdoings is supposed to add an extra dose of shame. Aemond learns, despite assuming otherwise, that he is not an exception to this. He feels the shame, like whenever his nephews knocked him to the ground and snickered or when Alicent slapped him after confessing what happened at Storm’s End. He remembers how he couldn’t sleep for days.

There was no way he could sleep tonight, either. The possibility that something could happen to his family while he remained safe in the Red Keep is a burden he could not bear after seeing Alyssa. The gods sewed in the inevitable, and it’s his turn to unlace it. So he focuses on his route as Criston lingers behind, keeping up with the sharp turns and secret alleyways. Aemond recalls the moment he left. All three of them were safe. They were in tears on the cot, but they were safe. He let the image settle in his mind. They were safe. Spotting the door once again, he’ll guarantee it. He avoids glancing down the alley, hoping to forget that.

But Criston does glance. “Was that one of Aegon’s—”

“We’re here,” Aemond says. His fingers wrap around the handle, jiggling the iron to find it locked. Good. Then he knocks three times, then two, then one.

“You actually have a special knock?”

“Not important.”

The bolt shifted behind the wood, and the open door bloomed with light once more. Aemond squinted at the starkness, but he could see that she was alright. She was standing, hunching slightly, and smiling. She stepped aside to let them both in. Aemond spotted the girls on the cot, quiet.

She shut the door with a thud. “You came back!”

“Like I said I would,” Aemond replies. He was hesitant to hug her, but she took the choice away when she instantly wrapped her arms around his neck. He took the opportunity and held her gently, burying his nose in her thick hair. It smelled of sweat and dirt, and he inhaled deeply before letting go. “This is Criston Cole. He’s going to help us. It’s cold out, so you’ll need this.” He takes the spare cloak Criston has and asks her to hold her hair.

“I know how to put on a cloak, Aemond.”

He hesitates to object. The cloak matches her eyes. He notices when she turns and takes it from him. She handles it well enough, so Aemond squeezes by to reach the cot. He sits close to the babes’ feet. They were sleeping. All he could do was whisper “sorry” repeatedly as he picked up Alisha first. She only cooed, not fully awake. He stood slowly to hand her over. “Here. Put her under the cloak.”

“What did you think I was going to do?” She asked.

“I know, I know. I just... have to say it aloud.”

Then came Alyssa. She only squirmed as he picked her up, and Aemond wondered what she could be dreaming about. He stands straight before covering her. He brushed her ginger hair.

“Do you want to see her?” She holds Alisha closer to Criston. She smiles brightly when she turns Alisha’s face toward him. And despite his objections during the entire walk here, he reaches out to hold her little hand, noting how her fingernails are no bigger than grains of rice. He breaks into a grin when he says hello. His palm brushes her hair, and the grin fades as he looks closer—the transition from brushing the whole of her head to examining individual strands. Aemond does not expect them to be noticed at such a late hour, but Criston’s eyebrows go straight as he stares at him.

Aemond only stared back, bringing the other half of his cloak over Alyssa’s face.

“What’s the plan?”

“To find them safety,” Aemond replies. “A better home.”

“Surely you have a more detailed idea than that.”

“Where are the apartments? The ones where you kept that girl from Lys?”

Criston’s hard expression changed. “What are you talking about?”

Then it was Aemond’s turn to stare in disappointment. The disappointment that Criston thought he would never notice the obvious. Celibacy among the Kingsguard has not been as enforced under Aegon’s reign, and Criston is not the only one to take advantage of this, especially for any woman who looks like Rhaenyra.

“Over by the Old Gate,” he caves. “I arranged the rent and servants with Chataya. Her brothel isn’t far from here.”

“Then we’ll go to Chataya’s. We’ll take the Street of Silk. It should be faster.”

“Aemond.”

“Darling, we don’t have a choice. Here.” Aemond traces the loops of his belt, pulling out a dagger. “Take this.” The ripple of Valyrian steel sheens in his hand.

“I-I can’t.”

“You can and you will.” His face softens. “Just in case I’m not close enough.”

She’s hesitant, but takes it anyway, shoving it in one of the cloak pockets.

Alyssa fusses, as if she’s protesting herself now that she’s fully awake. He’s familiar with this one, and she does not let up when he tries to shush her, so he sticks his free hand inside and searches for her mouth. He gently puts his finger in, letting her tiny lips and hands wrap around it like a bottle.

“She’s hungry,” Aemond reluctantly admits.

“I can feed her. Quickly.”

“No. The faster we move, the better.”

“But I—”

“He’s right, ma’am,” Criston says.

Aemond can see the uneasiness reveal itself once more. It’s the remnants of fear sticking around before he left, as the possibilities outside that door (good or otherwise) are closer than ever. So Aemond stepped closer while her eyes glowed wet in the dwindling candlelight. A kiss, another hug, perhaps, or some sort of reassurance that it would be alright could help. But as his arms cradle Alyssa (and Criston waits when there’s no time), Aemond instead presses his forehead against hers. He keeps his eye on her, and her smile is small. It was good enough.

“Let’s go.”

Men in rags stay close to the walls, under torchlights. Some with their selection of whores, others looking to wait their turn. The streets are less congested by stone walls, so pathways are more open, with no carts or livestock blocking the way. They can all step aside and not disturb each other. 

Her cloak shielded her arms as Alisha fussed more. She stuck close to Aemond as Criston took the lead this time, many paces ahead. Aemond could hear the speed of her breathing and see the fog rolling from her lips.

“Walk with purpose,” Aemond tells her. “Eyes forward. Do not look afraid.”

“Easier said than done.”

“I’m here. Lean on me if you have to.”

“No. It’s not the time to look weak.”

That damned cot. Sleeping, the pregnancy, and birthing twins on that cot took its toll. Her body has grown weak. Her stubbornness, though, remains unmoved. It’s why Aemond never bought her a new bed. She would cunningly lead him to the floor, so they would lose the topic (as well as the night) before they slept.

Her stubbornness persists all the same as her body struggles with the walk, one step to the other as Aemond continues to be their eyes, centering on Criston (and the men who stare too long). The path is straight and simple. But Alisha still whimpers. Her arms shift under the cloth, muffling her upset, a finger in her mouth. But her adamancy follows through mother and daughter. “Why does this work for you and not me?”

Aemond smirks. “Magic touch.”

She scoffed, nudging him. Aemond responded similarly, planting a kiss in her hair in the safety of darkness. The frizz tickled his nose, and for a moment, Aemond felt peace. A rare thing he relished with his mother or his sister. It’s something he hasn’t felt since the Dance. But even on this road and in the cold, it ruminates over his whole body.

But as quick as that peace washed over him like a bath of sacred waters, he got pulled out. He’s reminded of his thirteenth name day when her blue eyes lock onto his. Aemond turns his eye to Criston once again. He didn’t turn around, but Aemond focused, blinking out the memories.

“Found a replacement, have you?” She stands at the entrance to that brothel all the same as before, when Aemond and Criston were looking for Aegon. She leans casually against the doorway as they pass, and the smirk makes Aemond’s stomach turn.

She turns around, but Aemond pulls her by the arm. “Focus.”

“Was she speaking to you?”

“Focus.”

“Oh… Aemond. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he says with an even breath. He pulls her closer, arm and arm, cloth and cloth. “We’ll get there soon.” Criston is still ahead, and Aemond remembers to breathe.

“Perhaps we should stop.”

“No.” His eye darts at the surrounding men. Most didn’t look at him, and the ones who did offered only a glance. None remember when he was ten and three, despite what his thoughts are saying. The walls are not closing in, and Criston is still well ahead. “We need to catch up.” He pulls her by the arm, and she does her best to keep up.

If it was not the location of Chataya’s that spoke of their expensive price range, it was the perfumes. He recognized the scents of Day’s Dawn and Ginger Palm, authentic from the Summer Isles, along with the smells of cinnamon and nutmeg. Scarlet lamps gave low lighting, but Aemond still kept his head down. He blocked all bodies he noted in the alcove as the lights bled patterns of their shades on the floors and small tables.

“Welcome, sirs,” a woman says. Aemond still keeps his head down.

“Alayaya, hello,” Criston says. “Is your mother around?”

“Always. But I can help you as well.”

“I have a specific request that requires her… connections.”

“There are plenty of specific requests we can and have fulfilled, Ser Cole. Not just my mother.” With her voice alone, Aemond can see her smile: coy and showing teeth, a light accent honeyed with playfulness. All the signs say she doesn’t know this situation is serious.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we specifically need your mother,” Criston says as he gently puts a hand on Aemond’s shoulder. Aemond forces himself to take a breath before looking up. When he does, he doesn’t let his eye linger out of concern that anyone else in this place would recognize him.

Aemond watches the recollection color her face, her dark eyes widening upon the sight of his. There was no fear in sight, but the realization that she was in over her head (Aemond saw that look a lot during the Dance). She picks at the gold rings in one of her braids as her eyes trail over to her persistently rocking Alisha. Alayaya steps back. “I’ll go get my mother.”

Chataya does not take long to arrive. Aemond spotted the book and quill in her hands before he put his head back down. “I’ll speak with her,” Criston tells Aemond.

“Alright,” he mumbles.

Criston squeezes his shoulder. “I’ll be close by.”

Aemond nods.

She was further away than they were on the street, just an arm’s length away. Alisha whimpers under her cloak, and Aemond cannot afford to spare her a glance, let alone help. Criston isn’t the only one who chooses places like Chataya’s. Non-Westerosi women have a higher price range, which means her customers have likely been in the Red Keep, possibly even invited. Which means they just need to meet his eye once.

It kills him. His stress only heightens when she fiddles with her cloak to find Alisha’s mouth. Nothing. She tries rocking her gently, but she only grows more demanding with each sway. Meanwhile, Alyssa remains quiet somehow, Aemond’s finger still in her mouth, but she stopped suckling minutes ago.

“Gods! Quiet the thing!” Aemond hears from the alcove. The man’s voice is deep in his chest.

“Sorry,” she squeaks. She does what she can, but Alisha does not let up. She’s very hungry.

Aemond sees a woman fall to the floor, just in his limited view. Alayaya helps her up. He sees calf-skin boots come and go out of his sight.

“Lord Baratheon.”

Aemond freezes.

Chataya’s voice is smooth as she remains assertive. “You do not throw my girls around as such.”

“This is not an establishment for children. So she should take the child outside so I can enjoy the experience I paid good money for.”

Alisha is hungry. Aemond thinks about that as he remembers Lord Borros’ funeral after the Battle of the Kingsroad. After that, they acknowledged Royce Baratheon as Lord of Storm’s End. Aemond married his sister two days later.

“Or if you just whip out your tit and feed it, it might—oh.” The gruffness dissipates, and Aemond questions his perspective for a moment. No one is in front of him.

“I remember you.”

“No,” she muttered. “Forgive me, sir. I don’t recognize you.”

“Yes, you do.” Royce drags out the last syllable. It sounded like Baelon insisting on a later bedtime or going hunting with Royce after Aemond and Floris agreed he was too young. Except Royce adds a disgusting singsong tone to it. “Redheads stand out on their own already. With big doe eyes like yours. Baratheons know how to spot that.”

“Sir, please.”

“Lord Baratheon,” Chataya calls.

Aemond has to keep still.

“You remember my cousin. I see it in your eyes. Of course you do. He loved redheads.”

Aemond’s heart pounds in his chest so fast that he’s surprised that Alyssa remains undisturbed. Royce’s voice only grew more heated. He’s drunk. And he’s quick to anger when drunk, remembering Lord Lorren Lannister running into him at the reception. Maesters tended to him while guards carried Royce to bed. Not long after, Floris pulled Aemond aside and asked him to fly to King’s Landing out of sheer embarrassment.

“I wasn’t—”

“But you just couldn’t let him have you, could you? Too good for a Baratheon, are ya?” He curdles a spit and hacks it on her shoes.

Aemond has to stay still. He keeps his palms flat, despite the instinct to clench them. Alisha’s crying continues, and it doesn’t help.

“He followed me to my room. I was not working then.”

“Whores are whores no matter the hour of the day. They bend over when a man tells them to.”

“Only when they pay for it. Your cousin was too frugal for me.”

Aemond didn’t know what would burst first: the vein in his forehead or his lips from the pressure of keeping them closed with his teeth. The desperation to keep his family safe stared him down from all angles. In his mind, he pictures Baelon and Daeron sound asleep. While adjusting to her growing front, he thinks of Floris kissing them goodnight as she stands up. He thinks of something happening to his girls and can feel the fabric of Alyssa’s cloth as he grips her tighter. He thinks of how disappointed his mother would be.

Alyssa fusses. Aemond eases his hold and his teeth.

Alisha wails.

“Is that a hungry bastard of someone who paid?”

“Yes,” Aemond says. He spots her sandals and the reflection of spit already seeping between her toes. Royce is not one to take directions the first time, and Aemond’s instincts smack his meaty fingers away before he’s given the chance to realize he was reaching for her cloak.

Alyssa’s cry leans into a bawl. Aemond’s hand is hesitant to slip back in.

Royce laughs, a small one from the belly. “Oh, I see. It explains the hips she’s got on her now. But if this doting father has his hands full with another bastard, then what will he do to stop me?”

“Then I will be the one you deal with instead.” Criston steps in front of Aemond. “Man on man. Sword and sword.”

“Ser Criston.” The joy depleted from his voice. Normally, Aemond would enjoy it, but Criston is the Kingsguard, the City Watch, part of the royal family. “The king requires escorts of many kinds, huh?”

“If the king or any member of the Targaryen family were here right now, you would bow accordingly. As is your place as a lord and as a Green.”

“My father would spit on the Greens if he were alive today. My youngest nephew doesn’t get to see his future land of Storm’s End because his pompous Targaryen father thinks he’s better than us. He’d rather both of them fly their winged beasts than hunt for game in the woods.”

Criston was silent for a long time. And for a moment, it was strange to find Royce was as well. He didn’t even digest Royce’s insult because Aemond couldn’t believe Criston was using one of his parenting tactics: letting the boy sit in silence with his own words so he could feel the weight of them. The longer they are quiet, the more they understand thinking before speaking.

“If you wish to keep your tongue, Lord Royce, you will keep it safe in your mouth by not speaking further insults about your brother-by-law.”

“Ma’am, sir, you can come with me!” Alayaya calls. “You can feed the babes back here.”

No one moves for what feels like hours, but Aemond follows her out, still looking straight at the floor and hoping to the gods there were no stairs. The gods blessed him as he passed through a beaded curtain Alayaya held open for them. They paused in place and let her lead the way. There were only a few paces before they stopped, Aemond nearly clashing Alyssa into her mother.

“You can look up, my prince,” she whispers. “No one will see you here.”

Aemond hesitates to do so, but the aching in his neck was tempting enough to believe her—a narrow hallway lined with crimson doors and elaborately patterned tapestries crowding corners and windows. Aemond looks back to see the beaded curtain Alayaya held for him, still clicking against itself before stilling, finding no one in his line of sight. No Criston either.

Alayaya pulls out a dull brass skeleton key that matches the door handle. She twists it, and a bolt shifts on the other side. She holds the door once again, waiting patiently for them to enter and settle in. Except this time, they don’t move. It is as if, in silence, without a single glance toward each other, they waited for something else to happen, as if Royce (or someone else) was about to stampede in and finally ruin everything.

But no one does; no one enters or leaves the hallway. A body does not enter or exit any of the surrounding doors. There are no people for Aemond to stare down at as they pass; there is no one here to remember when he was ten and three.

They found more tapestries and scarlet lamps in the bedroom. They also noticed a silk bed that looked untouched, with plenty of pillows that matched the sheets resting against the headboard. Neither of them said anything. Aemond looks back at Alayaya.

“I’ll tell Ser Criston where you are,” she says while looking at Aemond. Then she turns to her. Aemond follows. “You are safe here, ma’am.”

All she can do is nod. It’s good enough since Alayaya shuts the door. And it’s at the sound of the lock sliding into place that they deflate, a long-awaited exhale finally escaping their lungs. They release their arms from under their cloaks to place the babes at the foot of the bed, rolling out their shoulders and stretching their backs.

Then, after a moment of rest, they look at each other. They wasted no time closing the gap, wrapping each other in an embrace. Nothing sensual like this place would inspire, nothing romantic or yearning. Only love. The desperation to hold her was overwhelming, as it was proof that she was still here, present, alive, and safe. Aemond puts one hand atop her tangled curls and the other at her back, gripping her tighter and tighter like he expected her to become glued to his skin. He knows she can hear how incessant his heartbeat is, his ribs barely a cage enough to contain it. Aemond inhales the sweat and dirt, eye closed.

“You were scared too?” Her palms were flat around his waist and shoulder.

“Of course I was,” he admits. It was a simple thing to admit to her. “But you handled yourself so well.”

“He recognized me so fast.”

“And you handled yourself so well, darling.” He pushes the curls that cover her forehead back to kiss her on the skin, hot from stress. “You stood up for yourself, and I’m so proud of you.”

Aemond is present enough to let his heart calm. And once he feels the steady decline, he moves his hands but doesn’t let her go. Instead, he holds her face, kissing her forehead again, then her cheeks, then her lips. He brushes the tops of her hair back as he looks into her eyes. “I love you,” he tells her. “Don’t ever forget that.”

Her smile was small, yet such a wash of relief at the sight alone. The smile of contentment. “I love you too,” she tells him, and it’s a warmth that spreads through him like tea. And he looked at her for a long time. The mother of his daughters, a woman he never thought could love him the way he needed.

Her hands soon travel from his back to his wrists as she keeps her gaze on him. “I need to feed the girls.”

Aemond nods. “I’ll help you.”

“You should rest while you can, Aemond.”

“I’ll rest when you do.”

She does not argue further. She settled with Aemond helping her remove her cloak. He saw the way she was still shivering, but reminded himself that they were almost there. He doesn’t mention it. She instead settles on the bed, only wearing the dirty white cotton nightgown she often wore. It was the only one that had a stretchable collar. It was easier than getting undressed just to breastfeed the babes. She shimmies one sleeve down before bringing Alisha back into her arms. Aemond knows her breasts are still swollen with milk, and she has been in pain since the girls made their hunger known. Luckily, it doesn’t take long for her to latch, and she eats away.

Aemond keeps one palm on Alyssa in the swaddle as he watches. He moves her hair away from her chest, avoiding any mess. The copper spirals end at the middle of her back. She never wore it down when he first knew her. She had stringy pieces in her face that were too short to stay in the unkempt braid, which she only unraveled when the money was in her hand.

“What?” She turned to Aemond.

“Your cousin was too frugal for me,” he repeated in her earlier jab.

“Well,” she shrugs, “he was. Whores require payment, simple as that. Even the drunkest fools would toss coins at me when they were done.”

“I didn’t.”

She snorts with a laugh. “You’re a fool, but you’ve never been a drunken one. You paid me just to sit in my room and talk.”

“You intrigued me.” Aemond kissed her cheek. “Is that so bad?”

“It was daunting at first. You killed your cousin two days prior.”

“He was a cousin by marriage, dear.”

“You know what I mean, then.”

“Well, I didn’t know he was a cousin. It’s not like Royce was around.”

She scoffs lightly before changing her position, trying to sit as upright as she can, like Aemond. “Give me Alyssa,” she tells him.

“We have time. Just take the moment and be with your youngest.”

“Leave it to the youngest to be the most vocal.” She laughs at her joke.

Aemond does too, but he can tell she’s still rattled. “Look at me.” He gently puts his palm around her forearm, gesturing towards his chest, and then up as he inhales, guiding her to do the same. They exhale at the same time once more. “Perfect.”

“Gods, I was so scared.”

“I know. Me too.”

“Do you think your wife knows her brother is in the city?”

“We need to be informed in advance about any visitors to the Red Keep. She was probably waiting to tell me when it was closer to his visit. She knows I don’t care for him.”

“Do you think he recognized you?”

“No. He spat out what he did, but they’re the words of a sober man’s thoughts. Nothing more.”

They remained quiet until Alisha was done. Aemond keeps her hair out of the way as she burps their daughter. There was only minimal spit up—nothing a towelette couldn’t solve. He took the same towelette to wipe between her toes. They then switched out the twins quickly. She pulls the other sleeve down, and Alyssa latches while Aemond swaddles Alisha back up. It’s easy to remember: fold under the arms, across the chest, tuck behind the back, take the bottom, and meet the back. It’s effortless after four kids. Aemond holds her close, watching her eyelids grow heavy from the delightful consequences of a full stomach.

After a moment, he scoots closer to her, looking just over her shoulder as Alyssa eats. Her lids are becoming lazy as well, but Aemond can just make out her purple eye. The right one, just like his. It was something he once saw as a sense of pride. He felt the rush when he held Baelon, clean from the afterbirth, and nothing but a squishy being of joy. Daeron too. With his girl, his oldest girl, it was impossible to sit with that same storm in his blood without being reminded of the tragedies to come. The potential tragedies to come. It is why they’re here—to stop all potential tragedies from destroying his family.

She burps Alyssa. Spit up, as expected. It was more than Alisha, but Aemond wiped it up without hesitation. He dabbed her little plush lips for good measure, smiling at his baby. He swore he saw them curl.

Criston knocked at the door. Aemond knew because he copied his knock: three, two, then one. Aemond still gets up carefully as she watches him. Meanwhile, Alisha is out cold—not a peep. Aemond still keeps her out of view, cracking the door to just see half of Criston’s face. He doesn’t find any bruises, cuts, or a spot of blood anywhere on his clothes. Not even a wave of his hair was out of place. But the bulb in his throat bobs, something he remembers from the Dance. The audible dry swallow was never a good sign. “Royce is gone.”

“Gone where?”

“I don’t know. He left just now.”

“We should leave.”

“Yes.”

They nod to each other before Aemond shuts the door. He looks over at her, and she’s already trying to bring her nightgown back over her chest and shoulders, frantic as Alyssa falls asleep.

“It’s alright. It’s alright.” Aemond crouches down, pulling gently at the sleeve with one hand and pulling it over her breast.

“We have to go,” she said.

“Yes, but let me help. Breathe. And hold her. Be with your daughter.”

She inhales, pauses, and exhales on her own as Aemond pulls up the other sleeve. She brushes Alyssa’s cheek, cooing and kissing the air softly. Aemond drank in the sight as he brought the neckline closer to her clavicle. Then he took her cloak, leaning on the bed, and wrapped it around her until it met in the middle. She shook out her hair as she clasped the cloak shut. Aemond then hides Alisha again as Criston knocks with the same pattern, politely urging them to hurry.

Criston leads them further down the hallway. “Alayaya is waiting for us in the back.” The three hurried down the hall, nearly hand in hand with how close they were. Aemond’s heart raced in rhythm with their hectic footsteps. The narrow halls felt like an endless stretch as he waited for a single door to burst open and finally catch them. With every corner turned, that similar surge came back in full swing, his grip only tightening on Alisha as they rushed to the exit.

Then he spotted Alayaya over Criston’s shoulder, her hand firmly on the knob. She was ready to free them like frantic animals, but she stopped Criston with a polite palm to the chest first. “This leads to an alleyway. Go right, then left out of it. Follow the street until you reach the Old Gate. Make your way across the path, and the building will be on the corner. The top floor.”

As she opens the door, they all nod, and then they feel their feet touch an evenly paved cobblestone as darkness engulfs them once again. Silhouettes of ivy cling to the stone walls of looming buildings. Not a person in sight, not a (visible) Targaryen child in sight. Almost there. It was all Aemond could think of. Criston is ahead again, but he looks back. “Come here,” he says to Aemond. He recognizes the tone when he’s overtaxed. Aemond then looks back at her before approaching his side.

Criston pulls out a skeleton key, a similar brass shade to Alayaya’s. “Yours now. Chataya said she would send you the bill at the end of the month.”

Aemond takes the key, shoving it in his cloak pocket. His dry throat swallows as he feels the heaviness in the air—the shame. His mother’s shame Aemond could outrun for as long as he still breathed. The gods were kind enough to give them time together after the war and cruel enough to take her so soon after he found Helaena on the spikes. The idea  of Criston’s shame lingering in his eyes during every small council meeting, every year on any of his children’s name days, every glance in his direction was something he couldn’t tolerate. He did not want to lose more family.

“Thank you for this,” he eventually said. “It means a lot. Truly.”

Criston looks at him, but only briefly. “Don’t mention it.”

“I should, though. You went out of your way for me again. I am grateful for that... beyond words.”

Criston turns back to Aemond. His dark eyes, even in the starless night, softened quickly. “It’s my job to go out of my way for you.”

Aemond’s mouth twitches.

“I know you know what I mean.”

He gazes down at the hidden (finally asleep) mass in his arms. He knows.

“Aemond!”

His instinct takes over again, and he doesn’t remember turning around just as he doesn’t hear Criston draw his sword. His eye rests on the blade against her throat. Royce. Aemond makes out the Baratheon sigil on his chest as she struggles against his hold on her waist, despite not making any difference.

Aemond, however, cannot move. Not because he’s frozen with indecision, but because of the realization that there is no move that isn’t obvious. He is just in need to kill as he needs to protect Alisha. He cannot simply pass her off to Criston. Not even if his hands were free; they are too far away to make any difference. Royce could slice them both before Aemond would even be in reach.

So he is still by force and keeps his eye on her. She’s as fierce as she is terrified.

Royce’s face, however, is puffy from too much ale. And his beard glistens with grease. He chuckles. “So this is what you’re doing when you’re not making heirs with my sister, huh? We went to war—my father died—so you could make your own bastards with a Flea Bottom whore?”

“You will let them go,” Criston orders.

“Targaryen bastards line plenty of alleyways. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t slaughter this one in her arms and bring it to my sister. Have the entire city on the hunt for Prince Aemond Targaryen’s hidden bastard.”

“Royce,” Aemond says through his teeth. “Don’t.”

“Oh. You care about these. The prince I rode with in the Riverlands, he didn’t care for the bastards he slaughtered. He made them dragon dinner.”

“And I will slaughter you before feeding you to Vhagar all the same.”

Royce laughs. “If you cared for your brother’s kingdom at all, you’d drop the babe and hope the stone splits her head open.”

Aemond only holds Alisha tighter. She whimpers as she wakes up.

“I guess we have different priorities.” Then Royce moves the blade from her neck and shoves her into the wall, her back colliding with the stone. She yelped as she landed on the ground. Royce then snatches Alyssa from her hold before she can grip her tighter.

Alyssa whimpers with Alisha as she hangs in the air. Her weight dropped in the swaddle, but she didn’t fall. Her whimpers morphed into panic. His purple tint in her eye gleamed even in the minimal light, and he didn’t know if he could keep his eye open as he watched her kick her little feet in the cocoon, completely helpless.

Then the metal of Royce’s blade came into his sight. “She has your... eye.”

Alyssa was quiet because her mother’s screams pierced Aemond’s ears like blades themselves, digging into the canals. It’s all that forces him to look away from the aftermath, a word that was so easy to use when speaking about a mass of dead soldiers. Dead villagers and dead bastards as well. But seeing Alyssa on the ground, inky liquid pooling around her, it makes everything move slowly. Royce was even slower to stop her from digging Aemond’s dagger into his calf. Royce collapses, and the dagger ascends his body, cutting up his skin and fat like she was climbing a mountain, until Royce gurgles, desperate to keep speaking as his body convulses. When she is on top of him, she digs the blade into his chest. Repeatedly. Until only the hilt is visible

Aemond stays still, watching the twitching in Royce’s ankles. Criston is in his peripheral, his blade sheathed again. It’s her wailing and her rapid breaths in the dark that snap him into motion.

He hands Alisha off to Criston, double-checking that she is secure in his arms as she cries to herself. Aemond scrambles to her, nearly tripping over his own feet as he slides to the ground. His knees are wet as they press into the stone, and he can’t think about who it might be. Aemond finds his blade in the dark and slips it back into one of his belt loops.

Aemond’s throat is tight as he feels around for her, finding her back and the crooks of her knees. But there were small fists pounding against his shoulders and chest as she strained her voice.

“It’s just me,” he says.

“No!”

“Can you walk?”

“No!” She continues beating on his chest. “No, no! Where’s Alyssa? I want to see Alyssa!”

Aemond doesn’t listen, eventually feeling around (and finding more blood drenching her nightgown) until he finds her legs. He pulls her up as he attempts to stand on his own; the realization taking hold as she writhes against him.

“I want my baby!”

Aemond ignores her, spotting Criston and bolting past him before he says anything. He knows where to go just as well as Aemond. From the alleyway, he remembers to exit left. He keeps the image of the Old Gate in his mind as he charges.

The lavishness of the apartment was reminiscent of Chataya’s, with multiple rooms, silks, and warm colors throughout on top of the beautiful view of the city. The same scarlet lamps reflect on the stone floor, almost hiding the blood staining the entryway. Servants lined the archway into the first sitting room. That was until Aemond ordered them out, as they both collapsed to the ground upon unlocking the door.

Aemond’s lungs burned, like dry heat in his chest, as he heaved. When he eventually tried to stand (with great pain), he tried picking her up as well. She smacked his hand away. He understood. He deserved it. She did her best to get up on her own. And though Aemond could hear the struggle in (what remained) of her voice, he didn’t interfere. It was not his place. He stood against the nearest wall like the servants did moments ago. Except that his body lost all posture and royal propriety. He could barely feel his legs, let alone any sign of a heartbeat in his chest. As she stands, snotty inhales as she sees the blood across her body, red and shining even in the dim light. It nearly brings her back down.

That was nearly the case until her eyes locked on Aemond. He watched the surge pulse through her body as she brought herself to her feet with ease. Aemond doesn’t resist when she stomps across the floor toward him. The rage is in her eyes—a fire he never thought would burn so instantly inside her.

And it was his fault.

Her fists collide with the bones in his chest, some catching strands of his hair and yanking them out as she only screams in his face. Aemond doesn’t stop her. It doesn’t hurt. He can’t feel anything.

“I’m sorry,” he eventually says. A single tear streaks down his face. It was cooling as it slid down to his chin, following another. “I’m so sorry, darling.”

“I said you couldn’t do it!” She kept beating him as he remained still. “But you wouldn’t listen to me! If you left us in Flea Bottom, where we were fine, if you weren’t so fucking stubborn, I’d still have my babes!” The last word snapped her back as she looked around. “Where’s Alisha?”

“With Cole.”

“Where is he?” Her eyes flare.

“He’s following us.”

“You mean you don’t know!”

“It hasn’t been long.”

She hits him with a blow to the chest that he actually feels, winding him. “It didn’t take long for Alyssa to die either!”

The blood from her hands stains his tunic. Her punches become weaker as she looks back down at her hands. And she turns around before bursting into sobs again. She runs to the nearest back room, away from Aemond. She looks around at each flat surface, like she hoped she simply misplaced the girls. It’s not Royce’s blood that bothers her. She doesn’t have the girls to hold. Not even one of them—something she hasn’t experienced in three months. The whimpers and cracks in her voice are all that carry when Aemond can’t see her anymore.

Aemond returns to the ground, sliding down the granite wall. He was a pathetic guard for a woman who has every reason to hate him. The numbing stage of his heartbreak will surely pass and descend into the next stage, as will the weighing guilt of his actions. These were his actions. One of his girls died from his mistake. Because he, once again, assumed he was an exception to the rules, to the gods and their wrath.

Three knocks, then two, then one. 

Aemond doesn’t have the strength to stand. “Cole,” he says.

Criston opens the door, heavy wood with creaking metal hinges. He looks around the place, spotting the blood on the floor. His arms are cradling Alisha as he crouches to Aemond’s side. He doesn’t see a fleck of disappointment, only wide-eyed concern. “Are you alright?” He feels around his cloak and tunic for a wound.

Aemond shakes his head. “Not mine,” he says. His eye points to the archway on the other side of the room. “She’s over there.”

Criston looks over, her wails trailing out of the room just loud enough to overhear. He’s gentle when showing him Alisha. “She’s safe,” he says. “I only just got her to calm down.”

Aemond’s chest shutters, as though his ribs had finally given in and dissolved inside him. She matched her mother’s big eyes; the whites of them were pink, and her cheeks were red with grief. Aemond is hesitant to touch her, not just because of the blood drying on his fingertips, but also because of the fear of damning his only living daughter with his touch alone. He looked at Alisha as if he were suddenly the Stranger embodied, like one fingertip to her soft ginger hair would eliminate his purpose in doing all of this and destroy any sense of Targaryen exceptionalism he thought he possessed.

He hesitates but forces himself to reach out and touch her, as it may be the last time he’s ever given the chance. There’s a part of him that feels filled (if not partially) when she looks at him, recognizing him as a remedy for his pain and not the cause yet. He brushes the flesh on her cheek before letting his head fall back against the granite. “She needs her more. Go.”

Criston hesitates to leave. “You’re sure?”

“Yes. Go.”

“I’ll be back.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Aemond watches Criston disappear behind the curtains lining the archway, and his eye rests on the ceiling. He looked up like he was looking at the gods in the sept, the grand marble statues that surrounded him when he prayed. Helaena and Jaehaerys’ ashes in the sept came to mind, resting in silence after she screamed and held his headless nephew. The sound was no different from the mother of his children just in the next room, the sound of her heart shattering in front of him—a pain he didn’t have the strength to voice in himself. He didn’t think his heart could break the way it did upon seeing his corpse, wrapped in gilded cloth, like he was only in a deep sleep. He thought about the pieces of Arrax falling from the clouds at Storm’s End, with no sign of Lucerys’ body in the mix. All of them, his fault.

There’s no world where the gods would allow all of Aemond’s children to live when he helped kill two others because of his stupidity. His stupidity bested him again by making him think otherwise.

Criston came back. Alisha wasn’t in his arms, but a bucket and a rag hung off of him. He sets them close to Aemond as he gets comfortable on the floor, inches away. Criston dips the rag into the bucket, wringing out the excess water before taking it to Aemond’s cloak and chest. He doesn’t speak a word as he pushes Aemond’s long hair to his back, preventing any curling.

Aemond’s voice is weak. “Why are you doing this, Cole?”

“We need to clean you up,” he says.

Aemond takes a gentle hold of his arm and pushes him away. “She needs this more than me. Save the water for her.”

“There’s plenty left.”

“Why for me, then?”

Criston sighs. “It’s late in the night, Aemond. The hour? I’m not sure.”

Aemond doesn’t understand.

“Your wife is likely expecting you.”

Taglist: @paprikaquinn @immyowndefender @teal-anchor @dixie-elocin

[luimagines]

hey hey! it’s been awhile

could i please ask for a continuation to the wars soulmate au?

-🫓

Sure thing buddy! :)

Masterlist

Part 1

Content under the cut!

Now- you pitch yourself off a cliff. That's what.

You stand up abruptly- breaking the tension before it can fully form and run out of the room.

This is mortifying.

This is not what you wanted to learn today even if it still makes sense given what Sky had told you about how the soulmate stones worked. Of course Warrior was your soulmate. Had to be. It's not like it would have been one in a bajillion chance at ever meeting him.

And what does it say for when all of this is over?

You do abandon your friends and family for the sake of following him? You can't ask him to follow you. He's too important. Too many people are depending on him for him to simply go with you and live whatever simple life you had to offer.

Is this the end then? Are you still doomed? You doubt you would be able to move on from this even if you were never going to be together.

"Hold it!" Someone grabs your arm.

You scream and jump, trying to tear your arm away but it's Warrior.

Of course it's Warrior.

"What?" You ask with you heart in your throat. "Don't make this harder than it has to be. Please!"

He stills and instantly lets you go. Whatever words he had on his tongue die in an instant and you have the ever subtle feeling that perhaps you shouldn't have said that. Could this get any worse?

Warrior takes a deep breath, bravely meeting your eyes. "I'm sorry."

Why must you tempt the universe? How much more must you pay for your hubris?

Your jaw drops and your stand there stunned. "Wait-"

"I just..." Warrior starts again, cutting you off. "I'm sorry. I'm probably not your first choice." -Oh my god- "I know that my past has more baggage than it's worth." -What have you done?- "But I thought... The stones were honest though, right?"

He looks so hopeful. Had he actually wanted something from you? With you? You sudden get cotton mouth. You can't speak. Your brain flat lines there are no thoughts for you to grab onto.

"Right?" He echoes his previous question, wanting confirmation. "Even... if that was incredibly embarrassing, it was true, wasn't it?"

Somehow you nod.

Warrior lets out a shuddering breath. "Oh... Oh, ok... good. Uh- I mean. I'm... I'm glad that you.. um... Look, I really like you." He says, biting the bullet. "Like... really really like you. I wasn't- I didn't want to seem like I was coming on too strong and the guys give me a hard time enough as it is. But if this is true... If you like me too, do you think...?"

You feel like you need to sit down again. you're only saving grace is that you're outside where no one seemed to have followed you. "...You... like me?"

"Is that so hard to believe?" He flushes, the tips of his ears burning a bright red. "I had thought you believed I was just a joke."

"Funny." You choke on the word. "That couldn't have been further from the truth."

"What is the truth?" Warrior stress, boldly closing the distance between you again. His blushing features don't help him stay stoic and cool like he would have hoped.

You gulp. You don't have the words. This is both agonizingly slow and much too fast for you to handle. Why couldn't he just read your mind and- Wait. The stones.

Double wait.

You're close to each other. The stone would be silent. Cursed be the need to communication!

You take his hand instead and hold it tight. "I think... we both already know the truth."

You kiss his knuckles before you can second guess yourself. His hands are smoother and softer than you would have thought. He wasn't wearing his hand guards yet, still in his casual wear.

The effect of your kiss on Warrior was another delightfully bright blush all over his face, down to his neck and beyond. "I.... I see."

"Do you?" You whisper, feeling like a fish out of water. Everything about this feels raw and sensitive. One wrong move and everything would blow up.

"I think so." Warrior leans in, kissing your cheek. "Better?"

You suddenly feel like you can breathe again. "Much better."

[scwheeler]

♟˖ ࣪⊹ — ‘I KNOW IT WON’T WORK’

pairing: ethan landry x reader

summary: your boyfriend had become distant suddenly but confronting him about it only makes it worse

author’s note: inspired by gracie abrams’ “I know it won’t work” I LOVE THIS SONG AND GRACIE (lyrics will be in orange for reading & red for ethan !!) also you can send in requests and ideas!! #ANGST #SLIGHTSPOILERS

you looked over two seats at ethan who was quickly jotting something down in his notebook. it was a different color than his actual econ notebook and the lecture hadn’t even started yet so you furrowed your eyebrows in confusion.

but the loud slam of the classroom door shutting snapped you out of your trance. your teacher begun the class and you watched ethan shove the notebook in his backpack through the corner of your eye. however, you completely shrugged it off once the teacher started speaking.

sitting by your friends at the park was finally a peaceful event with all the stormy clouds and rain disappearing. it seemed there were only clear skies and chirping birds around until you faced ethan.

he avoided eye contact and tried to look elsewhere. anywhere. aren’t boyfriends supposed to want to look at their girlfriends? you even reached for his hand once but after he attempted to ‘discreetly’ move his away, you gave up. for a studious little student, he really couldn’t tell how distant he became.

at first you thought it was all in your head. maybe it was the stress building up from your upcoming finals or because of the mysterious murders surrounding your neighborhood. yet your fears were confirmed when even your friends brought it up.

even chad for gods sake!

only a couple of days ago, the friend group was laughing and chattering like a bunch of middle schoolers. you guys were loud enough to be heard from miles away but there was an awkward tension once ethan started to shy away from you.

where was the sweet boy who waited in front of your dorm room for a whole hour before finally knocking and asking you out?

where was your boyfriend who would not let go of your hand while walking around parties? who followed you everywhere that some people even asked if you had a stalker!

where was the boy who messaged tara and mindy a million times about what flowers you like so you would be happy on valentine’s day!?

that boy was obviously not present because your door remained silent. no doorbells or late night knocks for a last minute sleepover.

your hands stayed untouched. the only time he almost reached for it was when he put his hands down to help him getting up and leaving.

you went to parties alone now and instead of sitting on the couch just whispering and gossiping with ethan, you sat on the stairs and waited for mindy and anika to say one of them were too wasted to party anymore.

so after finally mustering up the courage, you marched to his dorm room and knocked on the door. first chad opened the door with a little confused face, “yes?” you ignored him and invited yourself in like a hundred times you’ve done before.

“is ethan here?” you asked and took a look around the dorm. chad shut the door behind you and walked towards you, “yeah he’s in his room, are you gonna talk to him?”

you immediately looked up at him, “oh god did mindy tell you too!?” you groaned and felt like you sunk in a batch of concrete. chad let out a shy laugh, “well we’re worried about you guys, i mean you’re the SECOND best looking couple on campus.”

you lifted an eyebrow and questioned him, “and who’s the first?” “obviously me and tara,” chad answered and went to go sit on the couch. you rolled your eyes at his hubris and approached ethan’s room.

but before, you knocked.

“yes, come in,” you heard ethan say from inside and you carefully turned the bedroom doorknob. “chad if you need help in eco—” ethan turned in his spinning desk chair that you got him last year since you knew he can’t focus with moving around.

he stopped himself at the sight of you and wished he locked the door. “oh y/n. what are you doing here?” he calmly asked as if he didn’t ditch you for the last couple of weeks. you scoffed at his ignorance and shut the door to avoid any eavesdropping from chad.

ethan stayed in his chair and watched you take a seat on his nicely tidy bed. there was an immediate silence that suffocated the room before you decided to speak up first.

your words completely shattered the glass surface evident in the room, “do you still love me?” ethan looked up from ground and met your eyes for the first time in weeks.

“w-what do you mean?!” ethan exclaimed and seemed to be taken aback. ��what do i mean?” you repeated. “i mean do you still love me? because you’ve been avoiding me like i’m the fucking black plague! you run away from me as if we’re literally not boyfriend and girlfriend!” you spilled out your emotions onto your so-called boyfriend.

your hand gestures were flying everywhere and all the suppressed feelings of anger and sadness came out. “so please just answer the goddamn question. please,” you pleaded for just one answer.

“y/n, i do love you. i truly do and i have but i just don’t think i can handle a relationship right now. it’s all just too much and with…econ—i can’t balance it,” ethan rambled and lied through his teeth, blaming his avoidance on fucking econ as if you weren’t in the same class.

he wasn’t hearing you out and was just piling excuses on top of excuses. you were sick of it. you wanted to have a civil conversation with him, talk it out like adults or in those cheesy romcoms where the couple makes up in the span of three minutes and a really extravagant song or romantic montage.

you could feel tears approaching the rum of your eyes but held them back with only a few managing to escape into your cheeks. “ethan, part of me wants to walk away 'til you really listen because i hate to look at your face and know that we're feeling different,” you were the one avoiding his eyes now. those big brown eyes of his that made you melt like ice cream on a hot summer day.

you wiped the few tears off your face and tried to remain calm. unknown to you though was ethan’s perspective. he wanted to get up and hug you, hold you and say he was sorry. he wanted to bring a dozen roses to your doorstep every night until you forgave him.

he held back his tears and looked up at your teary-eyed face. he thought to himself, ‘cause part of me wants you back, but i know it won't work like that, huh? why won't you try moving on for once? that might make it easy’ so he looked out the window and muttered, “let’s just break up.”

you bit your lip at the bitter words spit out by the boy you loved with all your heart and continued to even after this moment. you couldn’t even bring yourself to respond and opened the door to escape the suddenly stuffy room.

you ran out of the dorm room, ignoring chad’s questions and words from behind you. you didn’t stop running and hoped the cold air would dry your tears before you friends could see.

out of nowhere, the skies turned grey and for the first time in weeks, there a trickle of rain. even though the distance from your apartments was less than a few minutes, it felt like forever. it started pouring and your clothes were drenched.

you thought about how stupid you were and regretted ever stepping front in his dorm room to begin with. you sat on the stairs in front of your apartment, crying and trying to catch your breath. you could barely keep your eyes open with the rain and your tears drowning you. outside it was dark and you were all alone. except you weren’t.

ethan watched you from his room. his heart ached for you and your tears and he had to restrain himself from running down to you. he clenched his jaw and breathed through his teeth as he watched you slowly get swallowed by the darkness and rain.

i know we cut all the ties but you're never really leaving and part of me wants you back, but i know it won't work like that.

brrring! brrring!

ethan turns his attention to his phone and honestly hopes it to be you but his hopes falter as he sees the number and picks up the phone. “is it all taken care of?” a voice spoke on the other line.

“yes, she’s out of the picture so we are not going to hurt her.”