#anyway 💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚

[afreakforyautjas]

Trapped (yautja x human)

Part 5

[And to think this started as a silly little prompt 🤭 can’t wait for your reactions on this one!!! Can you guys guess the characters intentions for each other? 💚]

Read Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 💚

You looked at the Yautja, unsure if it actually expected you to come closer… maybe even help it.

You gulped, still anxious, still wary of the closeness. Let’s not forget, this thing had every intention of hunting you before the Xenomorph showed up.

Clutching the container of salve you had grabbed from the cabinet, you took a step toward it, avoiding its piercing gaze.

Its eyes were already on you. You could feel them, watching. Scanning. Maybe trying to figure you out, what kind of creature you were and why weren’t you attacking like the rest of the humans. You had no doubt it was still deciding whether you were a threat or not. Humans were the ones who captured it, after all. You couldn’t imagine it had any fond opinions about your kind.

You sighed, maybe louder than you wanted.

The Yautja tilted its head slightly and let out a soft clicking sound, as if wondering why you had frozen up, standing there with the medicine in hand, like a lost kid.

You blinked at the noise. It pulled you out of your spiraling thoughts. It was studying you again. The slight head tilt, the narrowed gaze… unmistakable.

You finally opened the small container. Inside was a blue, slimy substance. Strange, slick, almost glowing faintly. You hesitated, then slowly held out your hand, offering it for the Yautja to decide whether it wanted to take it and use it itself.

But it didn’t.

Instead, it looked you right in the eye and then, oddly, almost proudly, pushed its chest out, like it was presenting itself. Like it was… expecting you to help.

You blinked again. That wasn’t right. From everything you had read or heard about them, Yautja were loners. Fiercely independent. They didn’t want help. They didn’t need help. But this one…

It was just waiting for you.

Did it… somehow know you were the one who tried to treat its wounds when they first brought it into the lab? You hadn’t done a great job then. There were scars along its arms now, stitches that healed badly (you partly blamed yourself for that). Human medicine hadn’t worked, you hadn’t even thought to use this balm at the time.

But now… now it was letting you try again.

You dipped your fingers into the gel and instantly jumped back, gasping. It was freezing! So cold it burned. You dropped the container in surprise, your fingers stinging.

The Yautja growled. A low, amused kind of growl… almost like a scoff.

You frowned at it. “Was that a laugh?” you muttered, annoyed but a little thrown off.

You bent to grab the container from the floor and spotted a nearby lab spatula. That would have to do. You didn’t trust your fingers to survive another dip in that blue stuff.

You approached again, slowly, and for a second you considered asking if it was okay to apply the balm, but what was the point? It probably didn’t understand you anyway. So you dipped the spatula in the gel and brought it toward its bleeding arm.

The Yautja didn’t move.

You took that as permission and carefully spread the salve over the deep slice in its right arm.

The reaction was immediate. It let out a sharp roar, head thrown back, mandibles flaring. The sound made your chest rattle.

You flinched hard, stepping back, your heart racing.

Was that pain? Had you messed up?

Then you noticed. The green blood had stopped oozing. The wound was frosting over, the salve turning dusty and hard on the surface. It was… working.

There was another gash near its chest, and you figured you should deal with it fast, before the Yautja had second thoughts and ripped you apart.

You scooped more of the gel and applied it quickly.

Another roar, louder this time.

Its hand, gripping the edge of the operating table, crushed the metal like it was tinfoil… You shifted back, staring wide-eyed, caught somewhere between fear and awe. That grip alone could have turned your bones to powder…

But the grip slowly loosened. Its chest rose and fell. Its breathing slowed back to normal.

You wanted to ask if it’s okay, but it wouldn’t understand anyway, so you ignored the urge.

The Yautja shook its head, dreadlocks swaying with the motion, and then looked at you again. Directly. Expecting.

You held its gaze, confused. Was it angry now? Offended? Or just enduring the pain?

You took a hesitant step forward and the low growl that rumbled from its chest made your human instincts scream. Like a lion warning you to keep your distance.

“Okay,” you muttered under your breath. “Message received,” you lied.

Ignoring its warnings, you moved fast, hoping maybe the last scratch on its forehead wouldn’t sting as much if you applied the salve quickly.

Bad idea.

Its hand shot up and gripped your wrist, tight enough to hurt, but not enough to break. You made a pained sound. Its claws pricked your skin. It was letting you know, it could hurt you. It was a warning.

Your breath hitched.

“I just… I thought if I did it fast, it wouldn’t hurt as bad” you said, voice trembling. “I just wanted to help…”

The Yautja didn’t move for a moment. You could feel it calculating, its grip flexing and relaxing slightly over your wrist, as if testing how easy it would be to crush you.

But then, slowly, it let you go.

It took you a second to gather courage, before you decide to help again. Carefully now, you spread the salve across the scratch near its eye, this time without breaking eye contact. Neither of you flinched. Neither of you looked away.

You were too aware of it now.

It just breathed. Heavy, steady. Taking the pain silently.

Then its eyes shifted, not to the salve, not to the next wound, but to you.

Specifically… your head.

You noticed the way it looked at you, just a little sharper than before. Its head nodded slightly, and it let out a low growl.

You blinked. “What?” you mumbled.

It’s eyes dropped to the side of your head.

Instinctively, your fingers went to the spot.

You pulled your hand back, blinking at the smear of blood on your fingertips.

You hadn’t even realised, not until now. The pain had been buried beneath adrenaline and noise. But now, as you touched the torn skin again, you remembered. The Xenomorph. Its clawed grip, fisting a handful of your hair before the Yautja intervened. The skin must have torn when it pulled. You hadn’t had time to notice. Until the Yautja did.

You turned away quickly, grabbing a bottle of antiseptic from the nearby shelf and pouring some on a gauze.

A sharp burn bloomed beneath your skin as you pressed the soaked cloth against the wound. You sucked in a breath between your teeth, muttering curses under your breath.

The Yautja observed in silence.

Its eyes lingered on the wound, then the blood, then the way your body reacted to pain. You could feel it watching, dissecting the moment, trying to make sense of it… of you.

And then, it’s eyes darted to the small container of the blue alien medicine, and then back to the blood on your fingers.

Unlike its own, your blood hadn’t crystallized. The antiseptic hadn’t frozen to your skin. Your biology worked differently. Messier.

You glanced at the container and let out a dry breath, half a laugh.

“I wish I could use that stuff,” you said softly, nodding toward the blue gel.

The Yautja didn’t move, or made any noise. Still studying you like some strange creature it didn’t quite understand yet.

That made two of you.

God, if only you could communicate. This would be so much easier. But then again… maybe you didn’t want to know what it thought of you. What if it was just weighing when to peel your skull off?

Then it hit you.

“The helmet…” you muttered “it has a translator, doesn’t it?”

You stepped forward, almost too fast, a little more excited than you intended. “I know where your armor is. The helmet, it can translate, right?”

You saw no recognition in its eyes. Not yet.

You then decided to motion over your own head, trying to mimic the shape of its helmet. When the Yautja didn’t react, you used your hands to gesture around its head instead, hoping it’d get what you meant.

The Yautja tilted its head again, like it did whenever it was studying you.

Did it understand?

“If I help you find it,” you said slowly, “will you help me get out of here?” You didn’t know what else was crawling outside of this lab, you definitely needed some help to survive.

It stood up. Towering over you.

You held your breath by the sudden move. You noticed your head barely reached its chest.

You felt small, fragile, completely exposed in front of it.

You looked up and it suddenly roared, a sound that slammed into you like a wall, mandibles flaring and mouth wide open.

To your surprise, you didn’t back down. Didn’t flinch. Maybe you should have, but something told you this was a test. A show of strength. And maybe… just maybe… it respected the fact that you didn’t fall over yourself.

Its mandibles relaxed, and its gaze softened… or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

Then it turned to the dead Xenomorph in the corner of the lab.

It walked over and ripped off the end of its tail with both hands. A clean, brutal snap, like most of its movements.

The Yautja kneeled, nodding towards you, like a command. You followed, kneeling beside it without a question.

The Yautja pressed the tip of the tail to its own forehead and growled low, carving a mark into its skin.

You winced at the sight of its flesh burning. But the scar it left behind, you recognized it. A rite of passage. It had marked itself as blooded. As worthy. As a survivor.

You stood with it, still stunned. Had it… shown you that on purpose?

Maybe.

It glanced at you, then puffed its chest slightly. Almost proud looking.

It had let you witness the ritual. That had to mean something. Right?

Then it looked past you, toward the door. A silent command.

Time to move.

Time to get its armor.

Had you just made an alliance… with a predator?

[oddtinspeas]

First of all thank you, Maggie, for this happy ending, I needed that in Aemond's fic before your well-deserved break 💚 Can't wait for your book to be realised.

Kazi and me yet again bumping fist, I'm such a lapdog - no plumbing, electricity and real walls and beds - no me either, sorry.

Lucky was going through something in that chapter, wasn't he? 😂 He during his little talk with Aemond: 👁️👄👁️

But he acted as a real brother, even though I'm sure he was wondering who even let this heathen enter church and didn't kick him out for all these years.

Aemo the first saint to reject the papacy. Because of the women, our kind is truly evil, I suppose, Eve and apple and all that.

And Sydney sealed it with her threat to pray for the poor guard’s demise 😂 Oh to be gagged by this sympathetic nun who then became a meme.

Seaborn should also retire after this, give this poor man a break 😅 

Anyways… LANDO FOR THE POPE 🎉🎊🎆

The Keys Of Heaven [Chapter 8: And The Life Of The World To Come] [Series Finale]

Series summary: Three years ago, Father Aemond Targaryen performed a miracle. Now he is a cardinal, a media sensation, and a frontrunner to be elected pope. You are a nun who has been brought to Vatican City to assist with the papal conclave. But when your paths cross by happenstance, you must both reckon with your decision to join the Catholic Church…and what you want from the future.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), references to abuse and violence, volcanoes, bodily injury, death, peril, scheming, pining, some drugs/alcohol/smoking, Catholic trivia you never asked to learn, kangaroos!

Word count: 5.7k

🦘 A very special thanks to my Aussie slang consultant @bearwithegg and also her mum (any mistakes are mine) 🦘

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @lauraneedstochill @ecstaticactus @neithriddle, more in comments! 🥰

🗝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🗝️

Like all things here, it is a ritual. When a cardinal receives the two-thirds majority of votes required to win the papacy, amidst the applause of his peers, he is asked by the dean in Latin: Do you accept your canonical election as Supreme Pontiff? And he agrees and answers: Accepto. No one ever says Non accepto. No one ever refuses the waiting adoration of over one billion souls.

Next the dean asks what papal name he wishes to be known by—Quo nomine vis vocari?—and the pope-elect gives it, Thomas I, Nicholas VI, Innocent XIV, you get the idea. Then the stove is lit and the ballots burned, along with a mixture of potassium chlorate, lactose, and pine rosin that will ensure the smoke billows from the chimney white and jubilant. The cardinals file out of the Sistine Chapel, the bells of Saint Peter’s Basilica ring, and the crowds filling the square outside cheer; and the new Holy Father dons his white cassock and zucchetto and steps out onto the balcony to introduce himself to the flocks of the faithful, to the world, to the pages of history.

Some popes were prominent voices in the Church long before entering the conclave, like the erudite Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger of Germany who became Pope Benedict XVI in 2005. Others were relatively unknown, like Cardinal Karol Wojtyla of Poland who became Pope John Paul II in 1978, elected as a consensus candidate when neither of the favorites—the conservative Giuseppe Siri and the liberal Giovanni Benelli, both of Italy—could amass a supermajority of votes. In the old days, some won the office through bribery and threats, shades of fraud that reveal a myriad of deadly sins: exorbitant pride, glittering greed, envy for acclaim they have not earned.

And yet no matter how it happens, once a man is a pope he never stops being one. Even if he resigns, even when he dies, the Church will never allow a Holy Father to be torn down or forgotten or disgraced, even if he deserves to be; and when the time comes he is entombed in Saint Peter’s Basilica or the Vatican Grottoes beneath it to become a relic like all the others, aged brittle yellowed bones of popes and nobles and royals and saints.

~~~~~~~~~~

“So you were the one killing them all along,” Rhaena says as you stand together by the koi pond. She grins at you, crooked and mischievous. She keeps flapping her arms around; she knows she doesn’t have much longer to enjoy her white wool habit and is making the most of it.

“Yeah,” you admit with a sigh. “I was.”

“You’re lucky Sister Augustina already carked it. Otherwise she would have terrorized you, she’d have been mad as a cut snake.”

“Righto.”

“We’ll need to read up on proper care for koi fish before we get our own. We can’t have you going all Ivan Milat on them, can we now?”

You look out into the horizon, trees and hedges and fountains that have turned to greyscale ghosts, the vast shadow of the wall that surrounds Vatican City. It’s been raining off and on, and the mist hangs low and heavy, opaque like the future. You can just barely hear that the crowds are singing in Saint Peter’s Square, reverberations too soft and distorted for you to decipher the song. Without realizing you’re doing it, you clasp your medallion of Saint Agatha, cold plain iron that turns warm in your hands. “Rhaena, I have to tell you something.”

“Okay,” she says, and then immediately bursts into tears.

“No, no, don’t cry, mate!” you plead, reaching out to touch her shoulder.

“I know you want to leave,” Rhaena sniffles, not angry or betrayed but only wounded, deeply and defenselessly. “I know you weren’t just saying those things because you got a concussion. I just don’t understand why. You were always so genuine and so happy. I’ve met sisters that do seem kind of miserable, but you weren’t like them!”

“My calling to be a nun was genuine,” you assure her gently. “And so is my conviction to leave now. I’ve felt it for a while. That’s why Mother Maureen sent us here, to either renew my devotion to my vows or help me hear that the Lord is leading me elsewhere.”

Rhaena paws a travel-sized package of Kleenex tissues from a pocket of her habit and noisily blows her nose, sniffles some more, peers miserably down into the dark water sparkling with flashes of scales, red and black and white and gold.

“Rhaena,” you say, and she reluctantly looks at you, her eyes swimming with tears. From her throat hangs a medallion depicting Saint Jerome, the patron saint of orphans. “I’m leaving the convent, but I’m not leaving Sydney. And I’m not leaving you either.”

“You’ll forget about me.”

“No, I won’t. I’ll get a flat in the city somewhere, but I’ll visit you and Mother Maureen all the time. I’ll still volunteer at the shelter and go to Mass every Sunday. I’ll still help you build the koi pond.”

“Really?” Rhaena whimpers, wanting very badly to believe you.

“Defo. I love you, mate. You’re my family. I don’t want to be anywhere else.” But if Aemond ever flew to visit Athens, I’d go with him, you think, a thought that seems to come from nowhere. To find his son that he’s never met. To find his grandchildren.

Rhaena dabs at her eyes with a fresh Kleenex, the tears slowing. “But I’m still so confused…I mean, renouncing your vows, that’s heaps drastic! Why do you have to go right now? What do you think you need that you can’t get as a nun?”

“Well…” You smirk, and when she realizes what you mean you both laugh.

“Seriously?” Rhaena asks.

“Yeah. I thought I was alright without it, but turns out I’m not.”

“You want a husband?”

You nod, smiling a little to yourself. “I can’t stop envisioning myself with a partner. Maybe kids too, I’m not sure. That part is still fuzzy.”

Rhaena sighs. “I can’t relate, but I guess that gives it some context.” Then a disturbing notion strikes her. “You and Cardinal Targaryen, you’re not…you’re not, like, interested in him or anything, right?”

“Oh no, of course not,” you lie very convincingly.

“Good, because I know you two get along and all but he’s deadset not available. And you can’t do anything to hurt his reputation once he’s the pope.”

“No wukkas.” You stare into the thick grey mist, breathe in the cool December air that tastes like metal. Soon you’ll be in Sydney, Australia, where the sand is golden and the air hot and dry and buzzing with the hymns of cicadas, and Aemond will still be here: moving into the Apostolic Palace, greeting multitudes of the exuberant faithful, holding audiences with world leaders. “He’s very committed to the role.”

“He’s going to do amazing things,” Rhaena says softly, dreamily.

“Too right,” you murmur in reply, faint like an echo ricocheting back through decades.

“Should we go help with brekkie so Sister Penny doesn’t have an aneurysm?”

“Yeah, we probably should.”

But you walk slowly, not wanting to see Aemond, not believing that you’ll be able to keep your eyes from drifting to him and getting ensnared there like the iron combs in Saint Blaise’s flesh, stained with crimson blood and torn ropes of muscle. But Aemond is not in the dining hall. Nobody else seems especially alarmed by this; they assume he is praying—or, if they are a cynic like Auclair, at least pretending to—in these final moments before he is given one of the greatest responsibilities in human history, something no good man would ever crave.

As you bring fette biscottate, coffee, and hot chocolate to Aemond’s usual table, Lucky decides to go check on him. He waves goodbye to his friends and gives you a deep nod before he leaves the dining hall, like he’s acknowledging a sacrifice you’ve made. You blink at Lucky, startled despite the fact that you shouldn’t be by now.

Is this really happening? Is this really over?

Cam, cleaning his round eyeglasses with a microfiber cloth, is asking Kazi: “When are you coming to visit me again?”

“Never, if you’re going to make me sleep in a yurt.”

Cam laughs. “They’re called gers. And the ger is a beloved and ancient fixture of Mongolian culture!”

“If I wanted no hot water or television, I could have stayed in the Eastern Bloc.”

“Gers are older than the Catholic Church.”

“So are caves, and I don’t want to sleep in one of those either.”

“We had fun in the ger last time.”

“You made me play Parcheesi until 4 a.m.”

“Yeah, like I said. We had fun.”

Kazi rolls his eyes and then turns to Lando, puffing on his vape. The vapor is sweet and fruity, maybe strawberry. “You must be very excited to get back to your orphans.”

“You would think so,” Lando replies. “But I woke up this morning and, much to my own surprise, found myself a little sad to be leaving. There is so much history here, and so many new people to meet always coming and going. It’s all very inspiring, you know? I’d like to return someday. Perhaps I could find a way to make myself useful.”

Kazi shrugs. “Well, there are orphans everywhere, I suppose.”

Now the dean Cardinal Seaborn is rushing over, his grey hair ruffled, his red zucchetto slightly askew. “Cardinal Nowak, I beg you, please stop smoking inside,” he says.

Kazi grins as he slides his white-and-red vape into a pocket of his scarlet cassock, thirty-three buttons fastened from his throat to his ankles. “I hope you are enjoying yourself, Brother. It is your last chance to scold me.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Lucky finds him outside in the mist, leaning against the sand-colored concrete exterior of the Domus Sanctae Marthae and smoking a Karelia cigarette. From Saint Peter’s Square, he can hear the crowds singing The First Noel.

“Pre-wedding jitters?” Lucky jokes, then he turns serious when he sees Aemond’s face, the unscarred right half shellshocked and full of dread. “Aemo, what’s wrong?”

“I just, um…” Aemond takes a drag and exhales smoke while he searches for the words. His bandaged hand is shaking, Lucky notices. This shocks him; he has never seen Aemond rattled before, not when he visited sites of earthquakes and landslides and wildfires, not when he blessed people who had been pulled from the rubble, maimed like he was on Nea Kameni. “I guess I’m feeling a little…conflicted.”

Lucky tries to soothe him. “It’s an immense responsibility. It would give anyone pause.”

Aemond flicks ashes off the end of his cigarette, avoiding Lucky’s eyes, large and dark and sympathetic and wanting so sincerely to help.

“This isn’t about the nun, is it?”

“No,” Aemond says. Then he winces and confesses. “Yeah, it is.”

Lucky is exasperated. “You’ve wanted to be the pope for as long as I’ve known you, even longer than that, I’m sure, and I’ve always felt that there was no better candidate. Now suddenly you see her again after all these years and you become a different person? If you believe God is telling you to leave the Church and be with her, you can share that with me. You can unburden yourself, and we can discuss it. I cannot argue with God. If He has called you away—”

“God doesn’t speak to me,” Aemond says. “He never has.”

Lucky’s brow furrows. Never? he must be thinking. That can’t be right. Never?! “What is it that led you to the Church?”

Aemond admits in a whisper: “Pride.”

“But…you do have some faith, don’t you…?”

Aemond doesn’t reply; he just stares back at him miserably, his cigarette smoldering between his fingers.

“Aemo,” Lucky says slowly, trying to stay calm. “You are my brother. And you are my friend, and I love you, always, unconditionally. But I don’t know how to help you right now. I don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I don’t know either.”

Lucky points at the building. “Those men in there are going to elect you in half an hour. It’s happening.”

“Right,” Aemond says, like he can’t quite comprehend it.

“I don’t think I could stop it even if I wanted to. People think you are a saint, Aemo. They think you’ve been chosen by God. I think you’ve been chosen by Him.”

Aemond nods and stares into the mist, silent, forlorn, his cassock a long gash of red like an open wound, like a stigmata.

“Who else?” Lucky asks softly. “Who else could we trust to lead the Church in the right direction? Who else could get enough votes to win? Give me a name and I will see what can be done. I’ll do it for you, even if I believe you are a miracle worker and a gift to this world. But I can’t think of anybody else. Can you?”

“No,” Aemond says.

The cardinals begin leaving the Domus Sanctae Marthae, pouring out into one of the narrow streets that wind through Vatican City like veins, and Lucky swiftly conjures a broad, blithe smile and greets them, then leads the procession towards the Sistine Chapel. It is the last time they will be ceremonially locked inside to vote, a symbolic holdover from the days when cardinals were not permitted to leave the chapel at all until a new pope was chosen, not even if it took weeks. After all, the word ‘conclave’ comes from Latin: cum clave, meaning ‘with a key.’

As the ballots are tallied, Aemond hears Cardinal Jahoda’s name called twice, Lando’s called a handful of times, and his own name called again and again and again. He gazes at the vast sky blue fresco painted on the altar wall of the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo’s The Last Judgment, illustrating the Second Coming of Christ and the resurrection of the dead. He sees Saint Lawrence with the gridiron he was roasted alive on, and is reminded that Lawrence—the patron saint of cooks and comedians—is Kazi’s favorite, just as Lucky wears a medallion etched with the likeness of Saint Valentine and Cam has a ring depicting Saint Catherine of the breaking wheel. Aemond sees Saint Bartholomew clutching his own flayed skin, Saint Sebastian riddled with arrows, Saint Peter holding the Keys of Heaven. And Aemond does not believe in any of this, and he never has, not even in moments of weakness, not even as a metaphor; but she does, and he can’t stop thinking about her.

I left her once, and it was hell for both of us. How can I do it again?

Aemond glances over at Lando, who sits beside him, and sees that he is making absentminded sketches in red ink as he waits for the last of the ballots to be counted. Lando has drawn a menagerie of tiny animals: a gecko, a manatee, a stork, a shaggy-haired yak...and a kangaroo, bounding across the white paper. Aemond closes his eye and sees them again: hopping on the beach in the early morning hours, grazing on tufts of grass that grow out of the sand dunes, nibbling on tangles of seaweed that wash up onto the shore, leaving pawprints that he and a nine-year-old girl kneel down to trace reverently with their small fragile fingertips.

Through the veil—time and space woven together until they become impossible to separate—Aemond realizes that the cardinals are clapping and gathering around him. Kazi and Cam are competing to see who can cheer louder. Auclair is scowling at them as he performatively pats his palms together, not making a sound. Lucky is smiling, but he is watching Aemond with trepidation, perhaps even with fear.

“Aemo, are you alright?” Lando whispers with concern.

Cardinal Seaborn is asking: “Acceptasne electionem de te canonice factam in Summum Pontificem?”

When Aemond doesn’t instantly accept, panic crosses the dean’s face.

Seaborn says again, more urgently: “Acceptasne electionem de te canonice factam in Summum Pontificem?!”

~~~~~~~~~~

You hear applause coming from inside the Sistine Chapel, and you stare at the tall wooden doors, locked and flanked by two Swiss Guardsmen wielding their halberds.

“I reckon we should go tell Sister Penny, Sister Nuru, and Sister Helvi that it’s almost time to hear his first homily,” Rhaena says excitedly.

“Sure thing,” you reply. But then you sprint for the doors.

“What are you doing?!” Rhaena yelps as she follows you.

You rip through the Guardsmen when they try to block your path, drop to your knees on the grey marble steps, press yourself against the wood so you can hear what’s happening inside.

A Swiss Guardsman snaps: “Sister, no one is permitted near the doors.”

“Quiet.

“Sister—”

“Be quiet or I will pray for God to do horrible things to you!” you say, and the man appears shaken. The Guardsmen blink at each other, uncertain of how to proceed. After some hesitation, Rhaena apologizes meekly to them and then perches on the top with you.

“What’s going on?” she murmurs. And you listen, through the rush of blood in your arteries, through the pounding rhythm of your heart, until you hear his voice.

“Non accepto!” you shout from where you kneel just outside the Sistine Chapel. “He said non accepto!”

Rhaena gasps. “What?! Why?!”

“I don’t know!”

One of the Guardsmen seizes your arm and tries to drag you away. You don’t flinch at all, and you don’t move either. “Sister, forgive me, but you must not—”

“Shh!” you hiss fiercely at him, and he recoils, and again you lay your palms and ear flat against the door.

~~~~~~~~~~

The cardinals have erupted into chaos. People are yelling, protesting, interrogating, surely they could not have heard him correctly. Jahoda, Auclair, and Ferrari have huddled together and are chattering eagerly. Lucky is rubbing his forehead and staring vacantly at the floor. “What the fuck?” Kazi mutters to Cam, who shakes his head; he doesn’t understand either.

Aemond stands and walks down into the aisle, then addresses his audience. “Thank you, Brothers, for your great faith in me. But I believe I am being called to a different sort of life. And I…” He touches the gleaming gold cross that hangs from his neck, then takes it off and sets it on a table that’s been brought in for the conclave. There are sharp, scandalized intakes of breath. “I must confess that I am in love with a woman and I intend to live with her as a layperson, and therefore I am not fit for this office, nor even to cast a vote for the next man to hold it. So I’ll be leaving now.”

There are more outbursts of shock and despair; some men are weeping. Cardinal Seaborn collapses limply into a chair and clutches his chest.

“In my last act as a member of this conclave, and as a cardinal,” Aemond says. “I implore you to turn to someone who best embodies the qualities of Christ: humility, compassion, charity, faithfulness, forgiveness.” Then he looks at Lando, a long meaningful stare, until the other men start to notice. Lando gazes back at Aemond, speechless. What, me? the expression on his face reads.

Aemond bows his head, a hushed farewell, and strides towards the locked doors. In seconds, Lucky has grasped his plan and surged to the center of the roiling crowd, his voice booming, his gestures dramatic and rousing.

“Brothers, I invite anyone who has a single criticism against Cardinal Almazan to speak now! Who here can give voice to even one instance of pride, or wrath, or envy? No, we are all well-acquainted with his character...”

When he reaches the tall wooden doors of the Sistine Chapel, Aemond thumps his fist against them. “Unlock the doors!” he commands, and then when the Swiss Guardsmen outside are reluctant, Cardinal Seaborn joins him.

“Open up!” Seaborn orders. “This is the dean! We have one cardinal leaving. Do this quickly, so the conclave can resume!”

There is the metal scraping of a key in a lock, and then cool December daylight streams in through the space that appears like the vastness of the ocean. The nuns that had been kneeling on the marble step skitter out of the way, but Aemond only sees one of them. She staggers backwards and gapes at him, waiting for him to speak. After a moment, he does.

“What you said about us leaving together…is that still something you’re open to?”

She nods, thunderstruck but beginning to smile. “Yeah, defo.”

“Do you think we could get a driver to take us to the airport?”

“If you’re the one who asks, sure.”

And he offers her his bandaged palm, and she takes it, and he pulls her in like he did in the golden candlelit glow of the Clementine Chapel in the Vatican Grottoes and kisses her, not for the last time but for one of the very first, his hands now perfectly clean.

~~~~~~~~~~

They have placed a Christmas tree in Saint Peter’s Square, towering and covered with ornaments and lights, right in the center beside the ancient Egyptian obelisk that has stood there since the 1500s. Today, tourists who have flown in from all over the world take selfies in front of it, and when the holidays have passed the tree will not be simply discarded but repurposed into toys for children in need, and so it will be passed on and on and on again, like a cherished heirloom, like the Keys of Heaven.

As the Fiat Panda skirts around the piazza, you look out through the tinted window into the crowds, carrying their homemade signs and waving their miniature flags and waiting for white smoke to billow from the Sistine Chapel. There are reporters interviewing attendees in front of video cameras labelled CNN, BBC, ABC, the Hellenic Broadcasting Corporation, Mega TV. There has been an altar of sorts assembled at the spot where Aemond freed you from the burning car, a display of white candles and red poinsettias; and there are statues and banners of Saint Agatha too. Someone must have told the press that she is your favorite saint, perhaps Mother Maureen when they called the convent.

Beside you in the back seat, Aemond wears something inconspicuous so he won’t get mobbed at the airport, black trackies and a white crewneck. He has also procured a pair of black sunnies from the driver. You are dressed in Levi’s and a red turtleneck sweater with reindeer on it. Back in the Domus Sanctae Marthae, you and Rhaena folded up your habits and stowed them away in your luggage; but your rosary is still in the pocket of your jeans, white pearls, a silver chain. As you gaze out into the crowds, you clasp the small iron medallion you’ll wear for the rest of your life, Saint Agatha and the torture that broke her body but left her soul unscarred.

“Dear God, you’re both famous,” Rhaena says from the passenger’s seat as she scrolls through her phone, social media posts and news articles and YouTube videos that have circulated prolifically while the conclave was trapped in seclusion. “People are calling the two of you their Roman Empire. They say they ship it. And you’re a meme, look!”

She shows you and Aemond a viral photo of him cradling you in one of the fountains of Saint Peter’s Square, the white Fiat engulfed in flames and screaming pedestrians in the background, both of you drenched with water, your eyes closed and his blood cascading down your face as he smooths back your hair, like you’re being baptized with it. The text box superimposed over your body reads: Me contemplating driving off a bridge during my morning commute. And then in the box on top of Aemond: A $9 iced coffee.

“Hm,” Aemond says, tapping his chin in that way that he does when he’s thinking. “So I guess we’re not going to be able to disappear into anonymity quite so easily.”

“Yeah nah, not a chance.” Rhaena beams at him. She keeps accidentally calling him Cardinal Targaryen, but that’s not his name anymore. “I think you’ll be inspiring people for a long, long time.”

Aemond smiles and drapes his arm across the back of your seat. There is no medallion around his neck, no rosary in his pockets, and there won’t be until he truly believes, and perhaps he never will. You’ll love him even if he doesn’t. Aemond tells the driver to turn on the car radio, and then makes him change the station until he finds Christmas music: O Come, All Ye Faithful.

At the airport, the customer service agents are remarkable unhelpful—swamped with holiday traffic and wearing jingling felt reindeer antlers or oversized Santa hats—until Aemond takes off his sunnies and they recognize him, their mouths falling open, their eyes filling up their faces.

“Father, aren’t you supposed to be getting elected pope right now?” one of them asks in a thick Italian accent.

But Aemond just shakes his head and flashes a grin. “God has other plans for me.”

Almost immediately, the agents find three seats for you on an outbound flight to Sydney, ten thousand miles southeast, eight hours ahead of the time zone here in Rome, twenty-nine years in the past. You sprint through the airport to find the gate—yanking Rhaena along when she tries to stop at Starbucks for a cuppa—and arrive just minutes before boarding begins. You take this opportunity to call Mother Maureen while Rhaena races back to the Starbucks, promising she’ll be quick. You have thousands of texts and DMs to reply to from your time in seclusion. At least you’ll have something to keep you occupied on the twenty-two hour journey, including a layover in Dubai.

The phone rings only once; she must have been waiting for you. “Hello?”

“Hi, Mum.”

“Hi, darling!” Mother Maureen cries, and you can feel the warmth of the hug she’ll give you when you land, and you can see the crinkles at the corners of her eyes and the long silver braid down her back. “How’s it going, love? You’re done there, yeah? We saw the white smoke. We’re all gathered around the telly waiting to see who walks out onto that balcony.”

They voted again already? “Yeah, I’m on my way home. And Rhaena too, of course.”

And then there is a pause, like the lull between the tolls of a bell. “Are you coming to visit, or to stay?”

You look to Aemond, who is wearing his black sunnies again and trying very hard not to be noticed, clasping your left hand, skating his thumbprint over the bumps of your knuckles; now he is allowed to touch you, and he never wants to stop. “Just for a visit.”

Mother Maureen can hear the smile in your voice. “Rather chuffed with yourself, aren’t you?” she teases. “I’m happy because you’re happy.”

“And I’m bringing someone with me.”

Now you’ve surprised her. “Really? Who?”

“A friend from a long time ago.”

Mother Maureen is confounded. “What?”

“I’ll explain when I get there.”

“Oh, they’re about to announce the next pope!” she says, and you can hear the other sisters in the background, indistinct ambient squeals of excitement. “It has to be that Targaryen bloke, right?”

You glance over at Aemond again. “I doubt it, Mum.”

“Oh, it’s...it’s...” Mother Maureen gasps. A chorus of bewildered turmoil fills the lounge room at the convent. “It’s some Filipino man that no one has ever heard of!”

Lando?! “Okay, I have to go, Mum! We’re about to board.”

“Text me your flight number so I can track you!”

“Sure thing. Cheers.”

You hang up, and before you can say anything, you hear a crescendo of a roar, like a concert stadium, like ancient Romans filling up the Colosseum to watch Christian martyrs get fed to lions. You and Aemond twist around in your chairs to see that passengers are turning up the volume on a flatscreen television mounted on the wall, CNN, urgent red graphics, breaking news. Rhaena returns with three gingerbread chai lattes and gawks at the television.

There on the screen, Lando steps out onto the balcony of Saint Peter’s Basilica. And applauding all around him are the cardinals of the conclave, and the loudest among them are his friends, their faces beaming and their cheers triumphant, and perhaps even more than that, proud: Lucky, Kazi, Cam. Jahoda and his supporters are clapping politely; this is a compromise they can live with. The dean Cardinal Seaborn looks like he could cry with relief.

Lando, now Pope Nicholas VI and dressed in white, speaks into the microphone with a dazed, shy smile: “Brothers and Sisters, I did not expect to be here, and you surely did not expect to see me either.”

The crowds in Saint Peter’s Square laugh, so deafeningly you can hear them through the television. You catch glimpses of tourists waving miniature flags of the Philippines. The Holy Father pauses to collect his thoughts before he continues. Here in the Leonardo da Vinci International Airport, more and more travelers are stopping to watch the small soft-spoken man on the luminous screen, their suitcases rolling to a halt, their expressions curious and then hopeful.

“In recent events, God has shown us the power of His miracles to heal, and to comfort, and to bring people together, and to revive faith that has been lost to us,” the new pope says. “It is my most sincere wish to define my pontificate with these same attributes. And it would not be right to address you here today without thanking one of my dearest friends, Cardinal Aemond Targaryen of Greece, for everything he has done for the Church and for the world. You will not see him here today. He has been called to a different vocation, just as noble, just as important, and I’m sure he will speak to you directly to share more about that when the time is right.”

A middle-aged man standing behind you whispers to his wife: “I knew he had something going on with that nun.”

“Would you save me from a burning car, babe?” the wife asks playfully.

“Oh yeah, totally,” the husband says, but he doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

The Holy Father continues: “Today, Brothers and Sisters, I ask for your patience and your prayers. To be entrusted with the Keys of Heaven is a sobering honor, and I am still at this moment very much in awe of their weight.” The people in Saint Peter’s Square cheer for him again: Bless you, Father! We love you, Father! “I am reminded of the Lord’s teachings that we are all God’s children, the beneficiaries of His boundless peace and mercy, the recipients of His promise of everlasting life, and as children we can never expect ourselves to be faultless, but rather to respond to inevitable missteps with compassion for both others and ourselves...”

But now your flight has begun boarding, and a life on the other side of the planet awaits you, something new but something old too, something mortal and yet divine, something resurrected.

Upon examination of the tickets, Aemond and Rhaena’s seats are together, while you are across the aisle. You tell Rhaena that you will switch with Aemond to sit with her, but she shakes her head. “No, you two should sit together,” she objects, and then when you try to decline, she insists. “I have to get used to giving you some space, don’t I?” she says, smiling warmly even if her eyes are still a bit sad. She is wearing a green velvet dress freckled with silver Christmas trees, and she looks so young. Was I really her age when I took my vows? I didn’t know anything yet. “It’s not like I’m going to move in when you get married. So go on, enjoy your flight. I have a lot of YouTube videos to catch up on anyway. We can meet up by the bathroom to have a yarn every hour or two. I’ll fetch you. Don’t think I’ll forget. Don’t get too distracted by your snogging or whatever.”

You chuckle and embrace her, only for a moment but very tightly. “I love you, mate.”

“I love you, sinner.”

And you both burst out laughing, and then you part ways, Rhaena to one row as you and Aemond take your seats in another.

The plane barrels down the runway, becomes weightless somehow and lifts into the sky, pitches and shudders until it is high above Rome and ascending rapidly, soft white clouds and an endless blue horizon. You gaze through the oval of clear glass, cold beneath your palm and fingerprints, thinking of froth on the ocean and the crumbling slopes of sand dunes. Beside you, Aemond types and retypes the same message over and over again in his Notes app, trying to figure out what to say to the son he’s never met. Then he opens Spotify and puts his AirPods in your ears, and his bandaged right hand lingers afterwards, cradling the curve of your jaw and stroking your cheek, threading his fingers through your unbound hair. And then he plays you a song. It’s Atlantic City, and it’s about the mafia, and escape, and love, and things that have died coming back to have a second chance at life.

You see yourself there again, a pizza place on the boardwalk when Sydney is hot and radiant with summer, and Aemond is not a twelve-year-old boy but a man, and instead of vanishing through the doorway into a labyrinth of night and stars and streetlights he is walking in to join you at the table, and he is smiling. Then Aemond’s son is there too, and his daughter-in-law and his grandchildren, and Sister Rhaena and Mother Maureen; and after twenty-nine years everything is right again, and everyone is home.

[iscdisc]

This is me testing the waters of this dynamic- 👀

I'm not even joking when I say this came to me in a dream and I was like, "???", but I drew it anyway- LMAO

I kind of like it though?? I've never really been into poly ships in this specific fandom context (meaning 2012) because I don't like most of them or I can't personally see / understand most of them, so this is definitely an interesting development coming from me- 😭👍 / But I think this little trio is adorable and has potential ! Idk- 💚💛❤️ (Dude, they're like a traffic light with these hearts- Omg-)

[biancasaidstfu]

Here’s my yapping….been a fan of the show since 2020 and a fan of the books when they came out….watched the WT in real time and thought WTF is happening! Started searching SM to see if anyone else was seeing what I was and eventually found my way here. Now I limit myself to a handful of blogs that believe what I believe. Through ALL the ups and downs, and there have been soooo many, I’ve held on, sometimes just by my fingertips. Even with all the fuckery I have not been convinced to stop. I question what they are doing and why they are doing it constantly. I do think they are protecting something…and have seen all the theories about why A is in the picture but sometimes it does seem like it’s gone too far and there has to be an end soon. Was N’s post signaling the beginning of the end and the pics of L a last ditch effort on the part of A to keep her foot in the door…maybe. But it’s always so coordinated did N know the pic was coming so she tried to mitigate the fallout by posting a Luke coded series of pics? ?? Anyway, I’m onboard, still at the restaurant and any other euphemism we want to use…hoping my summer won’t be completely taken over by this like last summer was, although When it does end I will miss all the snark that comes from this group of funny ladies and especially you Bianca! 💞

I tend to think they help each other out around these drops. Thank you 💚

[cryybabywhore]

yesterday i went to my daddy’s job during his break and laid on his lap while he fingered my throat and pvssy 💚 he put all 4 fingers deep in my throat and i took it all no matter how much it hurt 😇

anyways good morning ☀️

[icecats3]

Thoughts on the aro/ ace representation on the realm smp.

(Note, everything is characters but I’m way to lazy to go through and tr! Every name so :3)

I just want to say how much I love the aro rep in the realm . For example, the way yesterday, how pili explained his feelings towards Pangi just. It’s so real to me. And let’s be honest half of this fandom is on the aro/ace spectrum and it’s just so nice to finally see represntaion.

I also love the way that pili and bad and ros have that thing surrounding murder, not inherently sexual but it is like a form of attraction to them. Of course I am a big believer that this is yet another good form of aro rep , even if it’s not really true to real life it shows like just the diffent way of attraction some people feel. I also LOVE the sense that to to them it was inherently an attraction based thing but to others it wasnt really? That’s just felt like such an aro experience even if that’s just me. Like for example as how pili felt being killed was special and well a bit of an equivalence to sexual type things however it wasnt really sexual? And others definitely didn’t see it the same (coughpangicough) it just felt so nice to see that kind of thing represented. Idk.

Another pili related one is how currently Pangi is in a well romantic situationship with Lukey (atp , but they might stop like today 😭😭) and how pili has had to watch as someone he well loves in a sense not feel the same type of thing for him, and has to watch him love some one else like THATS SO REAL AKWLWKEKWK. I just can’t explain how much it relate to that feeling. The obsessive want for the same amount of affection that they’d give to a romantic partener platonically, but they just can’t or don’t and it feels so sad like wkwlwkekkwks guys I. This has literally just made it so much easier for me to understand the way I i feel about myself and stuff I’m just so happy tagt the repetition finally exists even if it is in silly Minecraft rp.

Anyways. Happy pride month, remember that aro ace is a very valid identity X3 and feel free to add what you guys think abt this bc im like genuinely curious.

💜🤍🩶🖤 💚🤍🩶🖤

[4barbatos]

✦ seatmate!venti drabbles

— modern high school au

fluff + mild crack .ᐟ ( fem reader )

a/n: this one’s requested by anon !! tysm for the idea <3 i enjoyed writing this sm hehe :3 hope you like it too !! pls keep sending silly venti fic ideas i am thriving off of him being annoying and in love.

✦ seatmate!venti rests his head on your shoulder and pretends to be asleep so you won’t make him move.

“venti, get off.”

he fake snores. loudly.

“you’re literally awake.”

“shhh,” he whispers. “you’re my pillow now.”

you sigh. he smiles. ten minutes later, he mumbles,

“you’re really warm…”

you don’t move.

✦ seatmate!venti asks if you two can be lab partners “in life.”

“venti, it’s just chemistry class.”

“exactly,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. “chemistry.”

“no.”

“denial is the first step to love.”

✦ seatmate!venti writes your name in his notebook with his last name.

“what are you doing.”

“manifesting.”

you look. there’s a little “mrs. venti” in cursive surrounded by sparkles. he’s coloring it in with glitter pen.

✦ seatmate!venti makes you a playlist titled “songs that remind me of us (even tho we’re not dating YET)”

“this is literally just twenty versions of ‘can’t take my eyes off you’.”

“and???”

“…and it’s kind of good.”

“so you admit it.”

“i didn’t say that.”

✦ seatmate!venti calls you his “favorite distraction.”

“you’re staring at me again.”

“yeah. i have a type.”

“what, people who ignore you?”

“people who look cute when they’re trying not to smile.”

✦ seatmate!venti keeps sending you notes during class even though you’re sitting right next to him.

you unfold the fourth one in five minutes. it says:

“do you like me?

☐ yes

☐ yes but in denial

☐ venti please shut up”

you circle the third box and throw it back at his face.

✦ seatmate!venti insists on carrying your bag even though it’s literally heavier than him.

“venti you’re going to snap in half.”

“then i’ll die doing what i love.”

“being annoying?”

“carrying your heart. and also your alarmingly heavy physics binder.”

✦ seatmate!venti gets jealous when someone else borrows your eraser.

“who’s that?”

“albedo. he asked for my eraser.”

“do you give everyone your erasers or am i just not special anymore.”

“…venti.”

“this is worse than betrayal. this is heartbreak.”

✦ seatmate!venti brings you snacks and calls it “wooing.”

“i bought you chips.”

“you got these from the vending machine.”

“with my own two hands. for you. because i’m courting you.”

“you’re unbelievable.”

“you’re welcome.”

✦ seatmate!venti keeps calling you “my muse” while doodling on the corner of his notes.

you glance over. it’s a badly drawn stick figure with little sparkles around it.

“is that me?”

“yes. look how radiant you are.”

“…you gave me three strands of hair.”

“it’s called art style.”

✦ seatmate!venti makes a dramatic scene every time you’re absent.

“the sun didn’t rise yesterday,”

he says when you come back.

“i was gone for one day.”

“i wrote you a poem.”

“venti.”

“would you like me to perform it.”

✦ seatmate!venti keeps quoting love poems dramatically when you pass him a stapler or something.

“i would staple the stars to the sky for you.”

“venti i just asked if you’re done with the assignment.”

“and i am. done. with pretending i don’t love you.”

“i am begging you to be normal.”

✦ seatmate!venti sends you good morning texts even though you literally see him in class an hour later.

“good morning sunshine 💚 did you sleep well? i had a dream we got married. anyway see u in biology hehe”

“please go back to sleep”

“can’t. thinking about u. also i haven’t done the homework pls help”

✦ seatmate!venti says “i love you” every time you lend him a pencil, but today he says it a little too soft. a little too real.

you hand him a mechanical pencil without looking. he takes it and says, like always,

“i love you.”

it’s routine by now. he says it every time. you never respond.

but this time, it’s quieter. gentler.

you glance at him.

he’s not even looking at you. just focused on his notes, twirling the pencil between his fingers like nothing happened.

“venti,” you murmur.

he hums.

you open your mouth to say something — then the teacher calls on you and you lose your nerve.

you don’t bring it up again. but you don’t take your eyes off him for the rest of the period, either.

[stupidthoughtsinwriting]

I've been MIA for a while but when i have the time, I still lurk about here and see ur stories. I'm ashamed on my part that i don't interact but despite having changed muses over the years, from Loki, which led me to find you, to Daemon and now Eric, I find that you will always be one of my favourite writers on here, regardless of who the Leading Male is.

I'm reblogging this right now because you are still the brilliantly amazing writer I remember you to be AND in this chapter here, I noticed a scene earily similar to HMBOMT, which is one of my favourite fics, and I couldn't help myself and just had to point it out. Specifically the one with Patricia reaching for something only for reader to help her. It just brought back memories and got me a little giddy but anyways, I'll try to interact more often because you still deserve all the praise for being such a terrific writer who freely chooses to share your wonderful stories for us to see.

All my love

😊❤💜💙💚💛🖤😊

-T

Fix You Fix me (Bill Skarsgård! Eric Draven x Female Reader) (Au)

Read Chapter 9 here / Series Masterlist

Chapter 10

Summary : After getting your heart broken you lose your way again.

Warning: Fat shaming, body shaming, manipulation, domestic violence, child abuse, cheating, reader lacks bit of a spine, emotional abuse, reader's weight will be mentioned because the fic demands it

As Eric walked home, he glanced at the bobblehead every few steps, its head bouncing in rhythm with his stride, drawing a smile from him. But the smile faded as a nagging feeling crept in. He pulled out his phone, took a deeper breath, and dialed Regina’s number.

She didn't pick up on the first try so he called again, this time she did .

“Hey can we meet? I need to talk -”

He said to her, his tone was urgent, she was silent for a moment.

“Is it about the competition?” she finally asked. He wished it was but it wasn't her absence that bothered him today.

“So you did remember it huh?” He asked her.

“Of Course I did, I'd never forget anything that's important to you baby”

He sighed at her words. Deep down, he’d always known he and Regina had nothing in common. They were completely different people. He never intended to start anything with her but she was persistent with him, and eventually, he gave in, partly in an attempt to move on. Still, the unresolved emotions that had recently resurfaced left him feeling uneasy, almost as if he were betraying her emotionally. And that wasn’t the kind of man he wanted to be.

He couldn't be that person and disappoint his mama who thought the world of him.

“I'll come to your place” he said to her and before she could even deny it, he hung up.

And it went exactly how he thought it would, She cried, she then began to hit him for breaking her trust and her heart so he grabbed her by the shoulders to keep her subdued.

“You're nothing without me Eric-” She said to him as she pushed him away crossed her arms and began to smile between her tears.

“You think just because you qualified this stupid round, you'll win this competition? Have fame and women falling at your feet? You're wrong-” his jaw clenched but he controlled himself.

“Look Regina..i never wanted to hurt you but you know this relationship isn't good for us.. I'm not even a good boyfriend-”

“Ohhh it was good for you when you wanted to fuck me-” she scoffed “Now that you're done using me, you're leaving huh” he looked at her surprised as she went there.

“It's not about that” he paused before he spoke again “Do you think I don't know about it? You're not in love with me, and I'm not the only one you're seeing, am i?”

Her eyes widened as he said that.

“Wait..no that's not true…whatever she said to you..she's lying -” she said, panic rising beginning to build up in her chest.

“Who's lying?’ he asked just to confirm.

“Y/n.. she said something to you didn't she..he's just a friend, she saw something and found an opportunity to make up a lie-”

“She didn't say anything..Chance did..he saw you this evening with someone else-”

Her mouth hung open as he said that. That's when she began to cry again, she suddenly stepped closer to him and clutched onto him, asking him to forgive her but he had already checked out, he'd rather be alone than be with someone that stressed him out the way she did. A relationship without love was like a suffocating sickness, one he had witnessed half of his life, he saw his mama suffer through it and he didn't want to become the man his father was.

Ruining lives in his wake without a single thought and care.

**********

It's been three days..three days since the night you caught her text on Jake's phone. Three days of you staring at the ceiling, your heart felt as if it would cease to beat any moment.

You couldn't believe it, where had you gone wrong? You tried your best, then why did he cheat? He told you that it was just a mistake, that he was drunk at the Gala and he missed you and she was there and it just happened.

But now you knew that was another lie, his whole demeanor changed when you refused to forgive him, his ego came up, he told you how you'd never find anyone again, certainly not anyone of his calibre..he called you fat and ugly and how you embarassed him, he told you how it wasn't him losing anything here and probably he was right. Because your whole world had turned upside down.

Your phone was filled with messages and missed calls from Eric, also Chance. Your mother had sent a long paragraph of how disappointed she was in you, Jake probably called her and told her you were overreacting like always.

That night your door finally buzzed, you didn't want to move but it kept buzzing so you finally got up and let whoever it was in..you opened the door before stepping into the kitchen, pouring yourself another glass of wine.

When Eric entered your door finally, he saw the condition you were in, your hair was uncombed, you hadn't showered since that night, your eyes were swollen from all the crying. He should have come here when you missed the first session.

He saw the boxes of takeouts scattered all over the coffee table.

“What happened?” He asked so you chuckled in response.

“Do you want some wine…it's a good wine”

“Y/n..talk to me” your eyes welled up as he said that. How were you supposed to talk about it, everytime you even thought of that text, that picture, your heart broke in pieces all over again.

“Turns out Maura isn't just a work friend.. who'd have known right?” you chuckled dryly.

“You're allowed to grieve. But you can't shut everyone out like this-” you cut him off for once as you didn't want to hear an uplifting speech.

“What's the point anymore? Eric? What's the point? If the man I love doesn't love me, if he cheats on me, if I'm not good enough..then what's the point?”

“He doesn't deserve you, she's not the only one in his life” he said to you, your eyes widened, but not in surprise. In shame, of course she wasn't the only one. A part of you knew that already.

“What?”

“I saw him with someone else a few weeks ago” your mouth hung open as he said that “I should have told you…I just didn't know how-”

You wanted to be upset, you wanted to yell and scream but then you felt like a hypocrite because you have been doing the same to him

“Well Your girlfriend is cheating on you too you know -”

“I know..we broke up” he said nonchalantly.

“Great..you are doing alot better than me it seems-”

“Look just come to the gym..work up a sweat, you'll feel better-” you couldn't help but scoff as he said that.

“Are you kidding me right now? The only reason I wanted to do it was because of him, because I didn't want to embarass him anymore, there is no point in making myself suffer through your torture if nobody cares about it..not one person..not Jake..not my parents..no one cares”

His eyes teared up as you said that but he knew you were hurting and lashing, it wasn't personal. He didn't want to take it to heart.

“I care…does that not mean something?”

You scoffed again between your tears as he said that.

“I pay you 1200 a month to care..”

Eric’s jaw tightened at your words.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, for once you saw different emotions flickering in his eyes, ones you had never seen before or cared to notice. You knew you had said something completely out of line to him but at this point you were too far gone to care.

“Right, that's all it is to you isn't it?” he said softly. He turned around to leave but paused at the door.

You opened your mouth, maybe to take it back, maybe to say you didn’t mean it because you didn't, you were just angry and hurt and you were taking it out on the wrong person, you wanted to apologise but the words didn't come. He paused with his hand on the knob.

“The day you will stop feeling sorry for yourself will be the day you'll realise that you're worth so much more than what your boyfriend or anyone else think of you.. and when you do, come back, the door to The Crow will always be open for you”

And then he was gone, leaving you to sulk in self pity, it was as if your world revolved around Jake, he was the Sun and now he was out of your sphere, and you didn't know who else to turn to, a part of you wanted him to come back, maybe beg for your forgiveness, you might have forgiven him too but would you ever feel the way you used to? Would you trust him? Would you ever look at him and not wonder if he was sleeping with someone else? Would you ever be able to look at yourself in the mirror again?

You stopped going to the gym after that, completely quit it. Fitting into that red dress was your motivation, the dress that you wanted to wear when you'd finally meet his parents. What was the point now, anyway? The motivation that once kept you dragging yourself out of bed for 6 a.m workouts had evaporated, along with your appetite for self-discipline. So you barely slept, ate whatever was easy and that involved cheeseburgers everyday. Days turned into weeks and then months.

The mirror became something you avoided entirely.

You stopped checking your phone, too. Messages from Chance eventually slowed, then they stopped. He gave up too. Who could help you if you didn't want to help yourself? Jake, of course, had moved on quickly, he didn't have to hide anymore, he did send you a few messages, asking you to reconsider, when you didn't respond he stopped too.

The ten pounds you’d worked so hard to lose in seven weeks? You gained them back and some more. The sweats you lived in now clung tighter. Your face looked rounder in the few reflections you couldn't avoid because you had to get ready for work.

********

It was a Sunday afternoon when you finally left the apartment for anything other than work. You wandered the grocery store aisles like a ghost , feeling disconnected, going through motions. You hadn’t been back in weeks as you had been eating junk only. You grabbed frozen meals you didn’t care about, snacks you didn’t need, and found yourself in the cereal aisle, staring blankly at shelves.

That’s when you saw her.

A woman in a motorized wheelchair…she seemed to be in her fifties, she was beautiful and had long brown hair. She was reaching toward the top shelf, trying to knock down a box with the string of her purse so you stepped towards her.

“Let me uhhh …just” you said softly, taking the box down she was looking at and offering it to her.

She gave you a grateful smile, her eyes bright despite the lines around them.

“You’re a lifesaver for shorties like me”

You smiled as she said that. She seemed positive about her condition.

“No problem at all” you murmured, unsure why her sweetness made your throat tighten.

“Having a rough week?” she asked so you chuckled.

“That obvious?”

“Comes with age.. whatever it is I'm sure you're strong enough to overcome it”

You gave a nod but before you could respond, another woman came jogging around the corner.

“There you are! I told you not to leave the produce section” She said to her, you could see she was worried.

“Oh, hush, Stella,” another woman chided with a roll of her eyes “I wasn’t lost, I was making conversation with this beautiful young lady” she paused and turned to look at you. “I'm Patricia by the way, this is Stella..my friend and caretaker”

“Hi…I'm y/n” you introduced yourself too. Her expression changed..just for a second. Something flickered behind her eyes as if a doubt she had was confirmed now.

She continued to talk to you as you all moved from aisle to aisle, there was a certain ease about her, a part of you thought you had seen her somewhere but then you figured you must have run by each other since you shared a locality.

For reasons unknown even to you, you ended up at her apartment for a cup of coffee and the promise of the best cookies in the world. That's what her son tells her.

The apartment building was in a fancy posh area a few streets down, unlike yours, it was well kept, and had gated security. Her apartment was on the ground floor.

“My son looked for ages until he found this one-” Patricia said to you as Stella unlocked the door.

“Thoughtful of him” you smiled politely.

As soon as you entered, the place smelled like cinnamon and tea leaves, the kind of comforting scent that made you ache unexpectedly. You stepped inside, removing your shoes.

“Make yourself at home” she mumbled politely so you nodded “Stella help me with the snacks..I'll make tea” She said as she wheeled herself into the kitchen.

You sat down on the couch but then your eyes fell on the photographs hanging on the walls and the dressers.

Pictures of Patricia, Some with Stella, some along with a boy with sharp cheekbones and a crooked smile.

Your heart caught in your throat.

You recognised that boy.

It was Eric.

You stepped closer to the wall, staring at a photo of him with Patricia, it was taken recently because he still had the same haircut unlike his teen years when he had full hair, he was sitting on the floor..she was oiling his hair or giving him a massage, there was a smile on his face, the kind you had never seen before.

“That's my son Eric..he has his own gym at the 5th block in the west.. The Crow…heard of it?” Patricia said from behind you, gently placing the tea tray down. Stella accompanied him. Her son. She was the woman he was speaking to on the phone that day wasn't she? The one who adopted him.

“Yeah I used to go there..” you gulped, eyes tearing up as the memory of that night kicked in. What you had said to him. How you had taken his kindness, his support for granted and turned it ugly.

Later that night when you reached home, You finally built the courage and stepped on the scale.

155.9

You stepped off the scale and then did it again, as if that would change how much you weighed. Same number. Then you took your clothes off. It barely moved 155.4.

Your stomach twisted.. not just from the number, but from what it represented. How far you had let yourself fall.

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall.

You stepped off the scale, tied your hair up, and stared at your naked body in the mirror, you seemed worse than from where you had started this journey, you felt bloated, tired, and still hurting. But beneath all that.. something sparked... A flash of the woman you wanted to be, a woman you could be if you just worked hard at taking care of yourself.

You were getting better and stronger, he made you stronger, and then you gave up on it, on all of it. You wiped your tears and dressed up, the only legging that used to fit didn't even fit anymore. You didn't want to cut off your blood supply so you opted to wear a trouser instead.

Then you grabbed your old gym bag from under the bed and began stuffing it with your water bottle, your wallet and shoes.

Took ten minutes to brisk walk to the gym and you were breathless by the end of it.

As you entered you realised he was in the process of closing up. Your fingers clutched around the strap of the bag, a part of you wanted to turn around and leave but another knew it was now or never.

The moment he saw you from the glass door, he paused, then he entered the front desk area.

“Ummm I'd like a membership” you said to him, acting as if you didn't know him. You felt just the way you did the first time but somehow worse. You surely were 5lbs heavier.

“You're already registered, just pay the monthly fee” he said to you so you pulled out your wallet and passed a hundred dollars bill to him.

“Ummmm I need a trainer.. Do you have a slot open?” Your eyes teared up, lips almost trembling, fearing that he'd reject you. He walked around the desk and then he did something unexpected, something you didn't know you needed so badly.

His arms wrapped around your shoulders as he hugged you. He wasn't your trainer anymore, not for another few minutes so he needed a moment of levity to let you know that you weren't alone in this.

After a moment of shock your arms wrapped around his waist. And then you cried, you cried for minutes until you couldn't anymore.

“You said to come when I stop feeling sorry, but I still feel it..I still feel awful and I pity myself” you mumbled, Your tears soaking his shirt.

“I know you do..but it takes time. It's not magic, it won't happen overnight, you need to be patient. One step at a time okay? And you took one tonight so you have already begun” he mumbled softly, his voice kind and gentle..

Then he slowly pulled away.

“Help me Eric..fix me” you mumbled as you wiped your tears, determined to not give up this time “And I’m so sorry”

“For what exactly?” he asked you.

“For saying what I said that night. For… lashing out at you when you were just trying to help me. For taking everything you did for me and throwing it back at you like it didn’t matter at all when it meant everything. It did. You're the only person who has ever believed in me”

Your voice choked on your tears, he teared up too.

Meeting his mother today, you knew now, he wasn't just kind to you, or his clients, he was a good man, working tirelessly so he could spoil his mother, offer her luxury she never had before. That's why he needed to win that competition.

“You don't need fixing, you just need reminding, I'll help you, I'll train you. But you don't pay me this time, let me be here, as a friend okay? Is that okay?”

He asked softly and you nodded immediately.

“Next time you feel like quitting you come to me before and not after”

He wiped your tears from your cheeks before he stepped away from you and went behind the desk. He had a way about himself, a certain ease, he never made you feel embarrassed or conscious. You could see where he learned that trait from.

“I heard you made it to the finals.. congratulations” you said to him, you had seen a post on Instagram from NPC's official account.

“Thanks..it's next month”

“I'll be there this time” you gave him a small smile so he returned it. He had been waiting for this day, for you to wake up and choose yourself for once. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest but he didn't show, didn't show how happy he felt to see you walk through these doors again.

You watched as he pulled out your file from the drawer.

“Tomorrow 6 then?” you asked so he shook his head.

“Mmmm no… you're already here, we can start now”

“You were going to close-”

“Friend privilege” he said to you so you smiled, a genuine hearty smile that came naturally after three months.

That night as you finally laid down in bed, your muscles ached but in a good way. When he saw 155 on the scale, he simply noted it down, didn't make a comment, assured you that some of it was just water weight that you'll lose in two weeks.

Eric : No cheeseburgers for breakfast, lunch and dinner from tomorrow.

You smiled as you read the message before you began to type.

You : Yes Sir. I guess another grocery trip is required

Eric : Thanks for helping my mom today by the way. I appreciate that alot.

And you smiled again.

Your heart was still broken, still wondering why you weren't enough but for once when you closed your eyes that night you didn't think about Jake or who he was spending his nights with, you thought about Eric and how amazing how kind, how remarkable he truly was.

And how warm and safe you had felt when he had his arms around you.

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Taglist @loushaw131460 @wiseyouthinfluencer @purplerainx1 @bloodykisserr @muchwita @mariaenchanted @a-differentbrandof-beans @kikibit @venuslayla23-blog @somedayimagines @sn0wybowie-blog

[ghost-bxrd]

Okay, so the owl song AU...

Will Jason in the very far away future maybe, possibly become flamebird?!?!!!

Because like I was re-reading the series and i had a thought a vision if you will. And I just can't stop thinking about it.

It haunts me. Anyways..

THANK YOU FOR THE AMAZING CONTENT IN BOTH YOUR TUMBLR AND AO3!! ♥️♥️♥️

Lots of love

Anon

Not gonna lie, I haven’t thought that far ahead quite yet >.>

for now it’s a downright struggle to even get Jason to talk to the batfam. Or, well, his version of talking 👀

Thank you so much for your kind words anon! 💚💚

[crzy-gh0st]

💚// ooc post already, sigh. Anyway this felt needed so if anyone wants this, here the full body drawing of Val. NO I DIDNT MAKE IT, I CANT DRAW. MY QUEEN MAPLE MADE IT

UHHH ALSO SHE MAY OR MAY NOT BE A MINECRAFT SKIN AS WELL. GULP. teeheheheh I think that’s silly

ANYWAY SHES SO PRETTY. I LOVE YOU MAPLE THE CROWD CHEERS IN UNISON

[ayzenigma]

ayyyy my order from @heybabybird arrived!!!! i am absolutely DELIGHTED by the hoodies aahhhh.

that was supposed to say goodies but close enough, especially with the jasons that are in there too

[afreakforyautjas]

Trapped (yautja x human)

Part 2

(I was originally going to keep this as just a little prompt, but your support meant the world to me. So here it is! Part 2 💚)

Read Part 1 | Part 3 💚

The battle unfolded in front of you, the xenomorph looking like it had the upper hand. The yautja had no armor, no weapons, but it was fighting back hard, using its talons to stab at the xeno and shove it away.

When the xenomorph finally had the yautja pinned to the floor, its inner jaw (something you’d studied countless times and always found horrifying) extended out of its mouth. That’s when you thought: this is your chance to run.

You bolted out of the lab, smacking your hand against the panel to shut the door behind you. You didn’t look back. You didn’t want to. You just searched desperately for someone, anyone, (preferably human) who could help you.

That’s when the worst realization hit you: everyone was gone. They must’ve evacuated the moment the yautja escaped.

At the end of the corridor, you saw blood. Red blood. There had been a fight. But it wasn’t the yautja’s, otherwise the floor would be painted in that neon green you’d come to recognize so well.

You ran, lungs burning, mind blank, trying to think of anything -anything- that could help you survive. But panic had a grip on your brain, and you couldn’t think fast enough.

The facility was still under lockdown, but then… the doors started opening. All of them. At once. You knew you had only minutes before something worse found you, something that had already taken out the guards at the far end of the base.

You forced yourself to take a breath and closed your eyes. One image came to mind: the most secure room in the entire facility. The place the yautja had been held. It wouldn’t go back there, no way.

You remembered exactly where the room was and sprinted toward it, hoping you could get inside and lock it before it was too late.

You turned left down another corridor… more red stains. More blood. You couldn’t understand how the yautja had escaped and managed to injure so many people on the way out.

No bodies, though. Maybe they’d gotten away, wounded, but alive.

The door to the room stood open, like every other door. You tried not to think too hard about why the alarms had stopped or why everything was unlocked.

Had the yautja figured out the system? Or had the situation been “contained”?

You didn’t care. You rushed inside and went straight for the glass chamber where the yautja had been kept unconscious.

You knew how strong that thing was, nothing could break it. Not even another alien.

The chamber door was open. You slipped inside and sealed it behind you.

It was small, you couldn’t fully sit down if you tried. It had been designed to hold the yautja upright, strapped at the back.

The only problem now was that you were completely visible. If anything walked in, you were a glowing target in a glass box. No cover, nowhere to hide.

Still, the door was locked. You could feel the humid air around you, engineered to mimic the yautja’s natural environment.

You waited. And waited.

Then… movement. A shadow crossed the lab’s entrance. You froze.

You knew how silent these creatures were, perfect hunters. No footsteps. No sound. You’d always found their stealth fascinating. Studying the yautja had taught you that much.

Over the last few months, you’d gotten familiar with this specific specimen. You were certain it was male. But you still referred to it as “the yautja”. The last thing you wanted was to start feeling attached.

The growing shadow at the doorway snapped you out of your thoughts. You crouched down again, trying to make yourself small. Hoping (somehow) it wouldn’t see you.

But how could it not? You were in a damn glass chamber!

The yautja stepped into the room. Its movements were slow, calculated. Silent as always.

Then you saw it, green blood dripping from its left shoulder. The xenomorph must’ve gotten in a bite after all.

For a second, you felt a strange kind of relief. You weren’t dealing with a xenomorph anymore, you were facing something that at least recognized you.

The yautja turned its head. Looked at you. Then looked away…

Just… ignored you. Like you weren’t a threat. Or worth bothering with.

And honestly, that was fine by you. Even if it wanted to get to you, it couldn’t break through the glass.

Probably.

[evan-buck]

9-1-1 Buck and Tommy | Season 8

My relationship with Abby was... it was the most transformative of my life. Until now. [...] All I'm saying is, why be apart when we can be together?

[deweyduck]

@pscentral event 30: friendship

↳ tiana & charlotte

"All my life, I read about true love and fairytales, and… Tia, you found it! I’ll kiss him! For you, honey! No marriage required."

[smileyobrien]

The tales of your exploits are widely shared. The Cerritos is, in fact, the coolest.

STAR TREK: LOWER DECKS (2020-2024)

[dailyeohkakyoin]

the crusaders do have a healer.

they don't like to talk about it.