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minhosbxtch · 1 month

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Eris x reader

This was longer than I planned but oh well :)

Also if you can spot the Aaron Warner reference you get 10 points

Lmk if I should make a part 2

Warnings: SH by fire, language, drinking?, slight spicy at the end but no smut

Mother, this entire thing was awful. You were pining after Azriel who was pining after Elain who was mated to Lucien.

Elain. You tried to like her and continued to be kind to her but she never failed to piss you off. How did someone with no personality, no fire, have not one, but two great, hard-working males wrapped around her finger.

Why would Azriel want you though? You were the one Rhys told to do all his dirty work. You were his personal hit-man.

You worked up quite the reputation, never failing a job, never getting distracted. You had worked your way into the Inner Circle by being loyal and quite the secret keeper.

But it had its perks. Like right now you were invited to the ball in the Hewn City.

Since people were still arriving you were still standing in front of Nesta who was standing in front of Cassian, to his delight.

You loved them both dearly and wished only for them to be happy, but you were jealous. You wanted what they had, or what Rhys and Feyre had. Someone who would unconditionally love you. Someone that would fight for you. Someone that would burn the world for you.

Hopefully that person being Azriel.

You and Nesta bonded over your love for the villains in stories. You would gossip for hours on your favorite romance books where the hero would fall for the villain, and then get hurt and the villain would be furious and all protective.

Well that was until she found Cassian.

Now it was all 'Sorry I can't I'm going out with Cassian.'

You were happy for them, truly. But you craved that more than anything. Something to fill your loneliness. Someone to fill your loneliness.

Your hands smoothed down the skirts of your black dress as you watched the people dance and drink.

You could see Keir out of the corner of your eye talking to a male. He was unfamiliar to you. He was one of the most beautiful males you'd seen, and that was saying something since you lived with the Bat Boys and Lucien.

Holy shit that's Eris.

You didn't recognize him at first without his long hair. But you had to admit, it brought out the sharpness of his face even more. His golden eyes seemed to pierce through Keir as he towered over the male.

Eris met your eyes and grinned, tilting his head. Clenching your jaw, you pulled your eyes away from him, looking dead ahead at nothing.

You could see him and Keir begin to approach the dais that the throne sat on. Still, you remained staring straight ahead.

You did sneak a glance as he bowed to Rhys and Feyre, which was more of incline of his head. Quickly, you changed your features into a sneer, like you were above having to bow.

But when Eris did come up from "bowing", he wasn't looking at the High Lord or High Lady. No, he was looking at you. His gaze still remained on you as Rhysand welcomed him. He steadily met your eyes, only dropping once to look at the quite revealing gown you had on.

Your blood burned through your veins as you continued to meet his gold eyes.

"Well Eris, you may have a dance with her if you wish since you are clearly so distracted," Rhys said nonchalantly, in the voice of the High Lord.

At once Eris' eyes snapped to Rhysand before saying, "Thank you my Lord," before bowing yet again before starting towards you.

If you hadn't trained yourself to show no emotion you might've turned to Rhysand and laughed.

Sorry, Rhys spoke in your mind, sounding amused.

Fucking hell, you'd have to get Feyre to try to help figure out a way to send a mental death stare. It probably wouldn't have been the best idea to send your High Lord a glare that promised hell in front of Eris, Keir, and the entire Court of Nightmares.

Eris stopped a stair below you and gave you a bow, lower that the one he gave for Rhys and Feyre, before extending his hand to you.

His eyes seemed almost unsure, but since there was an audience you took his hand and before you could move to the floor, he bowed his head and kissed your hand.

It unnerved you. Not that he kissed your hand but his eyes remained on your face the entire time. Even though he wasn't smirking, you could see the male pride in his eyes.

His hand and lips were warm, but a nice, homey kind of heat instead of the sweaty, humid type that Cassian tended to give off.

The Inner Circle's shock was almost tangible. Not just the fact that he kissed your hand but also that he stood a step below you and bowed, far lower to you the the High Lord and Lady.

You were surprised too but you didn't show it.

You. An assassin. A nobody before you worked your ass off to prove yourself to the Inner Circle.

You were still in shock when he swept you to the dance floor before the song began and bowed to you, yet again, but this time it was almost mocking. His smirking face as he bowed, eyes never leaving your face.

He carefully intertwined his fingers with yours before putting his hand on your waist, his sharp eyes never leaving your face.

It didn't make sense. All of the tales of how awful and wicked didn't seem to line up to the male that stood in front of you. The male that bowed to you twice and not once looked at you in a way that made your skin crawl or feel even slightly uncomfortable.

But hell this was nice. Especially the fact that out of everyone in the ballroom he chose you.

The only reason you could even dance was because of your elegance. But that came from being an assassin and learning how to step carefully around the puddles of blood to not get your new shoes bloody.

You looked into his molten eyes as he began to lead you through the steps of the dance. You had a similar sense of etherealness as Nesta, but you had no idea what you were doing. Still, you did not falter. When you did a complicated twirl, Eris was right there, hands warm on your waist, spinning you.

After a grand flourish he caught you as the music ended. You both were panting and your faces were very very very close together.

Too close to look accidental.

You were sure your cheeks were bright red, and not from the dance.

Eris smiled softly and gently pulled you back up, righting you and then stepping away. When no one asked to switch partners he gave you a sly, questioning look to which you nodded.

The song that started playing was much slower and involved a lot less grand flourishes than the previous ones did.

You put both hands on his shoulders as he put both hands on your waist.

Since this one was slower, the only thing you could do was talk since there was not a lot of movement.

The silence was unbearable. Damn it. Why was this so hard? Usually talking and getting information came easy.

Putting on the uncaring facade you said sneering, "Your hair looked better long." You almost groaned out loud, mentally slapping yourself for your poor conversation tactics.

To be honest his hair didn't matter. He looked beautiful either way, but the short hair gave him a cold, sharp, godly look.

He chuckled before saying, "If you liked it better then I'll grow it back out for you. But not as messy as that brute."

"Cassian is nothing even close to a brute, so watch your fucking mouth asshole," you seethed.

Eris gave you a warning look and bent down close to your face to whisper, "Language princess. Only those who cannot express themselves intelligently would resort to such crude substitutions in vocabulary."

Shit your palms definitely were sweaty. And Eris' warmth wasn't helping.

Especially the fact he called you princess.

He, clearly also picked up on your sweaty palms, asking mockingly, "Is it because I intimidate you? Am I making you nervous?"

Mother you had no idea what to say. So, you stayed quiet, glaring at the wall over his shoulder.

"Calm down love. We are all just joking around, are we not?"

"Well if you continue to 'joke around' then you won't have anything to joke around with."

He remained silent at that for a long while.

"There are no words to describe how beautiful you look tonight," he said quietly.

Your eyes widened at the change in conversation before saying the first thing that came to mind. "Are you saying I don't usually look beautiful?"

He smirked and looked you up and down as he said, "No no no. I was just saying, usually I see you in tight, assassin clothes, which those make you look seductive, but right now you look absolutely delicious," his voice dropped at the end of the sentence.

"Well you don't look to bad yourself," you said, cheeks flushed.

Well that was an understatement. He wore a orange sharp cut suit with gold accents that accentuated his muscles. And Mother, his muscles.

They were perfect. He was muscular but lean. He was perfect. Enough to forget about the dark haired, lean handsome male standing on the dais.

"Why thank you love, but I'm afraid I'm nothing in comparison to your loveliness," he said, leaning down to your ear.

Your cheeks were definitely bright red as you said, "Mother you're a shameless flirt," while trying to suppress a smile.

"Well only for you, darling," he said, smirking, "After all, it's not often I'm in the presence of an extravagant goddess."

"Well, I'm certainly not a goddess," you said smiling, your mask cracking.

He feigned a look of surprise, "That's impossible. There's no Fae, Illyrian, or mortal that even holds a candle to your beauty."

You laughed but your smile faded as Cassian approached saying, "Sorry to interrupt you both but Rhysand requires your presence," he said nodding to you.

You give Cassian a nod, before turning to Eris and curtsying mockingly, “Terribly sorry, but my High Lord requires my presence.”

Eris nodded in understanding before saying, “Of course. As long as you save me a couple dances later.”

You turned around to reply, but he was gone. Frowning you walked up towards the dais and curtseyed before asking, “How may I assist you, High Lord, High Lady?”

Rhys just motioned you to take the spot you were in earlier.

Washing your face of any emotion, you did as you were told. Standing on the same step as you did earlier, you could see a sudden flash of red hair.

You shifted slightly but it was not Eris, but Lucien who stood with Elain on his arm. Resisting the urge to smirk at Azriel, you continued to scan the crowd for Eris.

Looking for someone? An amused voice said inside your head.

No. I was seeing if there was any threats. You weren't technically lying, Eris was a son of a rival High Lord, classifying him as someone to keep an eye on.

Like the one you danced with earlier? Rhys said.

You didn't respond but turned around to make eye contact and gave him a glare that had sent men running. His eyes flashed and he shifted in his seat before giving you a warning look.

What? If I dance with him then there's no time to double cross us.

Very well. Just don't let him deceive you. Rhys relented.

You had no intention to let him deceive you. You were stupid for being caught off guard by earlier. A few pretty words and you were reduced to a defenseless, blushing maiden.

No.

You were a fucking assassin, and you let someone get in your head? No, that wouldn't happen again.

Two could play at this game.

After winding through the crowd for several minutes, you still hadn't spotted the Eris Vanserra. All of the butterflies in your stomach had disappeared. Eris was just another of your targets.

Something else to conquer.

That was all.

People had given you a wide berth for the cold, calculated look on your face.

They knew you were hunting.

Several of them had kept their eyes on you as you prowled around the ballroom, trying to find your prey.

After a couple more minutes you gave up and started back towards the dais.

Rhys, Azriel, and Cassian were not up there. Now that you noticed it, they weren't anywhere in here.

They're probably doing business with Eris.

Yes. That would be the most reasonable solution. Still, the unnerving feeling didn't go away, if anything, it got stronger.

People. There were too many people. They crowded you, they were trapping you.

The feeling started in your stomach as an uncomfortable lump. You could feel it spreading. Speeding your heart rate up and making your limbs feel like they weighed ten-fold. The lump in your stomach starting traveled until it was sitting in your throat. Now your stomach felt empty and your throat had an uncomfortable lump in it that prevented you from breathing comfortably.

There wasn't enough air. Your body felt too hot and too cold at the same time. You felt feverish.

Your steps began to pick up speed as you rushed to the set of double doors that led to the hallway outside.

You burst through the door and gulped big breaths of air, nearly panting. The warm, sweaty feeling was left in the ballroom with all the crowds of people.

You sat on one of the benches and leaned your head back against the wall, relishing in the feel of the cool air in the drafty hallway.

Only a couple minutes later, something gave a hard tug in your chest. So forceful it was almost painful. At first, you thought you imagined it before it happened again, more urgently this time. Still, you ignored it, content to sitting on your bench.

After the second tug, you waited a few minutes outside to make sure it was over.

Smoothing your dress and hair you entered the ballroom again to see that Rhys, Azriel, and Cassian were back.

When Rhysand saw you enter he spoke in your mind saying to go join them up on the steps.

After you took your place, Rhys stood up and said in a booming voice, "Terribly sorry to say, but my Inner Circle and I have things to discuss and things to do."

No one cared. Honestly, they were probably happier to see you go just as much as you were to leave.

As one, you and the Inner Circle came together and winnowed out of Hewn City.

As the familiar streets of Velaris came into view you could hear Cassian say, "Mother I need a drink. Who's coming with me?"

Mor snorted before saying, "I already wasn't sober when we got there but I need more after that," she turned to you before asking, "You wanna go to?"

You shook your head before saying quietly, "I don't need a drink, I need some fucking sleep."

Usually you would since Azriel usually went but now you needed to sort through your own mess.

"Of course you do. You were with Eris," she said, looking at you with sympathy.

For some reason that made you angry. Saying nothing you clenched your jaw at her words.

Feyre, Mother bless her, saved you from your anger by saying with a smile, "Here I'm going to go back too. You go enjoy your fun."

Feyre was truly a gift from the Mother.

Only you and Feyre weren't going to Rita's. They all would get brain dead drunk, and poor Azriel had to go be responsible and get them home.

"So... What was going on with you and Eris. I thought you were going to launch yourself at Mor earlier," the High Lady said softly.

Instead of replying, you just took your mental walls down and showed her everything. You knew she was able to sense every feeling you had and at this point you didn't care. It was some much easier than explaining to her.

She remained silent beside you, processing what happened. "Well I think he actually likes you," she started. "Really! When he danced with Nesta he didn't genuinely compliment her like that. Much less bow and kiss her hand," she said at your skeptical look.

"And there's also the fact that he stood on a lower stair then you and then bowed to you. I know you know this, your just ignoring it," Feyre said, calling you out.

"Yeah I'm ignoring it. All of you hate him and there's no point in trying to pursue anything anyways," you said, rolling your eyes.

"And did something happen?" You asked.

"What do you mean?"

You tried to find the words but gave up, showing her instead when felt the tugs.

"I don't know what that means," Feyre said cautiously, "Here we'll talk more about this tomorrow."

She was hiding something. You'd corner her tomorrow about it when you were less tired and less emotional.

After exchanging your goodnights, you started for your room. It used to be an empty guest room until Rhys had given it to you and told you to decorate it however you want.

At first the room had been so dreary. Everything was black. Black shelves, sheets, blankets, paint, doors. When you started spending more time in your room, you began to redecorate it where it was almost unrecognizable.

The walls were painted the lightest green and the shelves, desks, nightstands, dresser, and bedframe had been painted dark brown, almost black. All over the room there were plants. No flowers, just green ferns, succulents, and cacti. There was swirls of ivy that went along the shelves, headboard and ceiling.

You had replaced the chandelier with one that was almost like crystal leaves. The couches were dark wood with sage green cushions and orange pillows. Your bed pallet was similar as the couches. All of the books you had collected had been neatly organized along the shelves and anywhere you had space.

Several Solstices ago, Feyre had gotten you lights that you could hang along the walls change color. They were always set to a nice medium orange that reflected perfectly against the rest of the room.

The place was entirely unrecognizable.

Unfortunately, no one had been in your room to notice.

You splashed the makeup off your face, unglamoured your skin, and took your dress off, sighing in relief from the tight grip. Getting into sleep clothes you immediately collapsed into bed and sleep took you away.

You were dreaming.

All you saw was blood. And someone was screaming. Loud, gut-wrenching screams of pure undiluted terror.

You were holding a silver sword, but your hands... they weren't yours. They were much larger and veiner, and honestly, quite hot.

You felt like you and whoever this was were only one person, that you shared all thoughts, feelings, and emotions.

You were one and the same.

Banishing that thought from your mind, you watched as the person approached a man sitting in a chair who was watching as a slender, auburn haired women was being held down and backhanded over and over.

The anger that coursed through you was red hot flames as you raised the sword over the man's head and swung.

Beron's head rolled on the ground, his crown rolling to a stop at your feet. The guards stopped and looked over.

Immediately they let the lady go, but you could only watch through a red haze as the sword came down and down again on each guard.

Dropping the sword the person sank to their knees next to the women.

She quickly scooted back as your skin became itching, burning, like an army of ants was crawling under your skin.

In a sudden, harsh wave of agony, your vision went black yet again.

You woke up violently to Cassian pounding your door saying that he was the one who drank all night and was still up before you.

Rolling your eyes you shut the door in his face. Judging by his yelling, he didn't like your attitude.

Well too bad. You felt like absolute shit. Similar to how you felt last night, the feverish, itchy sensation was back, and much stronger.

You needed to tell Feyre about what you saw, who you saw.

As you got dressed, the dream started fading quickly until you only remembered important parts, like the hot hands.

Less than 10 minutes later, you went downstairs to see no one there but a note scribbled hastily on the table.

Y/N,

I'm sure you've noticed already that we aren't there. There was a conflict that we needed to take care of. I sent Cassian to make sure you were awake before telling him to come with us. You can have the day off.

Feyre

Well then. Your going back to bed since there was no reason for you to be awake.

Except you couldn't.

After laying in bed for hours you couldn't fall asleep, especially since your skin was crawling.

With a huff you turned over only to see Feyre's painting of the Inner Court, including you, sitting on your bedside table.

She had gifted it to you last Solstice with the intention of making you feel like you belonged. While you appreciated her sweet intentions it did the complete opposite.

Her and Rhysand were in the center where they stood smiling, bent over Nyx, who was sound asleep. Next to Feyre stood Gwyn who was smiling at Nyx with her arm wrapped around Nesta's shoulders who clearly was trying not to smile at Cassian, who had an arm wrapped around her waist and was leaning down next to her ear. Behind Nesta stood Emerie who looked so precious as she grinned from ear to ear, standing, arms linked with Mor, who as usual, looked perfect.

You were standing next to Mor and was peeking at Nyx over Rhys' shoulder with Lucien on your other side, smiling towards the frame.

The only mistake you think she made was his eyes. Lucien's eyes looked happy, joyful. Despite that on just the other side of him stood Azriel, who had his arm around Elain and they were giving each other lovey-dovey eyes.

In reality, Lucien's eyes would be bitter and yours would be dull as well.

Gwyn would be another option for Azriel, but that didn't bother you as much as Elain did.

She had a sweet, supportive, respectful, smart mate who put no pressure on her to immediately accept the bond and even distanced himself from her to give her room to breath. And yet, even then, she went for another male.

But part of you couldn't blame her. Part of you said that if you were that pretty than maybe people would actually want you.

To silence those voices and thoughts you reached to the candle you kept beside your bed and held it in your lap.

You rolled up your sleeve to reveal the precise burn marks all along your forearm. They were in perfect lines, wrapping all around your arm up past your elbow.

Your other arm looked the same.

You were running out of room.

Before you could rethink your decision you held the flame up to your arm and bit your lip hard to keep quiet.

You genuinely didn't feel any emotion other then self-hatred, so you stared at the light, eyes dry, face blank.

5 hours later, Feyre and the others showed up, clearly exhausted by whatever happened.

A couple minutes later you received a summoning to Rhys' office. Inside sat him and Feyre, looking grave.

With a nod as a greeting, you sat down in front of them and politely asked, "How can I be of assistance?"

"So polite. Well darling isn't it nice to see you again. Not even a hello?" a voice drawled out from the corner of the room.

You sighed before saying, still facing forward, "Hello Eris."

He came into your line of vision and leaned against the desk and said, "Hello princess. So this is what you wear when I'm not around."

You turned your head coolly towards him before sucking in a breath.

He had a large bruise on his temple, jaw, and cheek and a deep cut along his opposite cheek, yet he almost seemed to glow with power. His eyes burned bright gold yet they seemed tired.

"I know I'm beautiful love, but you don't need to gape," he said, trying to put effort into a smirk.

As much as you tried to quell it, you couldn't deny the anger that rushed through you at his appearance.

"What happened? Who did this to you?" You demanded.

At your outburst, Eris raised an eyebrow and smirked before saying, "I'm flattered, love. I had no idea how much you cared."

Ignoring his remark you asked, "Was it Beron? Is that why you cut his head off?"

His smirk only grew wider. "So you did see that."

"See what?" Rhysand spoke up.

You shifted your eyes to him, saying, "I had a dream where a women was getting backhanded, over and over by soldiers. And I was in someone else's body and they cut his head off."

His eyebrows rose before asking, "And when were you going to inform us of this?"

"Considering I had the dream last night, I was planning to tell you today," you shot back.

At Eris' chuckle you sent him a dark glare which he returned with another smirk.

"Show me," Rhys demanded.

It took him a minute or two before he looked back at you and said, "What you saw was true. Eris is now High Lord and Beron was killed by him. You know exactly why and how you saw that, don't you?"

You stiffened and refused to look at Eris. "Yes," was all you said.

Rhysand nodded and said, "That is what we were meeting about today so you are dismissed."

Still averting your eyes, you walked out into the hallway but you only got a few steps in before someone grabbed your wrist, lightly tugging you around.

It was Eris.

You looked at him with disregard and asked, "Yes?"

He gave you a pointed look at your arm, to which you stiffened even more, before asking, "Are you okay?"

"Yes," you said before turning around to walk away.

Another tug had you facing him again.

Exasperated, you asked, "What do you want?"

"I want you," was all he said before quickly adding, "and for you to be okay and not hurt yourself."

At your untrusting look he blew out a breath of air and continued, "You realize I can feel your emotions. We're mates whether you want to admit it or not. You also showed me that."

You opened your mouth to respond but he cut you off by stepping closer and saying, "And as much as you hate it, you want me. I know you want me princess. Almost as much as I want you."

You didn't say anything but your cheeks might've for you. They were certainly a deep red.

Eris chuckled before tilting your chin up and looking you dead in the eyes, saying, "I won't pressure you into this, but I ask that you at least give me some conside--"

You pulled him down by his collar and kissed him briefly.

His eyes were wide before smiling and forcing you backwards against the wall before kissing you again, longer this time.

Gently, Eris held you against the wall, weak enough that you could escape if you wanted to.

But you didn't.

Mother you didn't.

He felt right. One of his hands was on your cheek occasionally tangling in your hair, the other on the curve of your waist.

His body gave off the similar warmth that he did at the ball but this time, he was significantly warmer, or maybe that was you.

Eris let out a sigh, something akin to a moan against your lips as you tugged on his hair roughly. Both of his hands slid towards your thighs and pulled them up to settle them around his waist. You could feel how hard he was in between your legs.

Your higher position gave him easy access to your neck, making you let out a quiet whine as he bit and sucked down your jaw to your collarbone.

You grabbed his head and forced it back up to kiss again, tongues fighting for dominance.

"If you both could take this somewhere else instead of in my hallway that would be much appreciated," yelled Rhys from inside his office.

Both of you tore apart and came to your senses. Eris gently lowered you back down and cleared his throat, color dusting his cheeks.

"I have to go back to the Autumn Court, but I will try to visit as much as I am able to. And love, don't do that anymore," he said with a pointed glance at your arms, eyes flaring.

You just nodded, to breathless for words.

Before you got the chance to turn around, Eris stopped you saying, "If you'd want it, there will always be a place for you in my Court."

Hesitating you said, "I will discuss it with Feyre and Rhys."

You really wanted to go with him. A High Lord, your mate? It was too good to be true. But, you still have duties her and it wouldn't be great for Court relations if you just left.

You tried to silently convey your feelings to Eris without words since your High Lord and Lady were definitely listening.

His eyes softened and he nodded in understanding.

He would wait.

#eris vanserra #eris vanserra x reader #eris x reader #eris acotar #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acosf #a court of thorns and roses #eris angst #eris vandaddy

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carlosbaldellou · 10 months

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The kind and the furious

When humanity was welcomen in the stars, nobody knew what to expect of these deathworlders. Their world looked stunning. Full of life. Well, mostly. They had serene places, fruit trees neatly arranged. Sure, the tectonic activity was on the high end of the spectrum, but perfectly livable. But then, you noticed the animals. The arms race of evolution. Predators that evolved to avoid other predators. Hervibores with toxines so potent as to wipe out the largest predator animal in the galaxy. Predators that somehow evolved to resist those toxins and other ludicrous natural defenses. It was... madness, to most of the galaxy.

Humanity spread far and wide. They had looked into the dark abyss of space for a long time, and now that they could roam trough it, they went everywhere. Small human settlements started to pop up everywhere. The races were cautious, but this new species seemed like a good neighbour. So they welcomed them, still unsure as to how to clasify them.

Untill a disaster happened. A huge chain explosion in a residential area. Buildings collapsed and fire roared. The emergency response teams were overwhelmed. But they, with time, managed to quench the fire and control the situation.

And then, the humans came. With their personal vehicles. From neighbouring cities. From far away cities. They started to clean the rubble, even if it was not their duty. They helped the victims. Looked for survivors. Cared for them. Healed them. Sure, kindness and help from your own species was expected to a degree, but from another species? It was unheard of. You cared for your own. But humans were different. They were kind to everyone. They helped as they could. Preparing meals. Setting up tents. Moving rubble... And every time a survivor was found, they cheered with enthusiasm.

The galaxy at large looked at them. And humanity was labeled as the kindest species in the falactic collective.

That is, until it was found what had happened. While moving rubble, some metallic carcass was found. One that was traced to an explosive from a species outside the galactic empire. Tensions rose. War broke out a couple years ago.

Humans joined the war. Everyone thought they were kind. Everyone tought they would provide support.

Everyone was wrong.

When humans started fighting, they showed why they were the dominant species of their world. Sure, they did not have vicious claws. Sure, they did not have venoms. Sure, they were not armoured. But they were smart. They were cunning. They had planned for stellar warfare before we found them. They already had devised strategies. Simple, brutal strategies.

Humanity grabbed the biggest asteroid they could find, strapped some rockets to it and launched it straight to the enemy positions. Their fleet, guarding behind it. Using it as cover. When tvey were found out, they jumped to defend that asteroid. They were a small group agains an entire planet. Nobody tought the humans could win.

Everyone was wrong.

Humans fought with all their cunning and might. They fought with ferocity and ruthlessness. Disabling thrusters and energy systems first. Then leaving the poor enemy ships to die. They were no longer a threat. The asteroid advanced and got into descent orbit. Impact was inevitable. And the humans left. They had done their job. A quarter of the world was wiped from the initial blast. The rest of the planet was uninhabitable, and would be for a long time.

Humans fought. Their strategies evolving. Changing to counter their enemies as they started to be prepared. Always a step beyond. Always with a new warfare solution. Orbital bombardment with titanium rods, cloaking technogy never seen before, new ship designs seemingly every day.

Humans fought. Captive humans found ways to escape prison and sabotage the enemy from within. Wounded humans went to fight again while still recovering. Their savagery in limit situations scared allies and enemies alike.

The war ended with the enemy surrendering completely. Mostly thanks to the humans. Peace was signed. And then, the humans sent aid to the defeated enemy. Cargo ships full of medicine and food started arriving. Human troopers helping with the reconstruction efforts.

Humans, like their homeworld, were a race of extremes. Capable of the biggest acts of kindness the galaxy had ever seen, but also the most furious and savage acts when it was necessary.

------

Hope you all like it. It's my first story of this kind

#humans are space orcs #hfy #writing

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galedekarios · 4 days

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gale, waterdeep & coinage

just musings on gale's means as well as waterdeep lore bc i love waterdeep:

Gale: Believe it or not, but I witnessed a similar standoff back at the Yawning Portal. Of course, an establishment like that invites all sorts of outlandish entertainments. Player: What's the Yawning Portal Gale: An inn in Waterdeep. Never a dull moment there. Adventurers come from all over Faerûn to try their luck down the well: Leads into the Undermountain, you see - full of death, danger, and vast amounts of treasure. Hard to resist. Player: What was the standoff about? Gale: Oh, a drow, a dragonborn, and a cleric of Cyric walk into a bar. Your standard fare. Maybe someone was cheating at cards, maybe it was some weird lovers' quarrel. In any case, out came the crossbow, and a hush fell over the entire room.devnote Player: What happened next? Gale: I stood up and yelled: 'Shadowdark ale for everyone!' The crowd cheered, the tension drained into five dozen tankards, and soon all was well again. Gale: In a place like the Yawning Portal, the most powerful magic is calling for a round of drinks. Gale: Mind you, all I did was call for ale, but you went and stood in front of that crossbow. I'd drink to that.

i will definitely take a look at the yawning portal itself at a later date (as well as other points of interest within the city) bc it's very interesting as a focal point in waterdhavian history and society.

while we can only speculate about what gale's background in terms of means, wealth and standing looked like since things like tutors and even maids were not uncommon in waterdhavian society, it is interesting to note that he - whatever his personal means at the time this event took place - felt the need to defuse the brewing fight with 'five dozen tankards'.

we do actually know how much one such tankard costs at the yawning portal:

[source]

17cp x 60 = 1020cp

this was interesting to me in terms of this meant in actual terms of coinage and wealth and money spent.

here's an overview of waterdeep's various coins:

source: volo's waterdeep enchiridion

gale spent over a 1000 nibs/copper pieces that evening (or more than one sun/platinum coin) to de-escalate a potentially lethal fight.

to put that into perspective, i'm adding this reference of prices here:

source: volo's waterdeep enchiridion

gale also attended blackstaff academy, with elminster as his mentor. the academy had costs attached with it:

Acceptance to the Academy was predicated on either demonstrating extraordinary magical aptitude (those who could not cast arcane spells were very rarely admitted) or having a particularly compelling personal history. Joining the Academy was free, however monthly dues were required to continue attendance. These fees started at 10 gp per month and increased as a student gained seniority and required more advanced tutelage. In addition, it was a requirement that any new spell that was discovered or researched by an apprentice had to be added to Blackstaff Tower's library. [source]

ten gold pieces per month as fees, although with gale being elminster's mentee, he may have chosen to assist gale and morena partially or fully with any costs that blackstaff academy may have charged.

it does sound, however his childhood may have looked like with a presumably absent father and a mother with her hands full with a young genius, able to conjure rabbits as a babe, summoning a tressym, a magma mephit who set a room on fire, as well as casting a level 3 spell (fireball) at age 8 or younger, that gale at least during the height of his career as a wizard, lived comfortably.

ending this with more food for thought and a banter between gale and karlach:

Gale: They say wealth offers a form of magic. Alas, it's one I've rarely dabbled in. Karlach: Nor I. Never had more than a few coppers in the city, and any soul coins in Avernus went straight to Zariel. Gale: Make no mistake. Souls are sold for coins up here as well. All too cheaply, in most cases.

#gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #waterdeep #bg3 meta #ch: gale dekarios #vg: baldur's gate 3 #series: baldur's gate #meta: mybg3 #as a side note those coins are so pretty

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quartzalynlove · 10 months

Text

No Kisses

Pairing: hobie brown x fem black reader

Summary: Hobie forgot to kiss you before leaving. You decide to mess with him

A/n: I'm still figuring out how to use British slang so if anyone has tips I'll gladly take them

Being Spider-Man was a huge responsibility, even for someone as allergic to responsibility and consistency as Hobie. Of course, he was devoted to his city and the cause, but you never knew that devotion could surpass you.

Honestly, you weren't mad that Hobie forgot to kiss you before swinging out of the window, but it would have been fun to act like you were. He left around noon, and it was eleven at night when he returned. In the living room, you laid on the couch snuggled in a blanket and rewatching one of your favorite shows. Hobie knew where to look first when you weren't in the bedroom. Already unmasked, he went to join you on the couch. However, when he greeted you and patted your thighs for you to move your legs, you didn't budge. You kept your eyes straight ahead at the TV screen.

Hobie's brows furrowed in confusion as he waved his hand in front of your face, "baby?" He called.

An annoyed sigh came from you as you moved Hobie's hand from your view. He knew that face. The tight lips, slightly squinted eyes, and a small scrunch of your nose. You were irritated. Normally, Hobie would've thought you looked adorable in your little mood, but it was obvious you were irritated with him.

"I do somethin' wrong, babe?" He asked with a tilt of his head.

Finally, you looked at him, but it was only a quick glance before your attention was redirected at the TV. Your look made Hobie wince as his fist thumped lightly on his forehead.

"Ah, shit, what'd I do?" He mentally recounted his entire day.

After coming up with nothing, Hobie crouched next to you and placed his hand on the free couch space in front of you.

"Look at me, baby?"

Adding a slight pout for good measure, you stood your ground as Hobie tried to get your attention again.

"Babe, please." he called, but you remained a statue.

Unfortunately for you, however, Hobie knew a sure fire way to grab your attention. By this point he had caught on that you were pretending. He's seen you when you were mad at him, and you had a habit of not staying around him until you calmed down. Besides, the two of you normally had very good communication. You gave him no choice; if you wanted to play, the gloves were coming off.

Hobie lowered his voice. "Peng ting."

The statue blinked at that stupid phrase. Hobie didn't just throw that phrase around with you; it only came from the deepest part of his heart. It was like a second name he had given you. You relaxed your face without even noticing, but a smile spread across Hobie's.

"There you are." His voice was honeyed as he tapped a finger underneath your chin, inching closer.

You tried to resist, moving your face as Hobie continued to tickle the underside of your chin.

A quiet laugh came from you as you finally spoke. "Stop."

As a smile stretched across your face, Hobie felt warmth spread throughout his body.

"Nah, I thought you were having a laugh wit’ me, babe; thought you were mad at me?"

"I am!" Taking your hand from under your blanket, you playfully pushed away Hobie's face

Before you could draw it back, Hobie grabbed your hand and ran his thumb across your knuckles. Now on his knees, Hobie leaned in closer to you.

"Right." Hobie went to kiss you, but before your lips could connect you sat up, taking your hand back and folding your arms over your chest.

As you stared down at Hobie, he curiously stared back while resting himself in your lap.

"So, I can't kiss you, is that it?" He asked.

With a small eye roll, you turned away. This was really the performance of your life.

"It's crazy you wanna give me an 'I'm home' kiss but not an 'I'm leaving' one."

Hobie's head tilted, resting on his arm as his eyes searched around in thought. He looked up at you again.

"I didn't kiss you before I left?" He asked

As a reply, you simply glanced at Hobie before leaning fully into the couch with a light sigh. A small laugh came from Hobie as he began to stand before sitting down next to you.

“My bad, baby, I’m sorry,” He leaned into you, his eyes gazing over the features of your face. “But I can make it up, can’t I?”

When you turned back, you were met with a hungry smile on Hobie’s face that caused a small smirk to form on your lips.

“I don’t know.” You shrugged.

Hobie couldn’t stand you playing hard to get like this; he wanted nothing more than to kiss your lips, your cheeks, and nose thousands of times. Why did you have to act so cruel?

“Why you gotta act mad with me, baby?” Hobie started poking at you, but you wouldn’t give in.

You cocked an eyebrow as you glared at him, “Acting,” you turned away again. “Nah, I thought you loved me.”

Suddenly, you felt two of Hobie’s fingers turning your head one last time to meet his gaze, and his face was dead serious.

“Aye, don’t play like that, baby,” He said. “You know I love you.”

A smile spread across your face as you felt his touch on your cheek, “Do I?” you asked.

From your dark eyes to your gorgeous lips, Hobie’s eyes traveled. His entire hand cupped the side of your face, his thumb stroking across your skin.

His voice could barely rise above a whisper, “Yeah,” he said before leaning in to place a deep kiss on your lips. “Yeah, you do.”

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e1e4n0r5 · 3 months

Text

Twisted Love: Chapter 3

Chapter 1, Chapter 2

Summary: You always expected to marry your twin brother, Daeron. However, when this does not come to be, you find comfort with your siblings. As only Targaryens could.

A/N: Okay, this chapter is a little angsty! Aemond is having some big feelings and he doesn’t know how to express those feelings with words because of his emotionally stunted upbringing. But you can bet his wife is gonna knock that out of him pretty quickly.

Warnings: canon-typical incest, figging (insertion of ginger root into the anus), coercion/dub-con if you squint, mention of past fire-play, jealous husband, relationship insecurity, ANGST

You bounced on the balls of your feet, wringing your hands in front of you as you watched the skies for any sign of Daeron and his dragon. It was time; your twin was finally returning home. After ten long years apart, you would finally be together. The two of you; all five siblings.

Aemond watched you out of the corner of his eye as he stood up straight next to you; his place as your husband and as Daeron’s brother, loathe as he was to admit the latter. He couldn’t deny that he wasn’t exactly happy with this development, of the youngest Targaryen-Hightower sibling returning to Kings Landing, most likely for good. He detested change, and he had grown accustomed to the routines and structure the four of you had established for yourselves. Not to mention the dynamic; Aegon might have been the eldest, but he was hardly the one in charge. Aemond enjoyed being the head of the group, the feelings of security, power, and dominance it gave him on a daily basis. He wasn’t looking forward to bringing in an unknown fifth element into the arrangement you all had together. Even if that fifth person was his own sibling.

He enjoyed being your husband, and having you as his wife. He felt he had won that day, the day you asked him to marry you. The day you promised yourself to him, and he to you. The day you consummated your love for each other, officially. He was dreading the fact that the man you had spent your entire childhood fantasising about marrying would now be present in your lives every single day. Daeron hadn’t set foot in Kings Landing in ten years, and you had never been allowed to travel to Oldtown. Aemond had had you all to himself (not including your other siblings and children) for a decade, and now he just knew Daeron was about to steal you away. He’d lost an eye to Lucerys, and he would soon lose his wife to his own brother.

He leant forward and whispered in your ear. “Settle down, my love,” he enjoyed watching you shiver at his soft Valyrian. “People might think you have a ginger root up your ass.”

You blushed bright red, your back passage tingling with the memories of that day.

Aemond had been awake before you, as he always rose with the sun, whereas you liked to sleep until mid-morning. It wasn’t your fault; your husband was insatiable. There was a freezing Winter snow falling across the city, forcing Aemond to cancel his training with Cole that morning. So instead, he’d had a devilish idea.

You had spied him sitting in his chair by the fire, his hands working something with a small knife.

“Good morning, husband,” you greeted him as you slid your feet into your fur-lined slippers and pulled on your thick dressing gown, crossing the room.

“Good morning, wife,” he replied back, not taking his eye off the thing in his hands. Was he whittling?

When you got closer, you saw that it wasn’t wood. It was softer than that. A fruit?

“What are you doing?”

He smirked up at you. “I think I might just have found an ingenious way to keep you warm today, my love.”

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Have you commissioned me some clothing I don’t know about?”

He laughed, a rare but beautiful sound. “No. No, wife, not clothes.” He held up the thing in his hands. A ginger root.

“Ginger?” you asked with a small smile. “Are you going to put it in my tea? You know I can’t stand the taste.”

“No, my love; your ass.”

He said it so casually that you didn’t pick up on it at first. It took you a few seconds, then you gawked at him.

“What?” you demanded.

He carved the root a little more, examining it from different angles. He seemed satisfied. “Aegon told me of a little trick he’d heard about. Assured me it’s well worth a try.”

Before you could respond, the passage between your room and your siblings’ opened up, your brother and sister stepping through.

“Morning to you both,” Aegon greeted cheerfully. Helaena had clearly already satisfied him. “What have you both got planned for the day? Helaena was thinking of taking the children down to the Dragonpit.”

“Aemond wants to put ginger up my ass!” you declared hysterically.

The two of them didn’t even blink.

“Oh, figging,” Helaena explained, walking over to Aemond and examining the root he had carved. “Yes, it’s a very interesting experience. Aegon and I have both done it a few times now.”

“Always a fun time,” he winked at you, helping himself to a few grapes from your breakfast platter.

“Very well carved, Aemond. Good thinking with the flared base.”

“And a good size too,” Aegon added. “Our little sister will definitely be titillated today.”

You stared at your siblings, abashed. Out of all the things the four of you had done together, for some reason this was the thing that baffled you the most. Why, in the name of the Seven, would anyone want to insert ginger into ones back passage?

The three of them chuckled at how you were staring back at them all. Aemond stood up.

“Y/N, dear wife, be a good girl and bend over the bed. Now.”

You instinctually covered your rear with your hands, shaking your head nervously. “It’ll hurt, won’t it?”

“Not hurt,” Aegon shrugged.

“But it’s definitely a memorable experience,” Helaena smiled dreamily. “Aemond, do you have another piece you could carve for me? I think I’d like to partake.”

Aemond nodded. “I do, dear sister.”

“As big and thick as you can, please,” she hummed happily, picking up her skirts as she walked over to your bed. She bent herself over, exposing her ass completely.

“I only have a smaller piece. Helaena, why don’t you take this one I’ve already done, and I’ll carve a smaller one for Y/N? She seems hesitant about this whole experience.”

“That sounds lovely, thank you, brother.”

Aemond looked to you. “Abrazȳrys (wife),” he commanded, “come here. Now. Watch how Helaena takes this, and you’ll see it’s not as bad as you are imagining.”

You headed over to the bed, Aegon holding you against his body as both of you watched Aemond dip the root in some oil and then slowly press it into Helaena’s ass. Her hole accepted the small intrusion with no effort, but she began mewling regardless. Aemond pressed his thumb to the flared base of the root, keeping it in place in her ass as her hips lifted up and down, grinding against the bed sheets.

“Does it hurt, sister?” Aemond asked. “Be honest; our little Y/N doesn’t want any lies.”

She shook her head. “No, it doesn’t hurt. But it burns a little. It’s wonderful.”

“Burns?” you gasped.

“Nothing too bad,” Aegon reassured you, kissing the side of your head. “It’s just a bit uncomfortable.”

You frowned at Aemond as he began peeling and carving the other root. The one he intended to put inside you. “Husband, I’m not sure about this…?”

“You don’t need to be sure, wife,” he said simply. He looked at you, his eye softening a little. “Do you trust me? Do you trust that I would never harm you, or wish ill upon you?”

Your frown softened in return. “Yes. Of course, I do.”

“Then trust me now. This will be an interesting experience for you. It won’t harm you at all. I want you to try it. For me. And if you truly do hate it, you don’t have to do it again.”

“Except as punishments,” Aegon added cheekily, playfully squeezing you a little.

You smiled at him and Aemond, your will bent to theirs. “Alright.”

“Good, now bend over the bed, next to Helaena.” He paused. “Who seems to have climaxed all over our sheets.”

Helaena had indeed orgasmed, seemingly just from grinding herself against the edge of the bed, with the root in her ass. “It just feels so good,” she explained lightly, no shame at all in her voice.

Aemond smirked back at you, his argument won. “See? How awful can it be when Helaena climaxes in just one minute?”

You choose not to say that some of Helaena’s desires can be a little sadomasochistic, often deriving pleasure from giving and receiving various forms of pain. She had once orgasmed when Aemond and Aegon held lit candles to her inner thighs. Not close enough to burn her skin, yet close enough to hurt. It was peculiar, even for Targaryens.

Aegon nudged you forward, bending you over and pulling up your nightgown and robe. Helaena gripped your hand, still grinding and moaning on the bed. Aemond stepped up behind you, squeezing your buttocks and giving you a few spanks.

“Are you ready, wife?” he asked you, spreading your cheeks with the fingers of one hand.

You nodded. “Yes, husband.”

You snapped back to the present even as your mind ran through the sensations of having that ginger inserted into your back passage. How it had stretched you and begun to burn. As Helaena had described, it hadn’t been horrific, but it had kept you on your toes all day, until Aemond had removed the root after fucking you senseless in the evening.

Daeron’s dragon Tessarion’s cry filled the air. Not too far away, you could see her outline in the clouds above. He was here. Your brother was finally here.

Tessarion landed a hundred yards or so away, just enough for you to turn your head slightly to avoid the dust her wings kicked up. You almost didn’t recognise the man in the saddle. It was a man, not your twelve-year-old twin brother. You couldn’t make out his features, but you could see the Targaryen white hair. The man dismounted, rubbing Tessarion’s neck affectionately before sending her to fly to the Dragon Pit.

He started walking towards you all.

Your heart raced.

You moved to step forward, but Aemond and Aegon discreetly held you back. The Queen had to greet him, as was protocol. They could feel your need, but you only had to wait a little longer.

“Prince Daeron. My darling boy,” your mother greeted.

It was him. It was Daeron. He was older, a man grown. But he was your brother. His cheeks have slimmed, his nose a little longer, his jawline stronger. But he was here.

“Your Grace. Mother.”

They embraced, only for a second, before pulling apart. It was warm, by your mother’s standards.

She turned. “Your father, the King, is abed at the moment. The years have taken their toll, but I shall take you to see him later. You remember your siblings. Prince Aegon, Princess Helaena, Prince Aemond, and Princess Y/N. You know Aegon and Helaena married, we’ll have tea with their children soon. And Aemond and Y/N-”

Daeron rushed forward and pulled you into his arms, uncaring at your mother’s indignation and scolding. You clung to each other, and the world stopped. He smelled the same, whereas he lamented that you had changed your perfume, or perhaps you now add oil to your hair?

“Sister,” Daeron breathed in your ear, holding you tightly, his eyes closing in bliss as your perfume filled his senses. Oh, how he had missed you. It had been agony for him, every day he thought of you, longed for you. He’d never wanted to leave in the first place, it was his mother’s and grandsire’s idea. His heart had been crushed when he had read mother’s letter four years earlier informing him of your marriage. He had been filled with anger; how dare Aemond steal his wife from him, just because he was away studying. It was an outrage; he had been tempted to fly back to Kings Landing on Tessarion and dispute the whole matter, to take you away and live as husband and wife together. But he had known that he would never have stood a chance against Aemond, nor Tessarion against Vhagar.

His eyes opened and he caught Aemond’s. The taller brother stared down the younger, his one-eye unblinking. Daeron swallowed thickly, keeping hold of you for support. “Brother Aemond,” he greeted in a somewhat shaky voice.

“Valonqar (little brother),” Aemond greeted with a smirk, enjoying his brother’s obvious discomfort at his presence. He didn’t like the way Daeron was holding you so tightly, it irked him, but he could disquiet his brother in other ways. “I hope you’ve kept up with your Valyrian; the four of us speak it often, and the children are learning too.”

Daeron flinched. “Forgive me, brother, there was no-one to help me maintain our ancestral language in Oldtown. I only speak Common Tongue now.”

Aemond nodded his head and smirked; another piece of leverage to use against this intruder.

You didn’t notice your brothers’ tension, pulling out of Daeron’s arms. You cupped his face in both your hands, staring closely at his face. He had grown so much. He wasn’t as tall as Aemond, nor as strong, but he was here. He was home. You longed to kiss his lips, but settled for both his cheeks, your lips lingering on his skin. “Finally,” you whispered, like a prayer, “Finally, you’re home.”

He smiled down at you. “I’m home. And I’m not leaving.” He looked up at Aemond at the end.

Aemond just smirked. ‘We’ll see about that, brother’, he thought.

The eldest sibling stepped forward to break the tension, even as he had to hold in his laughter. “Daeron, it’s been so long,” Aegon greeted, pulling Daeron in for a hug.

The two brothers embraced for a few seconds before separating. “Hello, Aegon. I missed you. Helaena,” he smiled at his other sister, kissing her cheek before embracing her.

“Y/N missed you greatly,” Helaena said in her soft voice. “She’s happy now you’re home.” Daeron tried not to interpret that as you being the only sibling who had missed him and glad to have him back.

Aemond spoke up. “Why don’t we take him to meet our children?” he asked, smiling down at you with his hand on the small of your back.

You completely missed how Aemond stressed ‘our’. Daeron did not, frowning at the taller, older brother.

Your face lit up. “Oh yes! They’d love to meet you!” you grasped his hand, pulling him towards the castle. “Come on, Daeron, come meet them.”

Aemond added, his smile widening wickedly as he clasped his hand on Daeron’s shoulder, “Yes, your niece and nephew would love to meet their uncle. Our son Maenor and our daughter Aena, though little Aena is not yet one so she won't have much to say.”

Daeron had to keep his mind on you and your happiness, as not to punch Aemond on the jaw. Aemond was playing with him, it was clear and painful. They both knew Daeron had been hoping and expecting to sire children with you himself, so to hear the words ‘uncle’, ‘niece’ and ‘nephew’… It was all just a game to Aemond.

One he had won.

The five of you, your mother, your grandsire Otto, and the five children filled Aegon and Helaena’s sitting room with a tea service. The twins, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, sat politely with the grown-ups and had a piece of cake before playing on the floor. Maelor and Maenor ate some cake on the floor, closely monitored by Aemond and a nanny. And you sat little Aena on Daeron’s lap, chuckling softly when you had to show your twin how to support her properly as she liked to bounce on her feet now she was close to walking.

Alicent and Otto were called out to a Small Council meeting after an hour or so, leaving you all together.

“You know Maelor and Maenor were born within the same week,” you smiled, watching with a proud smile as your son showed your twin his newest bracelet made for him by Helaena. Daeron still held little Aena somewhat awkwardly on his lap, but your little girl didn’t seem fussed, only cooing happily as she gummed on a wooden spoon. It made your heart swell, and almost brought tears to your eyes. In another life, they could have been his children. But then they wouldn’t be Aemond’s, which would mean they would be different. And you wouldn’t change your life or children for anything. You’d give Daeron a child someday, you knew it.

“It’s why we named them so similar,” Helaena agreed. “I actually delayed naming Maelor when he was born until Y/N had Maenor and had named him. They were conceived on the same night, after all.”

You choked on your tea and Daeron almost dropped Aena. Aemond quickly scooped your daughter out of her uncle’s arms, having been hovering at the side. He was very protective of both your children, but especially Aena. She had him wrapped around her tiny fingers, even though Aemond would never admit that. He bounced her up and down and cooed at her to distract her from crying. She was smitten with her father so it was always an effective tactic.

“Helaena…” you whispered. Daeron didn’t know any of that yet!

She seemed to realise her error. “Oh. I’m sorry, Daeron. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I only meant that Y/N and I had fertile days around the same time.”

That didn’t help.

“Do you think either of you will have more children?” he asked quietly, looking awkwardly down at the floor. He prayed you’d say no.

Alas, Helaena continued. “I’m actually trying to conceive at the moment, so it’s fortunate you-”

You interrupted. “I’m sure I’ll have more children in the future. Aena isn’t quite one yet, so in a few months, mayhaps. Does that sound alright, Aemond?”

Your husband looked at you from kissing your daughter’s chubby cheeks. “I’m always happy to have children with you, my love. We practice often enough,” he winked at you, basking in how much Daeron physically cringed.

You blushed and dipped your head. What was happening with everyone today?

That night was the first complete family dinner in over ten years, the King included. It was a lovely meal, it had filled your heart to finally be seated next to Daeron after so long apart, but there had been an undeniable tension in the room, coming off both Aemond and Daeron. Aemond had kept his hand firmly on your thigh the whole evening, not even moving it when food was served. He used his left hand to make your plate up, then his own, eating slowly with just his one hand. He barely said a word beside you as you caught up with your beloved twin.

After everyone was finished and conversation had lasted well into the evening, you all dispersed back to your rooms. Aegon and Helaena came in to yours and Aemond’s rooms via their usual passage, and you poured the three of them some wine. You had drunk enough for the day, feeling tired and a little emotional after the long day. Aegon and Helaena sat on a sofa by the main fireplace, reclining back comfortably. Aemond stood by the fire, contemplative as he stared into the flames and took the occasional sip of his drink. You felt restless from the energy he was exuding, sitting delicately on the arm of an armchair.

“It’s nice to have Daeron home,” you offered to the room.

Helaena nodded. “It will be, when we all know each other again.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

Aegon pitched in. “You have to admit, sister; Daeron’s been gone so long, he’s basically a stranger to us now.”

“No, he’s not!” you protested. “Don't say that, he’s our brother! He’s always been our brother. It wasn’t his fault he was sent away.”

He jokingly held his hands up in surrender. “I’m not saying it is. But we haven’t seen each other in a decade, and there’s only so much letter-writing can do. If I hadn’t known who he was when he arrived, I wouldn’t have recognised him.”

“Aegon is right,” Helaena concurred. “He’s a stranger now, but he won’t be soon. The dragon lost will be found again.”

Before you could get upset about your brother's and sister’s attitude towards your twin, Aegon spoke up again.

“Well, how funny is it that you want your little brother’s babies?” Aegon laughed good-naturedly to his wife. “I thought he was going to have a heart attack.”

Helaena just shrugged. “Well, you have three children already. Surely you wouldn’t begrudge Daeron a child with his sister?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t,” he smirked, looking at Aemond.

The three of you looked at Aemond, observing him as he just stood by the fire, wine cup in hand. “Fuck off, Aegon,” he grumbled.

Helaena paid no attention to his mood. “I think it would be nice if Y/N and I were both pregnant at the same time again, and especially if both babes were Daeron’s.” You looked at her beseechingly, silently begging her to stop talking. You could feel Aemond’s ire rising. He has never and would never hurt any of you, but his temper was infamous within the Keep. “Aegon has three children and, Aemond, you have two. Daeron doesn’t have any-”

“Because he’s been pissing away his years in Oldtown,” he snapped. He moved from the fire and practically threw himself into the armchair where you sat on the arm. He fisted the loose material at the back of your robe. He needed to be close to you and to squeeze something, but would never hurt you for it. “It’s not my fault he never came back to be with us. He has a dragon more than capable of flying from Oldtown to Kings Landing; he could have told Grandsire to get fucked and returned at any time. He chose not to; he chose to stay in Oldtown with those prissy Maesters and dusty books. It certainly doesn’t mean my wife owes him a child. You give him one if you want, sister, if you think it would be nice.”

“Let’s all change the subject,” you said softly, rubbing Aemond’s knee.

Aegon, rather drunk, had other ideas. “So how will we get him to join us? He’s been cooped up for years, after all. Doubt he’s ever seen a tit, let alone a cunt.”

You groaned, standing up. You took Aemond’s cup from his hand and drained it in one gulp. He didn’t even look bothered. You refilled it from the jug and handed it back to your husband. He lifted it slightly in thanks, drinking deeply. You had known Daeron’s return would disturb him, but you hadn’t thought it would be this bad.

“I think that can wait,” you said diplomatically. You couldn’t and wouldn’t hide your desire to have your twin join the four of you, but it wasn’t an urgent matter, and your husband was perturbed enough as it was. “Let’s all just get to know him again.”

Helaena frowned at you quizzically. “Have you not been desiring this for a long time, sister? You planned to be his wife growing up, not Aemond’s.”

That was Aemond’s final straw. He stood up abruptly, stormed over to his side of the bed and began angrily disrobing for bed.

Aegon and Helaena misinterpreted the action as an invitation, standing up and heading towards the bed.

You stood in front of them with a shake of your head. “We’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight.”

Aegon shrugged. “Alright. Come on, dear wife. Away to bed for us.”

“Do you want to fuck my ass?” Helaena offered neutrally.

You heard Aegon reply as they headed back down the passageway to their own rooms. “You know I’ll never say no to that offer.”

You turned back to the bed, seeing Aemond already under the sheets, facing away from the room. You walked over to the bed, climbing on it from your side.

“Aemond?” you asked, kneeling behind him. He gave no response. You looked at his nightstand. His eyepatch lay on the dresser, but the dish where he stored his sapphire was empty. He hadn’t taken it out. “Aemond, sweetheart, you need to take out your eye,” you leant down and kissed his bicep. “You know it will hurt in the morning if you leave it in.”

Still silent, he removed his sapphire, placing it in the bowl.

Glad he had at least listened to you, you lay down behind him. You tucked yourself in as close as you could to him, wrapping your arm tightly around his waist from behind. “Aemond, I love you. You know that, don't you?”

Seconds ticked by and your heart pounded in your ears.

After what felt like an eternity, he took your hand and pulled it up, kissing the back. “I love you too.”

You considered it a success. “I'm so happy to be your wife.”

Aemond had to hold back tears. “I'm happy to be your husband.” Until you leave me.

@watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @aemondsdelight @thelittleswanao3 @misspascalpunk @heavenly1927 @probablybraindamage @theoneepileptic

#twisted love #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon #aegon ii targaryen #helaena targaryen #daeron targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #helaena targaryen x reader #daeron targaryen x reader

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separatist-apologist · 6 months

Text

The Wrong Place At The Right Time

Summary: And if I'm all dressed up, they might as well be looking at us

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Four words were enough to wreck her entire week. Strung together, they ruined her. Separated? Fine.

Lucien will be there.

Feyre had the good sense to warn Elain at the beginning of the week, at least. Give her time to get used to the idea, to decide if she still wanted to go. Elain suspected Feyre had invited Lucien specifically to give Elain an out. Afterall: she hated Hewn City. She hated the way they looked at her, how they leered, their whispered slut and whore comments as she passed, tarring her with the same hateful brush they’d once painted her sisters. Guilty by association, for having the same last name, the same smile.

If Elain hadn’t been such a coward, she might have asked why Lucien needed to be there. What could be happening that required his presence, that somber expression, those clenched hands? Elain had slunk up to her room, unmissed by the general revelry of the night, to pick through familiar letters.

Lucien wrote. Elain read. She didn’t respond—that wasn’t what he wanted, wasn’t what he expected. They had their roles, and Elain was meant to witness him. Perhaps he thought she threw them all straight into the fire and that was what made him pour such vulnerability into the ink and parchment. Or perhaps he simply didn’t care if she saw this part of him.

Elain read them like he was her religion. She’d found him in the spaces of his letters, in the way he looped his words.

Lucien asked her for nothing and so Elain offered him just as much, unwilling to admit she would have given him anything he wanted if he put it to paper. If he spoke the words. And now he’d be in Hewn City, the first time she’d seen him since that first letter had been handed to her by a sheepish Rhysand, clearly embarrassed he had to be the messenger. Now the letters were just there, sitting on her bed untouched and unopened, unexposed to the suspicious eyes and unforgiving minds of the Night Court.

They’d never trust him if they saw the things he said. If they knew the things he wanted, the fears he harbored, the dreams he wouldn’t say to anyone else. And Elain knew it would all be used against him, so she never spoke of them either. This was her secret—something just for her.

Knowing she’d see him soon, Elain did the only reasonable thing. She had a glass of whiskey for breakfast before making her way into the Palace of Threads and Jewels.

She wouldn’t wear black. What a mockery it made of her, how everyone knew by sight that she was an interloper, outsider. No amount of spine would ever make that untrue, and if Lucien was coming, she wanted him fixated on her. She wanted to read about it in his next letter—how wrecked he’d been, how badly he wanted to touch her, where he’d put his fingers, his mouth, his teeth.

If she was all dressed up, after all, he might as well look at her. Rubbing the glittering fabric between her fingers, Elain nodded before handing over more gold than she had the right to carry. “I need it quickly,” she’d said. No problem for the High Lady’s sister, which was perhaps unfair. Elain couldn’t find it in her to care. Not when the gown appeared the morning of their trip, nor when she pulled it out of the pale pink tissue paper to admire the way the beads glittered like starlight beneath the faelights.

She was never going to be the cold abyss of night but maybe, at least in Hewn City, she could be the burning heat of moonlight. Warmed by the sun, an echoing promise of what morning might bring if she only just held on.

Elain didn’t dare go downstairs, even when she heard the commotion of Lucien’s arrival and Feyre’s high pitched delight at seeing her friend. She wanted to. Oh, how her limbs ached and buzzed, aware of him even when she wished she wouldn’t be. No—she needed this moment to be perfect, if only to read it through his eyes. So he couldn’t see her at all, if only to prolong the suspense.

To force him to see her exactly as she wanted to be seen.

The dress was silver, soft against her skin and sharp to anyone who might reach out a hand to touch her unwanted. The gems that glittered doubled as knives, drawing blood if they were too forceful, too cruel. Only the gentlest hands could slide over her waist to pull her in for a dance. She’d picked a ballgown rather than something revealing, something that hid anything a lesser male might find fascinating and forced, instead, the gaze to remain on her face. Her eyes. Her mouth.

The soft neckline exposed her collarbones and her neck, the long sleeves giving a glimpse only of her hands. She left her hair to tumble down her back to hide the exposed skin, leaving her a mystery, a fantasy. Elain could be anyone to whoever looked at her, which was nothing new. Men gazed at her, projecting what they wanted without considering who she might actually be.

Lucien could do the same, if he wanted.

Though she hoped he wouldn’t.

Elain descended the stairs in a fog, the last to arrive just as she’d planned. It looked like petulance—a woman so determined not to see a man that she’d made everyone wait on her. Elain kept her eyes on the wood beneath her feet, fingers skimming the rail as she all but floated down. There was a beat of silence before a murmuring of finally, though she didn’t notice who spoke the words.

When Elain looked up at the gathered group, her eyes fell on Azriel first by virtue of him being largest and closest. She saw that familiar gaze—the projection, the fantasy, the hunger. How she could so easily lose every aspect of herself within it, reshaping every inch of her to be what he saw. It wouldn’t have been the first time—Elain was moldable. There was safety there—Graysen had destroyed her, but Azriel never could. He didn’t know her well enough, didn’t care to. He saw a fantasy and Elain could hide within it.

Even when he’d rejected her, there had been no pain. It wasn’t anything special, after all. He clearly hadn’t thought so, and neither did she. Looking at him evoked nothing but appreciation. He was beautiful—perhaps he employed similar methods. Why bother knowing him when he could be anything and anyone? It wasn’t as if Elain had paid any particular time to finding out what lurked beneath the pretty veneer.

That made her uncomfortable, a mirror held to her face, reflecting herself wholly back. She turned her head, meaning to find a wall to stare at.

She found Lucien instead. His expression was unreadable, his one good russet eye gleaming with indifference. Both gold and brown flicked over her for a moment before he turned his own head, a muscle feathering in the cut of his jaw. Bound, auburn hair trailed behind the silver of his jacket and Elain wondered how he’d known.

If he’d known.

Of course he must have. Right? No one commented on it—why would they—and Elain blinked and they were gone, leaving behind the warmth and safety of Velaris for the horror that was Hewn City. Lucien blinked from the edge of the group, both eyes so round they looked drawn against his otherwise beautiful face. Had he been prepared for this?

No one else seemed affected at all. They were used to the cruelty, to the casual nightmares that infected this place. Elain had long thought it didn’t need to exist the way it did, and it was allowed in some manner of tradition rather than practicality. Surely they weren’t all bad? Surely they put on the same masks Feyre and Rhysand wore? Or was it that even the Court of Dreamers like to indulge in a little cruelty at times, if only to purge it from their systems?

Seeing Lucien react made Elain feel settled—like she wasn’t making it all up in her head. She wondered what his letter would make of all this—the smooth, carved out stone and the vaulted ceilings. The walls adorned with swirling silver and that obsidian pair of thrones that served more as decoration than actual chairs. Rhys and Feyre, dressed in black so crushing it stole the light from around them, casting them as blackholes.

Behind them was Mor, unforgiving as she surveyed the room and flanked by the cold, unyielding brutality of Cassian and Azriel. Even Nesta managed to make the ice in her eyes an art, causing those who dared to look upon her to flinch back as though she’d physically struck them.

Lucien fell back a step, shoulder to shoulder with her despite the difference in their heights. Fingers brushed for only a moment, the warmth fleeting against the cold of the mountain. Elain wanted to grab his hands, to demand he tell her something true. This place is terrible, right? I’m not imagining it—I can’t fake it, can you?

Maybe he heard her thoughts, because those eyes of his slid toward her, eyebrows raised as if to say, what the fuck is this?

Elain couldn’t help offering a silent response in return. Home, I guess.

His eyes widened, not with surprise, but recognition. As if he was saying, Hell is where you make it.

She had to suppress her smile, ducking her head to hide behind thick, long curls. Somehow, though, she thought he caught it anyway. He’d tell her about it in his pretty prose, just as he’d done for the last six months. Every memory he had of her, put to paper for her to read as though he wanted her to know what he saw, what he knew.

Proof, she thought, that he caught the little slip ups—saw the light beneath the cracks, diluting the shadow she felt lost in. He wasted no time describing her physical beauty in conventional terms. Lucien focused on the parts—bright eyes, tapping fingers, swinging feet. A curl caught in the breeze, a beam of light illuminating hues of gold and green. He wrote about her like she was something so far elevated that only the poetry of his words could ever do it justice. And he wrote about himself the way a tree might describe the squirrels beneath. Appreciative for the branches, the shade, worthy to look, to appreciate, but to perhaps not to speak.

Rhysand gave some brutal speech that Elain didn’t absorb, didn’t care to hear. Those words made it hard to look at him in the aftermath, made it difficult to like him at all. Better to pretend he didn’t like any part of this and someone else was continuing this spectacle. Elain, instead, took her seat, the furthest from the High Lord and Lady. Lucien whispered something to Nesta, who, with raised eyebrows, nodded her head and stood so they could swap.

And just like that, he was seated beside her rather than at Feyre’s elbow. Wasn’t he the emissary to this court for the evening? Surely he wanted to converse with the ruling monarchs rather than the woman who never spoke to him at all. But Lucien’s broad shoulders relaxed, his hand resting against the thigh of his white pants. Feyre crawled into Rhys’s lap, touching his neck, his face, his chest, while Nesta immediately jumped to her feet to join Cassian on the floor.

So maybe it didn’t matter where they sat, Elain rationalized. Nesta’s chair would have remained empty regardless, and Feyre could simply slide into it if she wanted. Elain dared a look at Lucien and his glazed expression before balling her hands in her lap to suppress the overwhelming urge to touch him. One of them would have to end the stalemate between them, would have to break. She’d known it ever since she’d imposed the silence in the first place.

And Lucien did what he’d always done—he spoke first.

“I’ve been here before,” he said, his voice deeper than she remembered. Hoarser, too. She couldn’t help the incline of her neck, the way her body shifted in her chair to look at him. “In a manner of speaking.”

“When?” she heard herself reply, so quiet she might have whispered it in his ear.

Lucien didn’t look at her at all, expression set with a grimness that betrayed his own nightmares. “Under the Mountain,” he said. “I didn’t think…I suppose I see where Amarantha took her inspiration.”

There it was again—that urge to touch him. Elain suppressed it, though she didn’t quite know why. She didn’t need to be his mate to know he would have welcomed it. Allowed it, without the expectation of anything else.

Elain lapsed back into silence, not because it was demanded but because she had no idea what to say to him. This wasn’t polite conversation. He hadn’t told her he liked her dress, that she was beautiful—she’d told him something personal. Something vulnerable. And when Lucien spoke like that, Elain merely listened, read, remembered. He didn’t seem upset, though in truth how would she know?

And when he stood to be closer to Feyre, their foreheads nearly touching as they conspired, Elain felt a little jealous, unfairly. She could have him like that, if she wanted. Could have been the Archeron he whispered his secrets to with his mouth rather than his fingers. She knew before he ever stood to look at her, that Lucien was going to leave with only a faint goodbye. That he’d seen whatever it was he needed to say, had the information he needed and that was all the time Elain would be allotted.

He’d be relegated back to fantasy until Feyre summoned him again, and Elain would try and be what he wanted without letting him have any of it at all. Every part of her was screaming when he turned his attention to her, that mask slipping for only a moment so she could see the truth of them both laid bare in this terrible place. His yearning, a match for her own, stared back at her. His eyes, screaming too—ask me to stay.

The resignation as he bricked that wall back up to offer her a polite half bow. “I’ll take my leave of you—” “Dance with me.” Elain hadn’t meant to say it. The words had forced themselves out of her with such a rush the consonants tripped over one another, slurring together until they were practically unintelligible. Lucien’s spine straightened, betraying no evidence of the shock Elain was certain graced her own features.

“It would be my pleasure,” he assured her as flame ignited in his one good eye. Sunlight seemed to burn against the other, and when he extended his hand, Elain found familiar golden warmth ribboning along her bones. They so rarely touched that it felt indecent right then with so many eyes on them.

It felt like they were doing something they shouldn’t, that was better reserved for a bedroom than a dance floor, and all they were doing was holding hands. Elain let him guide her out of her chair, wondering if her dress would slice apart his skin or if Lucien knew the right way to avoid injury. If he knew exactly how to touch her, missing the thorns for the blooming petals instead.

Elain hated the music of Hewn City—it was too strange, impossible to dance well to. Perhaps the fae preferred the grinding displays, the sweating bodies, the declaration of obvious intentions. But Elain missed the subtlety of human dances—the careful, precise touches, glances that lingered, bodies that never quite touched. Foolish, she thought, to think Lucien would know the steps or would even want it.

And yet…and yet he didn’t take her to the dance floor where Nesta was holding court. Lucien, with his fingers warm and reassuring, walked her through the archway and back into the night. Only then, with the thudding music a half-distant memory, did he exhale a shaking breath. “I assumed you meant somewhere…else.” “Where—” she bit her bottom lip, because maybe she’d misread this situation. Or maybe he had, too. The dance had to happen before anything else could, and if he skipped it, his letters would have to keep vigil in her fireplace.

“Trust me,” was his only reply, with an earnestness she’d read before. Many times, even. Elain decided she would, that she would give him this one opportunity to prove the man in the letters was the same standing in the entryway to the mountain, rejecting cruelty for something sweeter, something unmasked and real.

He tugged gently, and before she took a step, Elain said, “I hate it in there, too.” Lucien regarded her, a tendril of hair sweeping over her cheek. Those eyes of his softened at the edges, just enough to silently proclaim, I know you do.

They walked out of the ward, the cold air a rebuke of Lucien’s inherent warmth. Was that Autumn, then? Or something else, some innate magic he seemed to carry with him. Gold shimmered from the bronze of his skin and too late, Elain realized Lucien, too, was offering the same amount of skin she was. His hands, his throat, his face—look at my eyes, my lips, my hair. No half unbuttoned shirts revealing swirling tattoos, no armor showing off bulging muscles, or weapons strapped menacingly against his legs. Had he planned it?

Or did he know?

Warmth blazed around them in a bubble as the smell of salt and coconut swept over them. Lucien’s winnow was less snow and cold, and more sand and sea water, and when it faded, Elain didn’t feel so off balance. Looking around, she found herself on a terrace overlooking a violet hued ocean comprised of glittering diamonds and white shores. White marble curved along the balcony, while a little table held a carafe of wine or water—she wasn’t sure, didn’t care—for some unknown guest.

“Where…are we?” she managed, so taken in by this small scene she could hardly breathe. It was warm. Hot, even, despite the night sky. She regretted her sleeves, the heaviness of her skirts, the length of her hair curling gently against the back of her neck.

“Day,” Lucien replied, coming to stand just behind her without touching. Close enough she could feel his heat, too. Elain was tempted to lean back against him, to let him strengthen her with his solid build.

“Why Day?” she asked him.

“It’s my home,” was his simple reply.

Unthinkingly, Elain said, “You didn’t tell me that.”

There was a pause, a sweeping realization that oh. She read my letters. Elain didn’t dare look back, didn’t want to see whatever it was he was thinking so loudly. Lucien cleared his throat.

“I ah…wasn’t sure…how I felt about it. If I wanted to say anything…even to you.”

“What are you leaving out?” Elain dared to ask, thinking she was the only person in the world who could demand honesty from the famed liar.

Lucien chuckled. “Too much, I think. But I brought you here for a dance, not to overburden you with my problems. Come. I want to show you something else.”

Tearing her gaze from this new, warm world, Elain followed Lucien into blazing light. Of course Day would glow golden, some magic causing sunbeams to filter through the faelights hanging overhead. He looked alive here, a rainbow of colors draped across his skin. The silver seemed brighter, and she wondered if hers was just as iridescent as his own. If she looked happy, alive, warm, in the same way.

Shaking off the cold, the cruelty, Elain tried to map and memorize their route through winding halls of high, open windows, draping ivy flowers, and pretty artwork. Down sweeping steps she could have floated toward him like a cloud rather than plodding as she’d done just an hour or so before, until they were alone in the grandest ballroom she’d ever seen in her life. Big enough to fit a thousand people, with a dais that obviously belonged to the High Lord. Lucien wasn’t touching her, though she wished he would. Instead, he left her to make her way inside while he strode toward that throne, jogging the three steps to the top to fiddle with something she couldn’t see.

Another balcony, wide enough to fit her entire bedroom back home, curved on both ends of the room, separated only by sheer curtains caught in a friendly breeze. Elain might have gone to see what kind of view they both offered had music not filled the space so completely, conforming to the grooves of the smooth walls, the domed ceiling overhead. It blanketed her like a breath of air, causing her to turn for its source.

Lucien drank in her delight. “Allow me some secrets, hm?”

“You don’t know what I was going to say,” Elain protested, standing in place as she waited for him to come closer.

“You were going to ask me how I managed this, right? Magic,” he added before bowing with a flourish. “I have to make the most of this dance.”

Because there might not be another. Still, she was grinning and thought that she wouldn’t mind a second, or even a third, depending on how the first one went. Lucien offered her his hand the way a human man might, offering her the chance to reject him if she wished. Elain took it, inkling her head, and then her other hand was on his shoulder, his sliding along her waist so smoothly, so fluidly it was like the beads were made of the smoothest pearl.

“I’ll do my best not to step on your feet,” Lucien said, holding her gaze. His body was inches from her own, intimate and still polite, his steps in time with the music that wasn’t familiar, and yet not at odds with what she’d had growing up.

“Have you been practicing?” Elain dared to ask. Another thing he’d kept from his letters. Color bloomed over his cheeks and how did anyone call him a fox? His every emotion, every secret, was laid bare before her.

“I thought, since you were human…well. I figured I might need to adapt.”

The thought that Lucien might have done something she’d never had another man do—try and change pieces of himself for her, rather than demand she change shape to fit in his puzzle-piece world—astounded Elain. Something so small, that might never matter to anyone other than her. Elain loved to dance, loved the social gatherings that facilitated it, loved the push and pull, the will-they-wont-they, the eroticism of a fleeting touch, the promise in a glance.

“What else did you adapt?” Elain dared to ask him. Because it was allowed, here. She could drop her guard a little, make her intentions more plain.

“The letters,” he admitted, spinning away from him. Had there been other dancers, Elain would have been swept away by another man, forced to watch Lucien while held by a stranger, hoping he, too, would be searching for her across the crowded room. “I ah…well. It occurred to me that I could court you like a human man and maybe you’d like that. But I’m not a human…or a man, really. And after some reading, I found a familiar set of scripts that seemed to begin with letters, and then house calls, a conversation with your father and…anyway, you never responded, but I kept writing. And you were reading them.”

It was a question masquerading as a statement. “Yes,” she agreed, not looking away from him. There was no space to lie within their dance. “Many times.” Lucien took a breath, pulling his hand from hers so he could lift her in the air while Elain gripped his shoulders. Oh, but she wanted him—she wanted him so much it made her knees buckle when she was back on the ground. Of course he’d been courting her. She hadn’t realized, thinking he was merely using her as an outlet to say all the things he couldn’t normally.

He was telling her who he really was. Beyond the facade, beyond the masks. Lucien the fox, the High Lords son, emissary to Spring or Night or Day—all titles, all meaningless. The letters were the man beneath—the male, she supposed—and Elain, too used to playing a fantasy, too, didn’t realize what he was doing until he told her plainly.

“Is it working?” Lucien asked, pulling her back just a little closer than before. His steps were flawless. Or maybe they only seemed that way because she liked him, and could see nothing else but pretty perfection.

“What if it was?” she asked coyly, just to see how he’d respond.

“I’d ask you to dance again. And another after that. And I might pretend there was a queue of other men anxiously waiting for us to part ways so they might have a chance with you, thwarted by my charming manners and my fluid dancing.”

“And what then?” Elain pressed, if only because she was having fun.

Lucien arched a brow, and she wondered how difficult this all was for him. To pretend to be something he wasn’t, to play her games rather than waiting for her to just give in.

“Well…I think I’d take you to the balcony and I’d thank you for humoring me. And I might kiss you, if you seemed like you’d allow it. And you’d remind me I’m impolite and I’d smile—but it would be charming, so you’d forgive me. And then I’d take you home and hope that the next time I wrote you a letter, you invite me to call on you.”

“Is that how a fae male would court a female?” she dared to ask him.

Heat flared in eyes of both flesh and metal. No. It was a dangerous question…but one she wanted to know, anyway. Maybe, she rationalized, there was some middle ground between them. Or maybe she didn’t want him to take her home just yet. Maybe she wanted to stay, to wake up beside him, and pretend she was wholly fae and see what happened when the sun replaced the moon.

“No,” he admitted, their steps slowing to fit the shifting music. Lucien’s grip on her waist tightened, bringing with it the smell of warm salt. He wanted her—she’d known it, of course. But to see it, while he held her, while he admitted he’d been trying to court her, was a different thing entirely.

“How would you?”

“I’d take you upstairs to my bedroom and I’d peel your dress off your body with your teeth. I’d make you see my devotion with my tongue rather than my fingers, and hope you understood what I was trying to say.”

“I’m just a stranger to you,” she managed, the words tumbling out of her gracelessly. Aren’t I?

Lucien pressed his lips together, leashing whatever it was he felt. “Then why do I feel like I’ve known you my entire life?”

The song ended so abruptly Elain nearly pitched forward. Lucien, too, stumbled back, caught off guard by the silence. Neither moved, her hand still clasped in his, him holding her waist, their breath mingling in the space between their bodies. It wasn’t the balcony, like he’d said, but it was still a moment, wasn’t it? A human one, even. Elain inclined her head, drinking in the sight of his delirious relief.

Kiss me.

Lucien lowered his head, his mouth touching hers for the briefest of moments. If they’d both been human, that was all that would have been allowed. Elain felt the familiar flare of heat in her stomach before it spiraled into an inferno, reminding her that she might have been human once.

But now she was fae, with all the instincts that came with it. Separated, Elain could pretend otherwise, but together, tied on two ends by that unbreakable golden cord, all the need she’d been denying suddenly broke through ivy coated lattices.

Were those here hands on his neck, pulling his closer? Her feet surging onto tiptoes, trying to close the distance between them? Her teeth sinking into his bottom lip, earning that echoing groan from Lucien?

Yes.

He tasted sweet, heady and warm, like he’d been napping in the summer sun and when her lips parted so he could taste her, Elain thought it might ruin her entirely. Every possible thought that would have stopped her flew out the window and instead, Elain wound her arms tighter, pressing herself against him.

It was Lucien who pulled back, chest heaving, tendrils of hair loose from the leather band. He looked wild. Like an animal.

“I—” he took a breath, like it pained him to speak at all. “I should take you home before…”

Before he tried to take her to bed. Elain didn’t want to go home. It wasn’t home, besides, some small voice in her head screamed furiously, reminding her that it belonged to Feyre, and Elain was, functionally, just a guest. Out of place. Alone.

“I don’t want to go home,” Elain told him, sliding her hands down his chest to fist them against the fabric of his jacket. “Don’t take me home.”

Lucien was shaking, holding himself still. Roughly, he asked, “Where would you like me to take you, then?”

She didn’t know if she could say the words. She shouldn’t, right? It was impolite. Unbecoming. Lucien was the embodiment of a courtly knight so many human women dreamt of. She could have told him to take her to another room, after all.

And maybe…maybe it was okay, just this once, to be fae. To meet him in the middle, like she’d thought she wanted. Swallowing, Elain squared her shoulders and reminded herself she could do hard things. She would do hard things.

“To your bed.”

Relief washed over his features and still, he asked, “Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

Her feet were off the ground, body swept against his chest before she’d finished the consonants. “Faster, if I walk,” Lucien ground out, and she wondered how he figured. Unless he didn’t think he could walk beside her, which was valid—Elain’s hands seemed to have a mind of their own, interested in careful exploration of the man—male—before her. What would it be like? Would he be quick about it, venting his pent-up need like Graysen had? Or would it be like their dance? Fluid and careful, betraying the immortality stretching between them. He had lifetimes to learn every inch of her—it didn’t have to happen in a night.

Elain blinked when Lucien got the double doors to his bedchamber open, kicking them closed again with his foot.

“You left out some information about your new home, I think,” she murmured, grazing her mouth against his exposed neck. Why was it so erotic to touch him here? The only think she could see, the few bits of flesh she was allowed.

Lucien had her through the adjoining chambers for sitting and hosting, all but slamming his bedroom door closed with a finality that thrilled her. It, too, was absurdly massive. Too big for an emissary—and built, she thought as she took walls edged in gold and a ceiling made nothing of windows—of a bed large enough for six and a canopy of gauzy white.

“Helion is my father,” was all Lucien said before he was over her, back pressed against soft, satin sheets. It was a revelation on top of revelations—Lucien, a different High Lord's son, a prince of this realm, just as his mouth drew forth the realization that she’d never really been kissed before. Not truly. Not like this. It was both secrets told and secrets broken, a promise unspoken.

She’d make him tell her everything in the morning. So what, she decided? It changed nothing, other than Elain could stay here if she wanted and Lucien’s permission would be explicit. Even Feyre couldn’t argue, though Elain doubted her sister would. Besides, asking him the details risked the removal of his solid musculature and Elain didn’t think she’d ever felt safer than she did blanketed beneath his body.

Lucien kissed her like a dying man, like he had only a few seconds left and this was all he wished to do. Desperation clung to madness, drawing them together like crashing waves against unyielding rocks. His hands stayed at her shoulders, tangling through her hair, touching her face, her neck, her collarbone. And Elain did the same, pulling that long, thick curtain of auburn hair free, letting Lucien be wild.

In the middle between the human woman and the fae male was this. The taste of him, his tongue against her own, the rise and fall of his chest. It was all too much, building and building with nowhere to go until release was all Elain could think of. Words bubbled in her throat, the same she knew were echoing in his skull because when Lucien pulled back, one hand holding the entire side of her face, he spoke them first like he always did.

“I’m yours,” he swore, the oath ribboning between them. “And you are mine.”

Elain undid the top button of his jacket in response. It wasn’t the time to repeat them, to make that same vow. She’d know it when it was, wouldn’t sully his promise by rushing what was promising to be a perfect night. Forehead pressed against her own, Lucien closed his eyes and just breathed while Elain made her way down each glossy button, pushing them through the fabric until it was tossed gracelessly to the floor. There was, of course, another shirt beneath which irked her.

He smiled when she yanked a little too hard, pulling it from his breeches. When it was gone, too, she was left to admire a broad expanse of flawless skin, glimmering with that inner, golden light she’d never noticed before.

Elain kissed his bare shoulder. Lucien shuddered. “Do that again,” he whispered, bracing this body weight on his elbows. With a gentle push, she had him on his back, herself on her side so she could look at him.

“Where else do you like to be kissed?” she wondered, doing exactly as she asked.

“I like everything you do,” he said, eyes fluttering shut. That made her smile. Lucien seemed so new here, so inexperienced that any insecurities Elain might have had were washed away beneath his labored breathing and his hands skimming down her lace covered spine. If he liked everything she did, she could do no wrong, she reasoned. And so she took her time with him, mapping out the grooves and contours of his chest with her mouth, kissing to see which little patch of skin drew a shaky sigh or caused his fingers to fist in the sheets.

The further she got to his belt, the more Lucien’s hips arched into the air. This was more restraint, she decided with some glee. She doubted a fae female would make him wait so long, would spend time touching him when there were surely more pleasurable things they would be doing.

She asked, “Do you like this?”

“Yes,” he gasped, eyes opening to look at her. “Yes.”

The problem, of course, was once Elain reached his mouth again, she wasn’t quite sure what came next. Her only experience was with Graysen, who had been perfectly polite, if not a little underwhelming. She’d assumed with time, and experience, they’d get better. Now, though, Elain’s memories of kissing in the dark before Graysen was pushing inside her seemed to do her a disservice. Should she remove his pants? Demure politely? Caught between fae and human, Elain didn’t notice Lucien rolling them over, laying her out even as clever, experienced fingers made quick work of her own buttons.

She was thinking too loudly, she supposed. Lucien looked down at her with such heart aching softness that Elain was the one to push the dress off her shoulders, pulling her hands through the sleeves before shimming out entirely. No corset—those weren’t a thing in Prythian—which left the thin, white slip and her undergarments.

“Would you like me to go first?” Lucien offered, misreading her excitement for nerves. She wasn’t going to tell him no. Elain nodded, rising up on her elbows as Lucien half tripped out of the bed in his urgency. He watched her while she watched his hands, practically holding her breath.

Show me, show me, show me.

It wasn’t voyeurism, so why did it feel like it? Like she was seeing something forbidden to her, that she had no right to look upon? She did try, in her defense, to look at his legs first—but truly, all Elain was interested in was what lay between. The thick, long length of him, jutting outward, betraying just how badly he wanted her in a visceral, undeniable way.

Vulnerable, she thought with no small amount of affection. It was what convinced her to sit up, swinging her legs over the bed so he could be the one to watch. Swallowing hard, certain he’d like whatever he found, she pulled the nightdress over her head. Lucien’s little groan, stifled as he clenched his fingers to keep from reaching for her, was all the encouragement Elain needed.

She took the rest off quickly before meeting his gaze. There was no turning back, now. Even if she told him to stop, they’d always have this memory.

She’d always know what came next. Lucien took two shaky steps before he fell to the ground, knees crashing against marble so roughly the unlit chandelier overhead clinked with displeasure. Elain squealed when he caught her ankles, fingers wrapping around the bone, and hauled her forward.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh.

“Why would I do that?” Was her whispered reply. “I like everything you do.”

She was also far too curious as to what he was going to do to tell him to stop. Her usual embarrassment didn’t exist here, nor did her sense of propriety. Do whatever you like, she wanted to scream at him as he inched closer and closer to the space between her legs.

Pressing an open mouth kiss to her cunt, Lucien’s eyes found hers in the fading dark. Waiting, she realized, for her to tell him to stop. Elain wasn’t going to—she wanted him to keep going. To end the teasing, the finish what they’d begun and give her a reason to see him again.

She felt his relief swirling around the bond between them, his shoulders relaxing as he drew her closer. Was this what he liked? Elain certainly enjoyed seeing him kneel before her, his face half obscured by red hair, the other half obscured by her leg. And oh, Elain liked the sight almost as much as she liked his tongue, teasing at first, unaware of how desperately aroused she was.

He figured it out, perhaps tasting the wetness, or realizing Elain was in danger of falling off the bed in a bid to draw him closer. Lucien buried his face between her legs, lapping like an unrestrained, wild animal. He was starving and she was a meal, his tongue gliding tirelessly over her clit until Elain was panting through parted lips, nonsensically begging.

That wildfire raged, was an inferno nothing would ever be able to quell. The best she could hope for was his fingers digging into her thighs, holding her against him so she knew she wasn’t alone in this. The flames would consume them—together.

Elain came with a scream so undignified it was unbefitting anything she was trying to pretend to be. It was honest, though—the pleasure coiling through her stripping her of all other pretense before laying her utterly bare. This is what I am, Elain might have said had she any capacity for speech at all. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t like it.

They fell to the floor in a graceless heap, dragging the duvet with them not out of necessity but by accident. It was merely collateral damage in her desperation to kiss him, to be fully beneath him again. Lucien didn’t bother trying to lay it out or make things comfortable on his knees. The cold marble was a shock against her overheated skin, the blanket drowning out the world as it thudded over their heads.

Elain kissed him, eyes open so she could look, could see him staring back with delirious wonder. The head of his cocked nudged between her legs, one last question with one last obvious answer. She didn’t have to say a word, her tongue in his mouth when he pushed himself inside. Lucien likely didn’t mean to bite down on her lip so hard it flooded their mouths with blood. Nor did Elain mean to scratch her nails so violently down his back he arched against the pain. The response to sharing a body was visceral, overwhelming, incandescent.

Something in the world seemed to sing with approval, watching for just a fleeting second before vanishing, leaving them to their own devices. Lucien held himself still for a moment, adjusting to the feel of her body and letting her decide if she’d rather call it all a night.

Everything was perfect.

This was right.

Holding his gaze, her fingers brushing the scars that decorated one side of his face, Elain made her vow. “I’m yours. And you are mine.”

Lucien shifted his hips, pulling himself out as far as he could bare before thrusting back in. He shuddered at her words, forehead pressed against her own with all the unspoken things hanging between them. There was time, she thought, pulling him by the shoulders so no light or air could penetrate between their bodies. She was still coming down from the high of her first orgasm and learned quickly there would be no reprieve. Not for the male writhing above her, a feral gleam in his eye.

He was going to wring every inch of pleasure he could get from her, and then a little more if he thought he could get away with it. Elain sank her teeth into the flesh of his shoulder, biting hard. Maybe she didn’t want to be so nice—not right now, anyway. And maybe there was room for every created version of her. The lady who smiled and the woman beneath who wanted to scream, and maybe even the female that liked her first time with her mate happening on the floor. All these versions, coalescing into one person that Lucien wanted.

Ruinous wreck and all.

They were, at least, matched on that front. There was no pretending Lucien wasn’t a wreck, that he hadn’t told her as much in every letter he’d sent her. And here they were.

Together.

There was no sound but their combined breaths or the occasional whimpering groan from Lucien, his forehead buried in her neck, fingers bruising her hips as he drove them higher and higher toward a mutual climax. Elain came mere seconds before, shattering with a cry he swallowed before offering one of his own. It wasn’t enough, even as she was devoured by the rising flames, swallowed whole by heat and light. She wanted more—wanted all of it, all over again.

Lucien, too, if his frantic kissing was any indication. Long after he was spent, he kept kissing her, catching his breath and settling his hips. He never pulled himself out, though. And Elain didn’t ask him to, long after they both just laid there, his head on her chest, eyes half closed.

“Can I stay until morning?” she asked him.

“It is morning,” Lucien replied, pulling at the corner of the blanket shrouding them so she could see the blinding pinks and oranges of a newborn sunrise. “And you can stay forever, if you like.”

Elain pressed a kiss beneath his jaw.

Maybe she would.

#elucien #dont call it a comeback etc etc #anyway i wrote this in five hours so you cant be mean to me about it

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spider-stark · 7 months

Text

A DARK AGE pt.2

previous part -

series summary - it's been nine months since you watched your best friend, Gwen Stacy, plummet to her death; an event that ultimately caused new york's hero to abandon the city entirely. now that he's finally returned you find yourself being forced to confront the ugly truth you've been running from.

chapter summary - desperate to get Harry Osborn out of your head, you find yourself following a lead that sends you straight to Peter Parker.

series warnings - 18+, minors DNI, series will contain depictions of violence, sexual content, dark themes, and more. please read at your own risk.

word count - 12.8k

// a dark tasm!fan fiction // masterlist // send me your thoughts // newspaper headline //

YOU HAD been worried that the ice-cold stare of Harry Osborn would remain stuck in your brain for the entire cab ride back to New York City.

Fortunately, by the time you’d made it to Yonkers, about thirty minutes out from Ravencroft’s facility, the distressing imagery in your head faded as your ears were suddenly blasted with a series of rushed ding-s from your cell phone.

You welcomed the noisy distraction, even if it only further agitated the throbbing headache you felt coming on.

All the messages were from Betty Brant and likely could’ve been summed up in one long message rather than a dozen short ones. And, for the most part, all the texts did were confirm your fears: her search for Peter’s whereabouts had been a fruitless effort.

Well, almost fruitless.

You couldn’t quite give Brant credit for the one lead she’d received given the fact that it had essentially just fallen in her lap, but you still typed back a simple—good job, nonetheless.

While you were off pointlessly torturing yourself behind Ravencroft’s iron gates, a woman had called the Bugle and had the misfortune of being answered by Jameson himself.

According to Brant, the lady asked for you by name, and when Jameson told her you were busy and she’d need to call back later, she turned frantic. He said she sounded as if she were on the verge of tears, begging him to get a message to you ASAP.

Please tell her to stop by my house! Tomorrow afternoon! She knows the address already, I promise! Tell her it’s May Parker, okay? M-A-Y P-A-R-K-E-R!

Of course Jameson knew who the crackpot (his words) was once she said her last name, having spoken to her once or twice during Peter’s limited time at the Bugle.

What he hadn’t told Brant was that it took everything in him to bite his tongue, to not tell the woman every horrible opinion he held in regard to her nephew. Jameson knew that it would do no good. He also knew that it wasn’t her fault that Peter hadn’t shown up to the hospital that night.

Still, he couldn’t help but find himself seething with rage, speaking through gritted teeth until he could finally hang up the phone. He had absolutely no interest in finding Peter Parker, even if he was the only one to ever get a clear shot of Spider-Man.

Good riddance had become his motto when it came to both Peter and Harry. You were one of the few things in this world that mattered more to Jameson than a good lead, which was exactly the reason why he had no interest in Peter’s whereabouts when he first went awol and left the Bugle without notice—he didn’t care. Even if Peter had come back to work, he would’ve just been fired anyway. Jameson had no interest in keeping him around, regardless of the quality of his work.

But despite his hatred for the boy, he knew you were looking for him. While Jameson was unaware of Peter’s secret identity, he knew for certain that Peter had connections to Spider-Man, given that it was the whole reason he had employed him in the first place. You figured there was likely no one in this world that Jameson wanted to keep you from more than Spider-Man. But in what was surely not an easy choice to make, he begrudgingly passed the message from May along to Brant, messily scrawled onto a Doughnuttery napkin that had been stained with chocolate frosting.

He refused to withhold a lead from you.

Of course, when first deciding to track Peter down, you had considered going to his aunt, but she was always meant to be a last-ditch choice. After all, rumor had it that Peter had abandoned her too, moving out shortly after Gwen’s death. You didn’t see a need to add to her grief unless it felt necessary, yet it seemed she wanted you to.

A part of you hoped that the mystery surrounding why May was so adamant about speaking to you would serve as a distraction for the night. You didn’t want to think any more about Ravencroft, and certainly not about the boy they kept locked behind those iron gates.

Deep down, though, you knew that wasn’t possible. Try as you might, there was nothing in this world capable of distracting you from the thoughts of Harry Osborn.

He was a plague, one that you had been fighting off ever since that night; and seeing him in person seemed to have only granted him the opportunity to further sink his claws into you.

You often found yourself reliving the moment you first saw him—the Green Goblin. A monster composed of distended veins and spindly bones, appearing so completely and utterly inhuman—so unlike the boy you knew that you didn’t even recognize him at first. At first, there had just been fear, a sense of pure unbridled terror.

But then, once he spoke, you knew. You knew what he had done, recognized him in spite of the monster the serum had transformed him into. Bile instantly stung at your throat, threatening to spill past your lips and onto the asphalt beneath your feet. You couldn’t stop thinking of how much it had burned, swallowing it down over and over again, as many times as it took before your body finally stopped trying.

You fought so hard against that visceral reaction, the sensible part of you that had seen this new form he’d taken on and screamed at you to run. You wouldn’t let yourself do that. You couldn’t bear the thought of turning your back on your friend, even after seeing what he’d turned himself into.

But then he grabbed Gwen and once she was in his arms you realized that he wasn’t the same anymore. Then once he’d finally let her go, once you’d watched her take her very last breath, you swore you’d always hate him. Harry Osborn was not your friend; it was a simple fact that you still stood behind.

But trauma was a peculiar thing.

Usually when Harry haunted your thoughts, the Green Goblin was always the focal point. Flashes of Gwen’s lifeless body dangling from Spider-Man's web, the sounds of squelching flesh and cracking bones. You would remember the metallic taste that filled your mouth as you looked over at him that last time, just before everything went black.

Tonight, though, you’d found yourself thinking not of the Goblin, but of your friend. The friend that had once been good as dead to you. Memories that had once been shoved aside in favor of sinking into the tragedy you’d experienced, only to be brought back to light after seeing his face today.

You tossed and turned in your bed, your head pounding as thoughts of posh charity events, late-night talks, and inside jokes fought to keep you awake. It wasn’t until the next day when you’d finally arrived at Aunt May’s house that you received a much-needed break from him.

The thick plastic covering on the couch crinkled loudly beneath your weight as you sat down. You used every ounce of effort in your body to try and appear calm as she moved past the coffee table, sitting across from you in a sage green armchair.

It was new.

“I’m so glad you came, y/n.” May offered you her sweetest smile, the gesture accentuating the thin lines around her eyes. She looked older somehow, even though it hadn’t even been a year since you last saw her. “I was worried that bitter man at the newspaper wouldn’t tell you I called.”

You barely stifled your laughter, then immediately wondered if she could tell that even that sliver of emotion was fake. It was second nature to put on an act, especially when it came to work matters. To appear excessively friendly, using it as a tool to quickly build some sort of rapport with someone, hoping it would get them to spill whatever information they might have.

It didn't seem necessary to put up an act around May, but you found it difficult to turn it off.

“Jameson can be a little… testy, at times.”

She immediately snorted at your words, believing them to be a drastic understatement.

“But I’ve gotta say,” you continued, trying to steer the conversation, “I was a bit surprised when he said you called.”

Guilt settled over her soft features, dusty pink lips settling into a thin line as she stared down at her lap, watching the steam rise from her cup. “I know. I meant to call sooner, more often, but I just...” she sucked in a breath, lifting the cup to the edge of her lips, “I didn’t want to make a big fuss of things.”

She was drinking chamomile tea. You knew this because you were offered some as soon as she opened the front door, cheerfully telling you that she’d just boiled a fresh pot of water. While you didn’t consider yourself an expert on May Parker, you couldn’t help but make note of the fact that you’d never seen her enjoy herbal drinks before.

You leaned forward a touch, your elbows resting just above your knees as you did so. “What would you make a fuss over?”

This meeting was different than Ravencroft.

At Ravencroft you were a sheep grazing among lions. Showing weakness would gain you nothing, save for failure and potential death. But in a place like Aunt May’s home, the roles immediately reversed.

Here, you were the lion. And, to gain the trust of sheep, you needed to come off as if you were entirely transparent. Wear your heart on your sleeve, bare every emotion you had, and express as much concern as possible, fooling them into believing that you were truly on their side.

But this time was different, you tried to remind yourself, working diligently to ensure your emotions didn’t come off as fake or exaggerated. You could be genuine. You really were on her side, right?

“Peter’s been...” She hesitated as her wedding ring clinked against the porcelain cup in her hands as she nervously tapped her fingers. She never took it off, even after Ben died. “different.”

Your chest tightened, elbows digging further into your thighs. “What do you mean?”

“He changed after what happened to Gwendolyne.” she began to explain, though she remained hesitant. “It started off small. Quitting the newspaper, refusing to finish his college applications. And maybe that’s when I should’ve stepped in, tried to snap him out of it or something. But after what he’d gone through... what he had lost...”

There was a knowing look in her eyes, a sense of understanding. It was then that it fully clicked for you, realizing that May had been through something similar to what Peter went through. She knew what it was like to have your entire world change in the blink of an eye. “I just hoped that with time it would pass.”

“And it didn’t, did it?” You guessed, painfully aware of the answer.

If it had changed, if he had gotten better, then you wouldn’t be sitting here right now.

May shook her head. “No.” She uttered, her hooded gaze still avoiding yours, remaining fixed on her cup. “It got worse.”

There was something in the way she spoke, the solemn tone you’d never heard her take before, that sent chills running down your spine.

“How so?”

"Little ways, at first.” Her voice broke, clearing her throat before taking another sip of tea. “He started acting out. Getting mean. Rageful.”

Your heart ached for the woman, fighting the urge to reach out and hug her as you watched her hazel eyes turn glossy.

“He was almost never home anymore, and then one day he just... didn’t come back.”

She wiped away the unshed tears, lightly shaking her head and muttering an apology.

“Where is he?” You asked her, instinctively looking towards the old staircase that led to his bedroom.

Years had been wasted in there, sitting cross-legged on his worn-out rug and exchanging complaints about Flash Thompson or Miss. Ritter. On good days, the two of you would build Lego sets and eat your fill of junk food. On bad days you’d both tuck yourselves away in his bed, hidden underneath a stack of blankets as old movies played from his laptop.

It had been a while since you’d let yourself think of those memories, and you hadn’t quite expected it to hurt as much as it did to acknowledge that those days were gone.

“Columbia.” She spoke.

Your eyes widened as your head cocked to the side. “University?”

Warmth spread across your cheeks as embarrassment settled in, feeling a bit silly for speaking the thought aloud. Of course she had meant Columbia University. Still, it shocked you a little when she nodded, confirming your thoughts. Given the way she spoke of Peter’s decline, you hadn’t expected him to be attending college.

“So, you still talk to him?” You quickly followed up with another question, this one less painstakingly dumb than the last.

May scoffed, the loose hair framing her face swaying about as she shook her head. “I don’t know if I’d call it talking. But he checks in on occasion, just often enough to keep me from having a heart attack.”

You glanced down at her cup of tea, willing to reason that maybe Peter had been the reason for her sudden interest in herbal drinks. After all, they were known to reduce stress, and Peter seemed to be causing a great deal of it.

There was another sound of disapproval, a click of her tongue as her voice went low again. “You raise a boy for over ten years,” she started, the smallest spark of anger burning within her, “only to end up getting a postcard in the mail every month.”

“A postcard?” You wondered aloud, likely looking as puzzled as you felt. “You don’t have his phone number?”

She snorted. “I don’t know if he even has a phone anymore.”

For a moment neither of you spoke, and you found yourself studying her features, looking for any sign that she might be lying. You knew that there was no point in it, that May had no reason to lie to you. There would be nothing for her to gain, plus she had reached out to you for help. Still, it was second nature for you to remain apprehensive.

It was hard to believe that Peter had all but completely cut ties with his aunt. May had raised him, practically given her entire life just to ensure that he had everything he could ever need, only to up and abandon her out of the blue—just as he had done to you.

Nothing about it made any sense to you, and the thought alone was enough to fill you with not only rage, but also fear. Was Peter that far gone?

You didn’t want to think about that right now, instead focusing on the sharp pain sneaking up your left side from sitting hunched over for so long. Forcibly relaxing your muscles, you leaned back against the couch cushions, listening to the way the plastic squelched as you shifted.

“Is that why you called?” You finally asked, pressing a hand to your ribs and rubbing over the sore area. “To see if I could help Peter?”

May took another long and thoughtful sip of her tea. Then, once she was finished, she leaned forwards and placed it on the coffee table that stood between you both. “No.” She stated firmly, only for her eyes to narrow and then go back on the declaration, “Not entirely, at least.”

You frowned at her, confused.

“I wanted to call because I realized that you needed someone, too.” You froze instantly, suddenly feeling as if the air had been knocked from your lungs. “I’ve been so caught up with Peter and trying to find a way to help him that I nearly forgot he wasn’t the only one who lost someone.”

May glanced up for perhaps the first time in this whole conversation. You couldn’t help but feel as if the roles had changed, sinking further into the cushion behind you. She took note of everything, your stiff posture, the subtle bouncing of your leg, the timid look in your eye. You had become the sheep, being carefully discerned by the lion.

“I never got a chance to tell you how sorry I was—still am, for your loss, y/n. You didn’t just lose Gwen that night, you lost all three of them.”

Her heedful words landed the final blow, feeling like a piercing knife against your throat.

Suck it up, you kept repeating to yourself, change the subject.

Scrambling to compose yourself, nearly choking on your own tongue, you tried to ignore the look of concern she gave you. You didn’t need sympathy. “I’m managing.” You told her roughly, only able to conjure a barely believable smile. “It could be worse.”

“Sure,” May tentatively agreed, “but it could also be better.”

You decided it was best to not acknowledge her words.

“You said not entirely.” You reminded her, working hard to ensure that your voice didn’t shake. You weren’t sure why it was shaking in the first place, torn between naming anxiety or anger as the culprit. “When I asked if you wanted me to help Peter, that’s what you said. What makes you think I can help him?”

May’s face screwed up, staring at you as if it were obvious. “Because no one else can. The three of you—you, Harry, and Gwen—were the only ones that could ever get through to him.” She paused, considering her next words. “And you’re the only one left.”

There was a weight that settled on your shoulders, shoving you further into the couch. You didn’t like the way that it sounded, for more reasons than one. There was too much responsibility that came with it.

“Columbia’s campus is big.” You told her, void of any emotion. “Do you know where he’s staying? Anything that might help me find him?”

This time it was May’s turn to sink back into her seat, shoulders slouching forward as she turned apologetic. “I know he’s living on campus, but I don’t know which building. Whenever he writes he always keeps the details to a minimum.”

As much as you appreciated any information she offered, it wouldn’t help you much. You had been right in your earlier statement; Columbia was a big school with at least two dozen residence halls. Finding Peter amongst those students was comparable to finding a needle in a haystack.

You knew that you could enlist Betty Brant’s help, but even then, it could take days before one of you happened to find him.

Finally, a bit exasperated, you dared to ask. “Anything else?”

May smiled, weary and filled with regret. “Just be careful, y/n. I’m not sure what Peter had gotten himself into, but I’ve seen the news.” Her hands trembled as she spoke. “I know what they think he did. What Spider-Man might have done.”

She spoke the vigilante’s name like a forbidden word, as if it were one she had sworn she’d never speak aloud, and your eyes grew wide as you just barely breathed out, “You know?”

May’s smile remained despite the somber gleam in her eyes as she told you simply, “No one washes the flag.”

You found the students at Columbia University nauseating.

Most of them were pretentious assholes that stunk of cigarette smoke, not because they actually smoked them, but instead because letting them lazily hang from their fingers matched their desired aesthetic.

They were all desperate to give off the same vibe as a fifteen-year-olds dark academia Pinterest board, leaning against a wall with a copy of Allan Ginsberg’s Howl tucked beneath their arm. You wondered if any of them had ever read it, snorting to yourself when you thought of how they’d likely dogeared a few pages to make the book look worn.

“This place is huge.” Betty Brant marveled from beside you, spinning in a circle as she took in its vastness. When she was done making herself dizzy, she looked at you. “This is gonna be impossible.”

You smiled at her inept observation, challenging her. “Why?”

Her brows snapped together, a single hand incredulously waving around the two of you. “Have you looked around?” She quipped. “There are literally thousands of people here! If we find him today, then it’ll just be dumb luck.”

You didn’t judge her for her innate pessimism. After all, you felt just as overwhelmed as Betty Brant did currently when sitting on Aunt May’s couch, listening as she told you that she had essentially nothing to offer in terms of helping to find Peter. It was easy to assume the worst in a field where you’re so often dealt the shittiest of hands—but Jameson and the other seasoned reporters at the Bugle had taught you well. There was always a way to turn things around.

“Know your target, Brant.” You lightly chastised, a teasing smile that Brant felt looked out of place on you. While she still didn’t know you well, she’d seen you around the office a lot, and she struggled to remember a time when you didn’t have a permanent grimace etched on your face.

Your fingers delved into your bag and reached for a few papers that you’d printed off at the Bugle, just moments before you’d snagged Brant up by her arm without warning and forced her to come with you to Columbia University. You held one of the papers out to her, which she swiftly took and began reading.

"There are only two programs offered at Columbia that Peter would care about: photography or biochemistry.” You explained to her. “I went on their website and got an idea of a mock schedule for both and copied down the names of the buildings they’re in. It’s still not a sure shot-”

“But it gives us somewhere to start.” Brant finished your sentence, her big eyes flickering back up to yours as she lowered the page you’d given her.

You grinned. “Exactly.”

“So, we’re splitting up?”

She was nervous about that idea, clear by the way she started to tug at the edge of her royal blue cardigan. If it were someone other than Brant you might be concerned, but Brant always came off a little antsy, making it easy to brush it off; although it did leave you wondering why the girl stayed so high strung. One day you’d ask her about it, you thought, but not right now.

"It’s better that way. We'll cover more ground.” You told her, your pitiless statement doing little to quell her nerves as she gave another sharp tug to her garment, anxiously looking around at the swarm of students passing around you both.

You did your best to look sympathetic, “Just call me if you need me, alright?” Brant stared back at you, resembling a small child whose mother was dropping them off on their first day of school. It was pitiful, and you nearly groaned as you forced yourself to say, “If you call, I’ll answer. Promise.”

Brant hesitated for a second before nodding, still uneasy but far more willing now to leave your side. As you turned away from her you reminded yourself to never have children, desperately hoping and praying to any God who might listen that Brant would not call you.

As you started to meld into the crowd, falling into step with a group of girls around your age, the thoughts of Brant and her child-like anxiety were replaced with something far more juvenile. You had just barely glanced at the girls walking next to you, at first only giving them a quick glance. Soon, though, as you continued towards your destination, you found yourself fixating on them.

They smelled like cloves and bergamot, probably the scent of some over-priced perfume you’d never even dream of taking off the shelf and their clothes were nicer than anything hanging up in your closet. One had a Tiffany’s necklace dangling around her throat like a collar and another had pin straight platinum hair. In short, they looked expensive. But, at the same time, they looked incredibly beautiful.

It made you hyper aware of yourself, of how different you looked in comparison. You weren’t wearing any nice jewelry, and your hair was messily tied back, making you feel as if you were the opposite of both the girls that had caught your attention. Realizing this, you looked around at the other girls surrounding you, noticing that all of them looked that way. Posh, put-together, and completely and utterly gorgeous.

A strange feeling crept up your spine, one you hadn’t felt since you were in high school. Self-loathing.

There was a time when you prioritized your appearance, or at least more than you do now. You could still remember what it was like to stroll into an Oscorp charity event, dozens of eyes glued to you. Men would watch with bated breath as you passed them, silently dreaming of a day where you’d actually notice them.

That would never happen, of course.

You always went to those events with either Harry or Peter, and they often left you with little reason to acknowledge anyone else in attendance. Even so, you remembered the power you held. Remembered what it was like to feel desired by someone, even if it wasn’t by who you wanted.

After the accident, though, you’d stopped caring about how you looked. It felt so trivial to put any more effort than necessary into your looks, often throwing on the same outfit several days in a row to save time in the mornings. But in this moment, you found yourself feeling differently, insecurity slipping into your mind. Had you let yourself go? Surely not...

It didn’t matter! You suddenly shouted at yourself, fists balling up at your sides as you tried to silence the thoughts that were fueled by foolish insecurity. Despite believing every word of the statement, it didn’t help to make you feel any less self-conscious.

Passing by the mirrored windows of the mess hall, you found yourself slowing down, falling behind the group of girls as you hesitantly turned to catch a glimpse of yourself. You cursed yourself for looking, hating that you even cared about this sort of thing right now. But once you looked into the reflection you froze, realizing that it wasn’t yourself that you saw in the reflection. It was Gwen.

“It’s not that bad!” She would lie to you, her voice jumping several octaves as she did. A hand would reach out, sage green fingernails combing through the frizzy mess that framed your face, trying to flatten it. “It just needs a little...” her head cocked to the side, teeth exposed as she sucked in a breath, “work.”

Gwen was always a terrible liar. She wasn’t like you; she never had been. She was completely incapable of hiding her hand, always living with her cards exposed for the world to see—for them to take advantage of. It was what you’d always admired most about her, her willingness to trust in everyone, to see the good in anyone. It was also what you despised the most about her, and you tried not to dwell on the complexity of that.

“You know what? It doesn’t even matter!” Gwen’s shoulders lifted exponentially, a mess of blonde curls violently swaying as she shook her head about. “You still look hotter than half the girls here, alright?” She grinned at you, the same sweet smile that you missed more than anything. “I promise!”

And she meant it every word of it, but rather than offering you any comfort, the words just filled you with envy. You envied Gwen far more than you liked to admit. You wanted to be like her, even now, to be able to see the good in every situation, to be even half as lovely as she was.

You tried to swallow your guilt, though it only made your stomach hurt. You had promised yourself that you were done envying Gwen.

But you weren’t done missing her.

Still entranced by her doe eyed stare, you felt your phone begin to buzz in your pocket, distracting you enough that you turned your gaze to your bag, instinctively going to dig for the device. By the time you thought to look back up, the vision of her was gone and you were looking at only a reflection of yourself.

You wasted no time in looking away.

When you sobered up enough to read the caller ID, you groaned loud enough to turn a few heads of students passing by. Now, in an interesting turn of events, you wished that Brant was the one calling you, staring down at Director Samson’s name flashing across the screen. You silenced it.

Not today. You started walking again, effectively trading your thoughts of Gwen for ones of Ravencroft and Harry Osborn. Or ever again.

Dodge Hall was the first stop on your list.

You were willing to bet that of the two programs you listed to Brant that Peter likely picked photography, which was precisely why you had delegated the biochemistry labs to Brant.

There was a chance that you were wrong and that he’d decided to major in biochemistry, maybe in some desperate attempt to be like the father he swore he hated, but you held out hope anyway. You wanted to believe that even in whatever odd stage of life Peter was in he was working to forge his own path, rather than following the one he’d once considered his birthright.

Stopping in front of the building that housed most of the University’s photography classes, you grimaced. It significantly lacked character, offering nothing more than a bunch of lifeless bricks with boring cement pillars on either side. You had yet to see anything about this school that made it seem worth the astronomical tuition students paid to attend.

“I know that look-” a high-pitched voice filled the air, the grating sound intensifying your already sour expression, “Dodge might not have the most intricate architecture on campus, but for what it lacks in appearance it makes up for in its rich and extraordinary history!”

You didn't want to turn around, fully recognizing the chirpy she-devil by diction alone. Still, you forced yourself to do it anyway, realizing that there was no possible escape route. “Mary Jane!” The vile taste of her name in your mouth left you feeling queasy, “what’re you doing here?”

No, seriously, what the fuck was she doing here?

A perfectly manicured hand flew to her overly plump lips, packed full of filler and overlined with a red lip pencil. An exaggerated gasp somehow managed to slip past them. “Oh my gosh!” The copper-haired beauty squealed, sounding as if she had inhaled at least a few liters of helium. You forgot how much you hated her voice. “y/n! I didn’t even recognize you!”

“Yeah, it’s been a while.” You droned, likely appearing just as displeased as you sounded. It was difficult for you to sound pleasant around Mary Jane.

Mary Jane had always been a thorn in your side. For the most part she was entirely harmless, but her ever-so-perky attitude always left a bad taste in both your mouth and Gwen’s. On top of that, she lacked morals, made clear by the last time you’d seen her.

It was immediately after Gwen’s funeral, and you’d just happened to find Mary Jane and a few other reporters from the Daily Globe swarming the Stacy family, pining for an interview. It was disgusting, and if you’d been in better shape, you swore that you would’ve knocked her square in the face that day.

Mary Jane reached out and touched your forearm, giving it a firm squeeze. “You look so good!”

You didn’t even bother thanking her, instead deciding to brace yourself for what might be coming next. You had known her long enough to know that all her compliments were a double-edged sword, an insult waiting just around the corner.

“After Genna’s funeral you looked so thin and sickly,” her button nose scrunched up as she looked you up and down, “it’s so nice to see you look far more...” a slight tilt of her head, accompanied by a sickeningly sweet smile as she squeezed your arm again, “plump!”

The smile you gave in return was far less pleasurable than hers, bearing a closer resemblance to a snarl. “Gwen.” You pointedly corrected, choosing to ignore her weak attempt at insulting you. “Her name is Gwen.”

She only waved her hand, dismissing your correction. The simple act made your blood boil, teeth grinding together as you fought to stay silent. You didn’t have time to start a fight with her.

“Ugh, silly me! I’m so bad with names!” She pretended to laugh it off, playing it as an innocent slip of the tongue. You could see the malice behind it, though, her emerald eyes glistening with spite. Mary Jane was a journalist, which meant that remembering facts was quite literally her job. Pretending to forget Gwen’s name was just another idle attempt at getting under your skin.

It worked.

“Did you check out the Globe yesterday?” She started right back up, trapping you in another conversation and preventing you from finding an excuse to slip into Dodge Hall and start your search for Peter. “Who am I kidding! Of course you did!” Mary Jane twirled a strand of red hair around her finger, her egotism on full display as she beamed. “Dozens of newsstands sold out within the hour! Amazing, right? To sell out physical copies in this digital age!”

You only hummed in response, aware that she only wanted to hear herself talk. But God, you hated the way she spoke. Her constant need to enunciate every other word, her squeaky voice filled with false sincerity, always searching for validation in every conversation.

”Bushkin agreed that we only sold out because of my story on the front page! He said my talent for writing could be enough to revive print entirely!” Her chest swelled with pride; hands clasped over her heart as nonsense continued to spew from her.

Barney Bushkin was the publisher for the Globe, which made him Mary Jane’s boss. He also had a reputation for being a sick old pervert with an affinity for girls that were far too young for him. His opinion meant nothing to you since you knew that he would say absolutely anything if he thought it would increase his odds of getting a quick look up one of Mary Jane’s too-short skirts.

”I’m not surprised you sold so many copies,” you egged her on, taking immense pleasure in the way her smug smile grew at what she mistook for praise, “fear mongering has always been a useful tactic for sales.”

For a moment you could’ve sworn you saw her eyes turn as red as her hair, fiery rage coursing through her veins at your comment. But it was gone nearly as soon as it had appeared.

”Well,” she cleared her throat, smoothing the wrinkles out of her white blouse, “I’d hardly call my article fear mongering. I just presented the facts.”

You couldn’t deny that Mary Jane was a pro at composing herself, remaining collected even when you knew she wanted to explode. Image was important to her, meaning she couldn’t ever afford to let her nice girl act falter.

”You called Spider-Man a murderer.”

You didn’t always share her skillset, willing to let yourself come off as brash and plain-spoken.

”And last I checked there’s an active warrant for his arrest.” Mary Jane retorted sharply, the only sign she was willing to give that you were annoying her. “So, like I said, I presented the facts.”

You sucked in a breath, holding back your argument. You wanted to tell her that her facts were skewed, that she was reporting with only one source and effectively trying to demonize a man who had saved the city countless times. But you didn’t. Fighting with her would be a waste of time, and you had better things to do.

"Yeah, well, I should really get going.” You gave a curt smile, nodding in the direction of Dodge Hall. “Always good to see you, MJ.” You took care to place extra emphasis on the nickname, fully aware of just how much she hated it.

Still, she barely let it get to her, hiding her own scowl as you started to edge towards the building. You noticed the way her left eye twitched, though, showing that she was nearing a breaking point. If you had more time, you’d likely try and push her over the edge.

“Why are you here?” Mary Jane suddenly mimicked the question you had first asked her, the one she had never actually gave an answer to.

You paused, only having made it less than a few feet away from her. “Visiting a friend.”

If all went to plan, that wouldn’t technically be a lie.

“Peter?” She blurted his name out in a way that left you feeling strange. There was a hesitant look on her face, almost as if she were afraid that you’d say yes. You didn’t like it.

“Yeah, actually.” You frowned, watching her face drop at the confirmation. “Why?”

She refused to meet your stare, staring past your shoulder at the entrance of the Hall. “He’s not in there.”

In all the years you’d known Mary Jane, you’d never heard her sound so uncharacteristically dispirited. Her perky persona seemed to vanish in thin air, leaving behind someone that was entirely unfamiliar to you.

It was incredibly uncomfortable.

“Wait, do you know where he is?” You asked.

“Of course I do.” She quickly answered, cutting her eyes at you. “But if you’re the one meeting him then shouldn’t you know where he is?”

Jealousy settled in. Why did she know where Peter was? Mary Jane and Peter had never been particularly close, likely due to the lifelong rivalry that you and Gwen had held with her. The idea of him even interacting with Mary Jane left you feeling unsettled.

“Well, we were supposed to meet here.” You lied, turning a tad defensive as you shrugged a shoulder in the direction of the building. “But it’s been a busy morning. He might’ve forgot.”

You paused, debating whether you wanted to continue. There was a good chance that you didn’t want to hear the answer to the question resting on the tip of your tongue, and yet you made yourself ask it anyway. “Were you just with him?”

Please say no-

“Yes.” Her answer came quickly. “We had plans to get dinner but-um,” she suddenly became extremely focused on her own feet, awkwardly kicking at the sidewalk, “he had to... cancel. Said he was gonna be too busy developing photos all night.”

Her too-perfect face screwed up in an unsightly sort of way. You almost thought that you should feel guilty for accidentally making it seem as if Peter had ditched her for you. But you didn’t. Instead, you felt sickly satisfied, taking pleasure in her sorrow. You reveled in it, finding it easier to focus on that than the idea of why she and Peter were going to get dinner together in the first place.

”Mm, that sucks.” You let out a disinterested hum, taking a page from her book as you continued without waiting for a reply, “Is that what he’s doing now? Developing photos?”

Mary Jane gave a stiff nod.

”Great.”

Despite how painful it had been to sit through what felt like a never-ending conversation with her, Mary Jane had ended up being of vital importance. If Peter was developing images today, then that meant he had to be in the darkrooms. And, thanks to your Google research, you knew exactly where they were—Watson Hall, just a brief walk from where you were now.

You wasted no time with stepping around Mary Jane, having no intention of even wasting a goodbye on her as you started towards your destination. But, as you moved around her body, she reached for you, her thin fingers once again wrapping around your forearm. She squeezed harder than last time, your head snapping in her direction, eyes narrowing in a threatening stare as she held you there.

Surprisingly, she gave you a threatening look of her own.

“Before you go,” you found it eerie the way her voice remained syrupy sweet, a sharp contrast to the menacing expression she wore, “I just wanted to tell you how much I adored that little sympathy piece you wrote for your friend in the looney bin.”

You pulled your arm from her grip, your body going tense at the mention of the article you’d written to try and sway the public during Harry’s trial. Jameson hadn’t allowed it to go to print, reminding you that your judgment was still clouded by grief. He didn’t understand why you were so desperate to keep Harry out of Ryker’s Island, but he had hoped that by letting you at least post the article on the Bugle’s website that it would offer you some sort of closure.

It hadn’t. It was shortly after publishing the piece that you had went straight to Harry’s lawyers, giving them all the information they would need to plead insanity.

Mary Jane stepped closer, ignoring your effort to create distance from her. She was close enough that you could nearly feel the heat radiating off her body. You didn’t like it, but you refused to let yourself back away from her.

“I can’t say that Peter agreed.” Her lips curled into a cynical smirk. “I mean, honestly, after the reaction he had to it I’m shocked that he can even stand to be in the same room as you!” The sound of her laughter infuriated you. “I suppose it’s true what they say about time, yeah? That it heals all wounds—even a knife in the back.”

You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t blink, couldn’t think.

All you could do was stare at the devilish woman in front of you, seething with a type of hatred that you were certain could eat you alive. Your nails sunk into the heel of your palm, an effort to refrain yourself from using them to claw that nasty complacent look right off her face.

Mary Jane noticed this and decided to take your silence as a sign of her victory.

“It really was great seeing you, y/n.” She gushed, the false tender statement only fueling your anger. As she turned to walk away, she glanced over her shoulder, winking at you. “Don’t be a stranger.”

One day, you swore to yourself with a particularly loud huff, spinning on your heel and stomping in the direction of the darkrooms, you would kick Mary Jane’s ass.

When you posted the article—the one you hoped would sway the public’s opinion of Harry—you knew Peter would see it. More than that, you knew that he would be adamantly against it.

Unlike you, Harry hadn’t given Peter a reason to care whether he lived or died.

If anything, he had done nothing but give Peter motive to kill Harry himself. You hated that thought. While you didn’t believe that Peter had murdered Sytsevich, you worried that if given the chance he would have killed Harry that night. You wanted to believe that he wouldn’t have been capable of following through with it, though. Just as you weren’t capable of sitting idly by as Harry was sentenced to Ryker’s Island, knowing that he would be as good as dead in there.

Maybe you’d been stupid not to consider that the article was one of the reasons why Peter had never bothered to reach out to you, even once things had settled down. Maybe it was your own fault that he’d abandoned you, that the article had been the final nail in the coffin of your friendship.

Your stomach ached, your mind still reeling as you shoved open the large doors of Watson Hall. A rush of frigid air washed over you, goosebumps erupting against your skin.

Was it possible that Peter hated you as much as he hated Harry?

No. It couldn’t be. What Harry had done was beyond abominable, something that could never be forgiven. You hadn’t done anything nearly as bad as him.

Yet, on the other hand… is the one who comes to a monster's defense just as bad as the monster? You weren’t sure of the answer to that question, though you started to rationalize it to yourself anyway—you weren’t defending him, you just didn’t want to watch him die if there was something you could do to stop it!

But why not? Gwen wasn’t a monster, yet you still watched her die, standing on the sidelines and doing nothing to try and stop it.

There was nothing I could’ve done! Your mind screamed in defense of itself as you approached the staircase leading to the second floor, roughly gripping the rail as you started climbing up.

Why had Peter talked to Mary Jane about the article in the first place? That question was easier to think about than the others, infuriating but still less emotionally taxing, so you let yourself fixate on it. As far as you knew, Peter hadn’t liked Mary Jane any more than you and Gwen did, always keeping his distance from the she-devil.

When did that change?

At the top of the stairs, nestled in a corner of the left, there was a single door with a large black sign hanging off of it. The words DARKROOM IN USE were written in bold letters. You stared at it for a moment, your mind finally going blank as you did.

Peter was behind that door—your best friend, Peter.

Your palms started to sweat as memories started flooding back. Instantly, you bit your cheek, trying to ignore them. Now wasn’t the time for a trip down memory lane, especially not when you could still recall the bloody way that road ends.

A knock echoed through the somewhat barren Hall as your first collided with the door, your nerves growing with every passing millisecond. All you could do was focus on the different feelings fighting to consume you, the thudding of your heart, the slickness of your hands, the churning of your stomach.

“Peter?”

Saying his name felt wrong, but you said it anyway as you knocked again, a bit harder this time. “It’s y/n,” you told him, as if it were even possible for him to forget the sound of your voice, “can I come in?”

Once again you were met with silence.

You considered turning around. Maybe Jameson had been right in thinking that you shouldn’t chase this story. After all, it wasn’t your job to prove Spider-Man's innocence, and if Peter wanted your help, then he knew how to find you. You could call Brant right now and tell her that today was a bust, or even lie and say that Peter didn’t want to help with the story. You could walk away.

But you didn’t let yourself do that, once again feeling that weight of responsibility that May had unintentionally placed on your shoulders. There was no one left in Peter’s corner, no one that would be willing to dig him out of whatever dark hole he’d landed himself in.

You had fought to save Harry’s life, and so it only felt right that you tried to do the same for Peter.

Without bothering to knock again, you reached for the knob and twisted, hastily slipping inside the room, trying to limit the amount of light the leaked in behind you. You didn’t know a lot about developing photos, but you’d never forgotten the way Peter would groan whenever you’d come in unannounced, accidentally letting the light ruin his work.

The door clicked shut behind you as you looked around. It wasn’t a big room, just large enough for two or three people to comfortably fit inside. Any more than that, though, and they’d likely be bumping elbows the entire time. There was a table in the center of it, lined with tubs holding various chemicals that you’d never learned the names of. A clothesline hung around the perimeter of the room, a few newly developed photos lazily dangling from it. On the far wall there were two desks, various images and tools scattered across them.

Everything in the room looked sinister, courtesy of the red tinted light that hung overhead.

”Fucking creepy.” You muttered to yourself, crossing your arms over your chest as a chill inched down your back. This room felt significantly colder than the rest of Watson Hall, only adding to its unsettling vibe.

The darkroom was empty, despite the sign on the door saying it was in use. The realization nearly made you breathe a sigh of relief, a part of you finding comfort in the thought that you wouldn’t actually have to confront Peter right now. But as you stepped further into the room and towards the twin desks, all your newfound relief dissipated.

Resting against the leg of the desk was a fluorescent yellow bookbag, decorated with a variety of cheap pins ranging from local bands to images of outdated memes. You remembered the first time you ever saw that bag, lying on the floor of Peter’s bedroom just a week or so before the start of Junior year. He threw a fit when Aunt May had come in, tossing the ugly bag on his bed and raving about how she had gotten it on sale just in time for back-to-school.

You made fun of him for months, always making note of the way its vibrancy clashed with his darker style. Secretly you had loved that bag, silently appreciative for how easy it made it to find Peter in the crowded halls of Midtown High. He would always beg Aunt May to get a different bag, but she refused, saying that they shouldn’t buy another until he had worn the yellow one out.

Looking at it now, it seemed that he had finally achieved that goal. The yellow fabric was a touch duller now, though not by much, and there was a noticeable tear in the seam of the front pocket. Kneeling beside it, you traced your finger over a trail of blue thread, having been carefully used to stitch the fabric back together.

You wondered why he had decided to fix it instead of just replacing it like he had always wanted.

Straightening back up, you scanned over the rest of the desk. There was a black reusable water bottle perched on the edge, a set of keys attached to a Deftones lanyard lying beside it. A bit of sweat trickled down the edge of the bottle, collecting on the surface of the desk. You reached for it, shifting it just enough to hear ice knocking against the metal walls. It had barely melted, meaning that it hadn’t been long since Peter had gotten here. Still, you had no clue where he was now.

Closer to the center of the desk was a neat stack of already developed photos. A girl graced the top of the stack—pale skin with bleach blonde hair, neatly pushed back by a black headband. You reached for it without hesitation, a single digit tracing along her grinning face.

Peter took pictures of a lot of people, you included, but it was undeniable that Gwen had always been his favorite subject. Looking at this photo, you couldn’t help but understand why. She was effortlessly beautiful, capable of taking your breath away without even trying.

You could never blame Peter for always trying to capture that beauty, fully aware that if you were him, she would’ve been your favorite too.

Without much thought you decided to slip the image into your bag. Peter had dozens of pictures of Gwen, while you only had a measly few. He could spare one.

The other images were far more recent than the first, with only one or two others featuring Gwen. There were snapshots of random Columbia students, a few cityscapes, and even one of the devil herself—Mary Jane, posed in front of the same mess hall that had ensnared you earlier. In the reflection you could see Peter, smiling from behind his camera.

You gritted your teeth and rolled your eyes at the image. Were they really friends? The picture seemed to serve as enough of an answer, but you still couldn’t help but hope that you were wrong. Had Peter truly traded you in for Mary-fucking-Jane?

You roughly shoved that photo to the back of the stack, doing your best not to think about it as you continued to snoop through the rest of them. None were particularly interesting, save for the last two. Their dark composition offered a stark difference from the rest, while simultaneously making it difficult to tell what Peter was even photographing.

Taking one in each hand, your eyes darted back and forth between them, squinting as you tried to make out the subject, a task that was made all the more difficult by the rooms dim red lighting. You brought one closer to your face, making out a few trivial details. At the far edge, there seemed to be a street sign's corner, and in the middle a few streaks of dim light reflecting off a rain puddle.

Moving it away from yourself, you shifted your focus to the other one, thinking it appeared to be just a close-up of the first image. Then, slowly, you realized your mistake. It hadn’t been just a zoomed-in shot, as the reflection in the puddle made it something else entirely—a self-portrait.

But it wasn’t the warmth of Peter’s familiar brown eyes being reflected in the hazy liquid. Rather there was an outline of the two lifeless white lenses that belonged to his other self, the version of him you sometimes wished to forget.

The sight made you feel sick, sweat starting to form along your neck as you hastily flipped the photo over, desperate to avoid his sickening stare. However, what you saw on the back of the image was almost as bad as being forced to stare at Spider-Man's reflection. Scrawled in Peter’s barely legible handwriting was the date APRIL 2ND.

A new panic quickly trickled into your veins, fully replacing the one that had been born from the lifeless gaze of his mask. You read yesterday’s date over and over again, as if it would suddenly change. It never did, and a sizable knot formed in your throat as you slowly began to look up, shifting your focus to the forgotten photos pinned to the clothesline.

Your jaw fell slack, the photos in your hands following suit and landing on the desk below them. When you first entered the darkroom, you hadn’t paid much mind to the photographs hanging up, assuming they weren’t of much importance. Now, though, you recognized them for what they truly were—the sister images of the ones you’d been holding. Flashes of 102nd Avenue, Aleksei Sytsevich lying lifeless on the ground, milky white shards of bone peeking through his flesh. And there were photos of his mask, and those goddamn white lenses, spattered with Aleksei’s blood.

Peter hadn’t just been at the crime scene; he had documented it.

Your palm pressed roughly to your mouth, fingers digging into your cheek as you made yourself swallow the vomit fighting its way up your throat. Your own trauma fought desperately to rear its head as you analyzed the gory images, but you refused to let it take hold, scrambling to keep control as you forced yourself to snap into action.

After grabbing your phone, you wasted no time snapping pictures of the photographs hanging from the line, of the ones sprawled on the desk, of everything you could find. You didn’t know yet what you would do with them, but you refused to leave this room without collecting every bit of evidence you could find.

Once you were certain you had gotten it all, you worked to straighten the stack of pictures you’d gone through, adjusting them so they appeared as if they’d never been touched in the first place. Then, with your heart hammering inside your chest, you darted for the door without a second thought, paying absolutely no mind to the strange looks given to you by passing students as you rushed for the stairs.

You couldn’t stop moving, only slowing your frantic pace once you’d nearly made it to the exit doors. You rounded the corner as you tried to pull up Brant’s contact with shaky hands, wanting nothing more than to call her and get the fuck away from this campus. But, as soon as you went to press her name, your phone went flying from your hand and slid across the linoleum, your body pressing smack against another.

Sugary notes of vanilla flooded your senses, making your thoughts turn hazy. Your palms were flush against the soft cotton of someone’s shirt, and you could feel their fingers wrapping firmly around your shoulders, trying to steady you enough that you wouldn’t stumble back from the impact.

”Oh-shit!, sorry! I didn’t even see you-”

Their voice wasn’t the first thing you recognized, instead you found yourself caught up in the material beneath your hands. They were wearing a black Ramones t-shirt, a barely noticeable tear on the edge of the collar. But you noticed the tear instantly because you were the one who had bought the shirt. You got it at the record store on 6th Avenue—Rough Trade, was the name of it—and the man behind the counter gave it to you for half off all because of that tear.

You only ever got to wear it once before Peter nabbed it off your bedroom floor, never to return it.

”y/n?”

Your body betrayed you, immediately melting as the familiar sound of your name falling from his lips rang through your ears. Your heart had still been pounding in your chest this entire time, yet as your eyes met his for the first time in months, it fell still.

Peter didn’t fully share in your reaction. Instead of appearing as if he were lost in the same nostalgic haze you were caught in, he looked as if he had seen a ghost. His skin blanched, eyes growing unnaturally wide. For a moment you thought he was going to say something else, his lips parting, yet nothing came out.

In your lifetime, you had only known of a few things that could render Peter Parker speechless. You had now become one of them.

”Hi.” You squeaked out, a single hand lifting from his chest and offering an awkward wave that filled you with humility.

This wasn’t easy.

You weren’t sure how to act around him, how to behave. For nine months you had envisioned this moment, conjuring up countless things to say to him, all the insults you wanted to hurl his way. But now that it was happening, you found yourself torn between wanting to hug and choke him.

It seemed best to do neither.

”Um, hi?” Peter’s grip on your shoulders tightened, just for a second, as if he were trying to prove to himself that you were really standing in front of him. Once he seemed satisfied with your physicality, he stepped back and released his grip on you entirely, subsequently making your other hand fall from his chest.

”You’re not-I mean-you don’t go here.” He rasped, laughing awkwardly as he ran a hand through his hair, trying to ground himself.

”You’re right, I don’t go here!” You pointlessly confirmed, voice raising several octaves as anxiety took over. “Very observant.”

You cringed at the statement. Very observant?-you thought to yourself, biting down on the edge of your tongue as you watched Peter’s brows knit together-could've said anything, and that’s what you picked?

He didn’t even acknowledge the useless comment, only letting it hang in the air between you as he continued to wait for a true answer.

“I came to see you.” You choked out an honest answer, starting to shrink beneath his heavy gaze. You tried to step back, instinctively wanting to create distance between the two of you, but all you achieved was pressing yourself against the wall.

There was no escaping him.

He was quick to respond, making it clear just how high-strung he was. ”How did you find me?”

”I’m a reporter.” You reminded him, offering it up as a vague answer to his question. He’d likely expected the response, given the way his eyes narrowed in frustration. “Finding people is part of my job description.”

Peter always said that getting an answer out of you was like playing a game of charades, one that others very rarely won. You were a pro at dancing around the facts, only ever revealing them when they served to benefit you.

It was one of the many reasons you were so good at your job.

“Is that why you’re here?” His question carried a sharp edge, his irritation growing stronger now as his jaw tightened. “For the Bugle?”

Your body became tense, your shoulders squaring off as anxiety once again tried to shove to the surface. As you thought of the images you’d seen, the ones that were hanging just upstairs, your blood ran cold. You did your best not to let it show, instead trying to hide your fear behind a look of confusion. “Why would I be here for the Bugle?”

At first, he only stared at you, his brows raising in an incredulous manner. You forced yourself to stare back despite the discomfort it brought you. Then, finally, he answered. “You wanna talk about Spider-Man, right?”

Your heart sank into your stomach, lips turning dry as they parted. There was nothing good about the way the vigilante’s name rolled off his tongue, and you didn’t like it one bit. The semi-hushed tone he’d spoken in, laced with an essence of bitterness that one wouldn’t expect from the person that donned the mask.

Hesitantly running your tongue along your now chapped lips, you responded in a shaky voice. “Why would I wanna talk about Spider-Man?”

Harry’s advice rang through your mind—the same advice that had been mirrored by Aunt May, to remain wary of Peter—and you suddenly felt lightheaded. There was no way he could know that you found out about his identity that night, right?

No, of course not. It was impossible.

Peter appeared far more relaxed than you, his shoulders lazily lifting into a shrug. He didn’t seem to notice the sweat forming along your brow, making you think that you were doing an alright job at hiding your emotions. “Jameson wants new pictures of him, doesn’t he?” He threw out a guess.

Your shoulders instantly sagged with relief, your lungs aching as you lightly blew out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Given what you’d seen upstairs, you decided it would be best to stick to Harry and May’s advice. Peter didn’t need to know that you were aware of who wore Spider-Man's mask. Not right now, at least.

“I'm right, aren’t I?” Peter insisted impatiently, interrupting your racing thoughts and snapping you back into reality.

“Do you have new pictures of him?” You hastily snapped back.

“No. I don’t.” He lied straight through his teeth, once again running a hand through his already messy hair as he squeezed his eyes shut. It was obvious that he wasn’t planning to share any details of Spidey’s newly developed photoshoot hanging in the darkroom, and it would be against your best interest to press further, so you stayed quiet. When he opened his eyes again, he stared directly into yours. “And I don’t plan on taking any, so if that’s why you’re here then you’re wasting your time.”

You couldn’t recall ever hearing Peter sound so exhausted before. His recent lack of sleep was made painfully evident by the varying shades of purple painting the skin around his eyes. How long had he looked this way? Has it been since Gwen? In some sick way you hoped that you were right, knowing that grief being the cause was better than the alternative—the idea that his lack of sleep related to his involvement with Aleksei.

A part of you still refused to consider the images you’d seen as damning evidence that Peter had been the one to kill Aleksei Sytsevich. You couldn’t let yourself think that, refusing to believe that Peter Parker was anything even close to a murderer. It wasn’t possible.

But, as much as you hated to admit it, they proved that he was in some way involved. An accessory, at least. For some reason, hopefully a good one, he hadn’t stopped Aleksei’s murder from happening.

That came with its own dangerous implications.

You clicked your tongue against the roof of your mouth, trying to decide what direction you wanted to steer the conversation in, which angle would serve you best. With a deep breath, you made your choice. “Well, it’s good that that’s not why I’m here then.”

He looked surprised. “Wait,” he laughed awkwardly, “you’re not writing a piece on him?”

There was a thin line creasing the space between his brows, a strange expression on his face. His reaction wasn’t entirely unexpected, especially because you were known for your articles on Spider-Man. But this wasn’t a look that showed he was shocked to hear you were passing up on a story, it was a look of pure offense.

You fought the urge to ask him why he cared so much, curious to find out if he had been expecting you to rush to Spider-Man's defense in the media. The only reason you held yourself back was the fear that maybe you were wrong, that maybe he hadn’t wanted you to defend him at all; perhaps he just wanted more press for his potential crimes.

”Seems like the Globe has it covered.” You told him, trying to sound disinterested. You hoped that he would buy your act. “No need to waste anymore ink on a story that’s already been told, right?”

Peter knew you well enough to know that there was more to it than that. Fortunately, he was willing to reason that your potential avoidance of Spider-Man related to that night, the last night all of you were together, and the events that neither of you wanted to talk about. Besides, even if he did want to mention it, he couldn’t do so without exposing his identity to you, an identity he wasn’t aware you already knew about.

So, as much as he didn’t want to let it go, he had no other choice.

”O-kay.” He stretched the word out, shaking his head lightly as he worked to regain his bearings in the conversation. As he did so, a few strands of hair fell against his forehead. He was quick to push them back. “Well, if that’s not it, then why are you here?”

There was only a second of hesitation, air hissing between your teeth as you sucked in a breath, crossing your fingers behind your back. You hoped Gwen would forgive you for the lie you were about to tell.

”Helen Stacy.”

The first emotion to wash over Peter was pain. It was obvious, showing in the way his shoulders slumped forwards and his bottom lip trembled, wincing as the surname of his dead lover echoed through his ears. It was the second emotion that was harder to detect, having been more cleverly concealed than the first. Anger.

You could see it in his eyes, his pupils dilating as he started to see red. Your own gaze flickered to his sides, stopping on his clenched fists, knuckles turning a pale shade of white. It made you feel uncomfortable, especially since you were the one on the receiving end of that look. You nervously cleared your throat, starting to fiddle with the strap of your bag.

“She called the other day and asked about running a memorial piece for Gwen’s anniversary. Obviously, she thought it would be best if Gwen’s friends put it together—you know, do it how we used to for the school paper. I’ll do the writing; you take care of the pictures.”

It was hard to sound confident as you elaborated upon the fabricated situation, too busy trying to focus on anything other than his heavy gaze. You focused on the floor, mostly, staring over at where your phone still laid on the ground. Still, even without looking at him, you could feel the weight of his attention. The air around you began to grow thin, every breath turning into a battle. You felt like you were being slowly suffocated by his fury, your lungs burning within your chest.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea-”

“You can’t say no, Pete.” You cut him off, forcibly lowering the walls surrounding your own trauma, using it to manipulate him. You didn’t feel bad about it, either. “We both lost our best friend that night, and that sucked. But Helen lost her kid. This is the least we can do for her.”

As the last word fell from your mouth, you forcefully pried your gaze off the ground and begrudgingly met his once again. Terror slid into your veins as you did, your body already preparing itself for that seething look of his—but it vanished. There was no trace of anger on his face. All that remained was the slightest glimmer of remorse.

His fists unclenched, mindlessly cracking his knuckles. Then he sighed, followed by a reluctant nod. “You’re right. She’s been through a lot, and if this will help bring her some sort of... I don’t know-” he waved his hands slightly, looking troubled by his own choice of words, “closure, then I’ll do what I can to help.”

Your mouth curved into a smile.

It seemed like a good sign, you figured, that he was willing to help. It reignited whatever hope you had left that despite whatever mess he had gotten into as Spider-Man, that he was still the same selfless Peter Parker you’d always known. He could still be saved. And, fortunately, you had now crafted the excuse you needed to get closer to him and figure out how to save him.

”Great!” You spoke a little too loud, your excitement coming off a touch too strong. You tried to lessen it, though the uncharacteristic reaction certainly hadn’t gone unnoticed by Peter. “Meet me at Sylvia’s tomorrow at six, okay? We can start going over everything and make a rough outline for the memorial!”

Peter immediately went still when he heard the name of the restaurant the four of you used to frequent. He hadn’t set foot in Sylvia’s since Gwen’s death, too afraid to face the memories hiding within its walls. He tried to speak, tried to tell you no, but he didn’t have the chance as you interrupted him again.

“Here,” You pulled a business card from your bag, thrusting it towards him with a pointed look, “in case you forgot my number.”

You didn’t hide the animosity behind the statement, using it as another tool to play on whatever guilt he might harbor for what he’d done to you. It seemed to work, given the fact that he promptly shut his mouth and chose not to argue. Instead, he cautiously reached out, plucking the cards from your fingers.

“Try not to ghost me for another nine months.” You playfully added on, the words joined by a smile that resembled something of a threat as you reminded him, “After all, I know where to find you now.”

Peter just returned the smile, tight lipped and far less ferocious than the one you’d given him. He knew that eventually you’d want an answer as to why he’d been avoiding you, but not right now. Now wasn’t the time for it.

So, he stuffed the card in his pocket as you skillfully skirted around him, going to grab your phone off the floor. Once you had it in your hand, you started towards the exit, already starting to dial Brant’s number. “I’ll see you tomorrow, y/n.” Peter called after you, watching as you pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold.

There was an eerie sense of familiarity accompanying his goodbye, one that left your heart swelling as the words sought to soothe any of the still-bleeding wounds that remained from that night. The comforting feeling was almost enough to make you forget about the images you’d seen in the darkroom, the ones that now also lived within the camera roll on your phone.

Almost—but not quite.

Brant answered on the first ring, seemingly overjoyed as another lie easily fell from your lips, confirming with her that Peter agreed to help take photos of Spider-Man so you could try and plead his case to the public—the reason she thought the two of you were searching for Peter. She was just as eager as you were to leave Columbia’s posh campus, swiftly agreeing when you asked her to meet you outside of the mess hall so the two of you could head back to the Bugle.

Now, waiting alone in front of the mirrored windows, you stared silently at the reflection in front of you. A girl with platinum hair, neatly tucked back by a black headband, stared back at you with her familiar bright green eyes. They were filled with enough dismay to make your chest ache, ridding you of any comfort that Peter’s familiarity had given you.

”You’re gonna have to see him again.” The somber tone she used was unbefitting of someone that you could only think to describe as sunshine personified; everything you ever wished you could be. “You’ll need his help.” Gwen told you. “You know that don’t you?”

You knew she wasn’t talking about Peter.

When you didn’t reply, she decided she needed to convince you further, tailoring her approach so it had the best chance of swaying you. She reached a handout, and you knew that if you had closed your eyes, you would be able to feel her fingertips brush against your palm as she squeezed your hand.

God, you missed that feeling. You missed her.

And it was because you missed her that you refused to close your eyes. Refused to let your brain mimic something that was no longer real.

Gwen’s doe eyes turned glossy, her rosy lips puckering into a pout that could make even the most unyielding man fold. ”He’s gonna need your help, too, y/n.”

You bit your cheek, thinking of the bottle of pills laying in the bottom of your bag, the ones you hadn’t had to take in so long now. You were getting better.

"You can’t save one without saving the other.” Gwen tried to tell you, although it only served to make you angry at her, unable to figure out why she would feel that way. She shouldn’t want you to save Harry, not when he was the reason she wasn’t here right now!

If she were here, really here, then maybe you would tell her that. Remind her of how well her altruistic lifestyle had ended.

But she wasn’t. So, you didn’t.

Instead, you turned on your heel, forcing yourself to turn away from the reflection. You immediately saw a flash of royal blue in the sea of students as Brant forced her way through the crowd. Fine—you thought to yourself, offering Gwen a silent answer as you started to make your way towards Brant.

”This place is a goddamn maze!” You heard Brant huff noisily once you were in earshot of each other, her bobbed hair swaying manically. She clearly hadn’t had a good time, but you weren’t really interested in hearing about it, either. Instead, you found yourself distracted by her appearance. Her neatly styled hairstyle, sharp winged liner, and stylish outfit. It made you think of the girls from earlier, the ones who had made you so self-conscious, and it gave you an idea.

If you were going to do this—follow Gwen’s advice and save both of your boys—then you needed to try and save yourself, too. And, luckily, you and Brant seemed to be about the same size.

“Do you wanna go shopping?” You asked bluntly, watching as Brant doubled-back, clearly not expecting your question.

She blinked, thinking it over before hesitantly replying, “Um, sure?”

Ravencroft could wait until tomorrow morning.

tag list - @pompeygirl89 @pockyandme

a/n - hi anyone who's bothering to read this! i'm super excited about this chapter for a variety of reasons and i hope that you enjoyed it! feel free to leave any comments or tips, i always appreciate them and can't wait to write more harry & dark!peter content in the next part <3

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mirohtron · 1 year

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Hero dropped down to their knees, keeping their gaze locked onto the villain’s, refusing to let go.

Their eyes were wide, and begging as they spoke. “Help me.”

Villain’s lip twitched into a smirk. “Say it again.”

The hero shivered, their voice breaking.

“Help me.”

“One more time.”

prompt by @avvail :>

—

Shame burned acridly in the hero's throat. They were stained with blood and dirt and soot. Gravel was embedded in their cuts. Their body was bruised and beaten and aching.

It frustrated the hero to no end, that before they’d come to the villain’s doorstep, the villain had probably thought that the hero was dead, and instead of seeming relieved that they were alive they were forcing them to beg.

Still.

"Help me." They willed the villain not to hear it.

The villain's smirk burst into a cruel grin. Their gloved hand snaked out and landed on their throat, squeezing, like they were going to choke the hero. They glanced at the small sliver of skin that the glove exposed at their wrist, the thin, raised line following the green of their vein.

The villain was out of their suit, since the hero hadn’t been expected. They doubted the villain was relieved that their biggest problem had shown up to their doorstep completely fine and only a little roughed up.

The villain's thumb grazed the bump of their voice box, pressing down just slightly.

It took everything in the hero not to move. The muscles in their arms flexed. Their fists stayed clutched at their sides.

Slowly, the villain stroked the dips along the line of the hero's collarbone, then went up their throat. The hero bared it for them, because they knew the villain would like it.

A dimple appeared on the villain's cheek. Their eyes crinkled. They looked wolfish. "So good," they said, then curled their hand around to take them by the back of their neck. "So tame. Oh, I could just eat you up."

The hero's breath hitched and they knew the villain caught it. They chuckled. Humiliation bubbled inside them.

"This concerns you, too," said the hero, and right after they said it the villain's hand squeezed harder. They dropped the grin, shushed them gently, as though they were looking to soothe.

"I know, doll." The grin came on again, delighted. Similar to the look a thief got, looking at a vulnerable person walking down a deserted street. Eager to take. Twitching to take, to grab at any open seam.

The news was on every single channel there was, the hero was sure. They estimated ninety per cent of the city's heroes had been pronounced dead in the last ten hours

The villain continued. "I know. It must seem completely out of character, doll, but I did expect your little superhero to turn rogue eventually. I kept tabs. Noted every little tick."

The hero's breath hitched again, a harsher sound this time, wanting to rage. They kept themselves from asking—why didn't you let me know? But they shouldn't have expected any magnanimity from the villain. As for expecting the attack...

It still hadn't entirely registered in their head, they didn't think. They didn't believe the superhero was straight up evil. But they definitely weren't in their right mind, either. They were off the rocks. Wrong.

Today had started off like any other day. Everyone had gathered in the common room, chattering. The superhero had walked in, looked around once, and just... razed the whole place down.

"They're being controlled." It was the best explanation that the hero could give.

"Or maybe they've just realised the good side isn't all that good. Maybe they'll come for you next."

The hero's spine straightened. "Maybe they'll come for you first. You didn't see them firsthand. They went on a rampage." They'd torn the head off an innocent worker in the building, haloed by the fire, and stared straight at the hero. Feral. Rabid. Angry? Mad? Looking to take something the world had taken from them? The hero no longer knew. It all turned into one moment and the next.

A gloved hand made its way to their soot-stained hair. The villain peeled strands of sweaty hair away from the hero's forehead with their other hand.

With no answer from the villain, the hero grew twitchy. They rubbed the pads of their fingers raw. Dug crescent moons into their palm.

"You're smart," the hero tried eventually, reaching for something that would give in the villain. "Clever, strong."

"Dubious, greedy. Oh, and don't forget evil."

"Help me stop them." The hero's bare hand cupped the villain's own, gloved, tangled in their hair. They leaned forward. "If not to help me then for your safety."

“So sweet.”

“You know a rogue, indestructible hero will doom the city. You must’ve seen the news? The wrecked blocks?” The hero’s fingers slipped down to the scar on their wrist, fingertips slipping beneath their sleeve. The villain’s eyes flashed dangerously, but they pressed on. “I know what they’ve done to you—”

The villain's grip tightened on the hero's hair, forcing them to bare their throat. Their smile went mirthless and dangerous. The hero left their hands, kept them hanging harmlessly beside their head. "Quiet."

"I'm just saying."

The villain's voice dipped low, down to a delicate whisper, far away from that wolfish grin. "I know, doll, you're just saying. But you don't know me that way, do you?" Their free hand went to roam the hero's side. Their wrist flicked, and the cool edge of one of the villain's many knives pressed to their side. The hero's fists turned white-knuckled. "Do you?"

"No."

"Good." The knife disappeared. The villain pushed the hero's head away. "I miss when you were helpless. Tell me that again. Tell me what you need from me."

The hero steeled their jaw. They wiped dirt and soot from their cheek and didn't look at the villain.

"Tell me," the villain repeated. "Ask for it."

"Help me."

"Nicely."

"Please help me."

"Good." The villain grinned again. It wasn’t the same. "You'll do a job for me before I help you."

The hero went to protest. The villain's hand snaked out again, pressing a thumb to their lips, the side of their index finger cradling their chin. The scar on their wrist flashed in the low light. "I know, doll. I know. Smart, clever, strong. But evil."

The villain drank up every emotion that flitted past the hero. The hesitation. The consideration. The reluctance. The capitulation.

"I'll do it, and then you'll help. To stop superhero."

The villain tilted their head. "Of course, doll," they said. "Anything if you ask nicely."

#will be watching invincible after this #hero x villain #kyles.writing #prompt fill #prompt response #heroes and villains #villains and heroes #negotiation #hero #villain #villain x hero #heroxvillain #hxv #writeblr #writing #my writing

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artemismoorea03 · 8 months

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DPxDC Writing Prompt Idea

I have no idea if this has been done before but I just had this idea so if it has been done feel free to ignore this but I gotta share this.

So, I always see these prompts of different characters being related to different DC characters. For example I've seen some where people say that Tucker is related to Lucius Fox. Dash is related to Harley Quinn. Jack being related to Bruce Wayne. Danny related to Tim/Damian/Dick or any of the other Batfam but one I haven't seen before is one that I feel could be easily used.

Maddie Fenton is related to Jim Gordon.

Now, I've never seen this or even heard people talking about it and I can kind of understand why. Maddie is shown to have a sister but like - hear me out anyways.

Maddie has a cousin, she has met him a couple of times as a kid and only once as an adult when Danny was around 7. There wasn't any real reason for it, just a Family Reunion and an excuse to spend time as a family, something she often forgot to do when she was so determined to get the Ghost Portal open.

Her cousin is Jim and his daughter is a good ten years older than Danny. She had heard that Jim was quickly rising in rank in Gotham City and that his daughter - despite the occasional odd truancy issues - had her head on straight. Jazz also adored the older girl and followed her around the entire reunion, looking almost like Barbara's little sister.

Danny got closer to Jim than his daughter though, and started talking about things that he probably shouldn't have. After all, what 7 year old has a filter? What 7 year old knows not to mention the fact that sometimes their food attacks them or that Jazz is learning how to cook because sometimes mom and dad forget to feed them because their research is important. The more Danny talks the more concerned Jim gets, but he's also conflicted.

This is his cousin, the same cousin who the time Danny fell and scraped his knee peppered kisses on each and every one of his freckles on his face and danced with him until the pain stopped and then patched him up and danced with him again. This is family. He's sure that Danny is just... making things sound bigger than they are, as children do - at least he hopes that's the case.

But on the off chance that there is something going on he slips Jazz and Danny both his number and gives his cousin the same number in case anything came up.

As the years go on though Jim starts to see more red flags. Small things at first - Jazz asking how to change the batteries in a fire alarm. Danny calling to ask if pot-lids could be stuck in the microwave to cover rice. Basic questions that could be asked to a parent or a parent should be doing for their kids anyways. But whenever Jim asked about this the answer was the same.

"Mom and Dad are busy in the lab."

This continued for years until a call from Jazz one night seven years after he'd met them for the first time. She was crying and sobbing, her voice shaking as she tries to get the words out.

"Danny had an accident. Mom and dad aren't home, what do I do?"

Jim was 900 miles away, he had no way to get to them. No way to get him to them. So he did what he could and instructed her to hang up with him and call for an ambulance. Jazz was scared though, she didn't trust the doctors but thankfully Danny's voice could be heard.

The relief Jazz had when her brother woke up was enough to make Jim feel like he was going to throw up. The call ended shortly after that but he made sure to call a few days later and ask his cousin how Danny was doing.

"Danny? He's just fine!"

"That's good. He healed from the accident then?"

"What accident- oh, Jack no, that goes to the right - your other right. Jim, sorry I have to go. We can talk about this later, okay?"

Jim was appalled. Jazz had called him in tears, hyperventilating and Danny had been unconscious - Jazz though he was dead - and their parents didn't have any idea?

It was a little over a year later that he got another call. Just as frantic, just as scared, but much worse.

Danny was all but screaming in the back ground, voices were telling him to holds still and that they knew it hurt but he was bleeding out and he needed to hold still. Terrified, hurt, betrayed voices. Jazz again explained the situation, this time eerily calm.

"I can't go into details over the phone but we're coming to Gotham City to seek Asylum against a law that will get Danny killed. We need you to keep Batman off of our tails until Danny is healed. We'll handle everything from there."

"Healed? Healed from what?" Why did these calls always happen during work. "Jazz, what is happening? You have to give me something if I'm going to protect you guys."

"... My parents cut Danny open, Jim. They cut him open and he's hurt bad. Myself, Danny, and two of our friends are on our way to you now." Jim felt like his jaw hit the floor then snapped back up so hard it gave him whiplash as he sank back in his chair. "Before you ask; no. Hospitals aren't an option. Danny isn't a meta and they weren't violating any laws when they cut him open. Which is why we need you to keep Batman away from us for as long as possible. What... what Danny is shouldn't exist and if anybody gets a hold of him they'll cut him back open, turn him into a super weapon, or destroy him."

"Then why call me. I'm a police commissioner. What makes you sure you can trust me?"

"I'm not. Neither are the others with us but the only thing Danny has said since we saved him is 'Go to Jim'. We're following his lead on this. So... I'm trusting Danny, who has his full trust in you, Jim. Don't let him down."

#dp x dc prompt #not part of any series #random prompt ideas #Danny Phantom Prompt #Batman Crossover Prompt #my prompts #dc x dp prompt

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elfy-elf-imagines · 9 months

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— Out of the Woods | Maedhros *✧･ﾟ

▹ Pairing: Maedhros x Reader

▹ Genre: Fluff and Angst

▹ Words: ~8k

▹ Summary: Thrust into the world of Arda, you find yourself enraptured by the elven lord Maedhros. Yet nothing is ever easy in times of war as your love story unfolds and then unravels.

▹ Notes: Hi, hello, this is about 6k words longer than I intended. Oh well. This is a rewrite of a oneshot I wrote yearsssss ago, but thought it deserved a rewrite. I hope you guys like this because I deleted the original. You have no choice, YOU WILL LIKE THIS MORE. Please tell me you like it, I crave validation. Jk, jk...unless.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Golden.

Glittering and gleaming.

Opulent in an understated way and all too beautiful to be real.

It was the only way to describe the lavish keep the armored guards escorted you into. Men with delicately pointed ears and unnatural beauty were both your protectors and jailers as they paraded you through the city. You weren’t familiar with your surroundings, never even heard of it. You feel as though a place as beautiful as this would be pasted on every tourist’s brochure and dream board. And yet there was nothing familiar.

Even the people seemed so different from you.

“You have brought a mortal woman before me; why is that?” his voice boomed as he sat straight back and stiff as a board on a lavish throne. You were speaking with the presiding ruler if the golden crown atop his head was anything to go by. He was tall and regal, only made taller by the raised platform his throne was built upon, his figure looming over you with an intimidating presence.

His hair was like fire, falling in perfect waves that reached the middle of his back. His skin was porcelain and perfection, clear of any slight imperfections or marks that marred your own. He wore formal attire made from silk, with details of glittering gems that made him look like a sun. The heavy crown resting up his head was made of pure gold and dotted with jewels, each worth more than you’d ever make in a lifetime. But what captured your eyes were his own. Light green, they shone like the reflection of emerald leaves off a crystal clear lake. No poem or ballad could ever capture the beauty he possessed.

He was ethereal, the poster child for what a king should be.

One of the guards pushed you forward, and you nearly stumbled to the ground, but you’d caught yourself in time. You looked up at him, not even knowing his name yet and already being enraptured by him. A god, that’s what he has to be. There’s no other way he could look like that.

You must’ve died and now stand at the gates of heaven. In your current situation, the most illogical answer has become the only one that made any sense.

“T-they found me, your grace, in the...woods.” He raised an eyebrow at you, and your face flushed hotly as red stained your face. Did you address him adequately? Was there any correct way to address a literal angel?

His gaze on you was sharp, making you shrink within yourself. His hair may have been made of fire, but he was entirely crafted from ice. Cold, biting, and bitter, you were surprised your skin wasn’t frostbitten.

“She was rambling like a mad woman when we found her. Despite that, she seems harmless. We thought it best to present her for your judgment, your grace.” The guard spoke with a smooth and even tone, able to look at the elven man unflinchingly. Does one become accustomed to staring at the sun? They must if the guards can directly look at him.

“And so you deign to bring the mad woman before your lord?”

“Times are strange. She may be a gift from the Valar.”

A hush fell over the onlookers before a flurry of whispers filled the courtroom. The lord returned his attention to you, raising a single, inquisitive brow. He was assessing you, determining if there could be any truth to the guard’s words. It made you squirm under the weight of his eyes. They were too piercing and too invasive. He could see past your soul. Your deepest fears and thoughts were laid before him.

“Perhaps there is some merit to the words my guard speaks,” There was a lilt of amusement in his otherwise smooth, dulce voice. It nearly seemed mocking, the way he looked down on you. He leaned to the left side of his chair with his knuckles tucked under his sharp jaw, momentarily taking a more relaxed posture. Yet his gaze on you didn’t lighten; if anything, it became heavier.

“Have you been sent to us by the Gods?”

The throne room became quiet once more.

Your heart hammered against your chest, a lump stuck in your throat. All eyes were on you, the undivided attention making you want to curl in on yourself.

“I don’t know.” You mustered up the strength to speak, attempting to keep the fear drowning you out of your voice. Would he cast you out of the kingdom, leaving you to fend for yourself? You couldn’t survive in the woods alone, but you didn’t want to lie and be heralded as a sign of divine intervention.

You were stuck between a rock and a hard place, the room’s walls closing in on you.

All there was to be done was hope he was as kind as fair.

He hummed in response, neither angry nor pleased. There was no grand statement or judgment, instead, he continued to inspect every detail of you. His eyes scanned you up and down in an almost clinical manner like you were a new art exhibit in his favorite museum. He took notice of your odd clothes, maintained teeth, and healthy hair. Strange for a human in these lands to be so… well groomed. Even with the mud that caked your body, you were cleaner than the other humans before you.

“You place me in a strange place. If I send you away, it may anger the Gods, yet if I allow you to stay, I may be dooming the very people who’ve put their belief in me.” He spoke in such a calm tone as if the fate of your life didn’t rest in his long fingers, each embellished with a ring.

The anxiety made your body weigh a thousand pounds. You weren’t even sure your heart was beating, the impulse to check your pulse growing stronger. There was worry in your eyes, creases above your brows that were pulled together tightly.

Yet you didn’t speak, unable to make your tongue form words.

“Will you not plead your cause to me?” He leaned forward; both brows pulled upward, an almost challenging smirk pulling on his lips.

Rendered speechless and playing the fool, you opened and closed your mouth as you tried to remember how to speak.

He clicked his tongue against his teeth, leaning back into his seat, his smirk pulling back into a nearly disappointed frown.

“Very well. I shall make the decision for you.”

You prepared to be condemned to the wilds, thrown to the wolves who would surely tear you apart. Head lowered, eyes counting the reflections of sunlight inside the room. Tears threatened to fall, but you forced them away. You would face your imminent death with pride.

“You will stay here.

Gasps of surprise filled the room, followed by mutters of the courtesans. You made no such noise, head snapping up to meet the elven lord’s gaze. There was surprise evident in your wide-eyed gaze. You’d expected the worst, yet that was not what you’d been given.

“In time, we will learn if the Gods truly sent you to us.”

He nodded at the guards around you, and they helped you stand. Shaking and nervous, the guards held your body up as they guided you from the throne room to what would become your quarters. But over your shoulder, you spared one last glance at the elven lord, his green eyes watching your form disappear.

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“Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar--” You stumbled over the elvish text, unable to translate the rest of the sentence. There was a crease above your furrowed brows and a slight frown on your face.

It had only been two months since you were unceremoniously dropped here, yet it felt as if no time had passed, but not in a good way. You were like a newborn babe, stumbling in the dark as you attempted to gain your bearings. The faint throb in your head warned you of a headache, encouraging you to put the book down. A warning you didn't heed, you were stubborn, determined to prove you could assimilate.

The court has been a dizzying experience to get accustomed to. Most courtesans treated you like a curiosity, a pretty bird for them to teach silly words and feed salted crackers. They were nice enough and greeted you with pleasant smiles, but it all felt patronizing. As if you were nothing but a simpleton child, but perhaps that’s just how they viewed you; elves were immortal, after all. Nevertheless, they have treated you kinder than expected, correcting your choppy Quenya with lyrical giggles and coy smiles.

The giant oak doors swung open, startling you. Looking up, you watched as Maedhros swept through the library. He grabbed a few books from the shelves and went to a table opposite the room. His hair was pulled back into a loose braid, and his clothes were more casual than what he would don at court. Your eyes followed his form, only looking down when he briefly looked up from his book.

Heat flared to your cheeks, eyes returning to the book before you. You haven’t spoken with him since your initial meeting. He’d never invited conversation, and you were too terrified to do so. Instead, you stole glances at him whenever the moment presented itself, content to daydream about the Maedhros turning his eyes to you.

He’d say hello, inquiring about your stay in Himring. You’d answer him shyly, looking up at him through your lashes. So enchanted by your beauty and quiet whit as the conversation continued, he’d invite you to take a stroll with him around the gardens and then--

Your daydreams were cut short by the loud thump of a book falling. Turning, you watched as one of the library attendants scurried towards the fallen three or so books. A soft sigh left your mouth, and your attention returned to the book you were struggling through.

Picking up where you left off, you struggled through the same sentence. No matter how many times you re-read it, the translation wasn’t clicking. What did tenn’ mean again? A grunt escaped your mouth, the pulsing headache returning. You shut the book, perhaps harder than necessary, and opted to fiddle with the bracelets you wore.

Was it even worth struggling through this silly language? Surely you’d return home sooner or later and this grand delusion would be broken.

Yet the longer you’d spent here, the less likely the prospect seemed. You poured over every map and searched every geographical book, and nothing seemed familiar to the home you’d known.

Lost in your mind, you didn’t hear the scratch of a chair being pushed back nor the light padding of footsteps approaching your table. Only when you felt someone’s presence beside you and red hair loosely hanging did you look up? Maedhros had stood beside you, leaned over to be at eye level with you. His expression was perfectly neutral, not portraying a single thought in his head. Tucked behind his back was his left hand, which he’d lost many years ago. There were whispers in court about how it happened, being hung from a cliff for thirty years. How terrible that must’ve been.

“You seem frustrated.” His common was not as smooth as his elvish, yet speaking a common language with someone was nice. Most of the elves here only spoke their native tongue.

“It’s nothing, your grace,” you looked away from his gaze that was entirely too invasive. You didn’t want to risk that he really could read your thoughts; you didn’t want him to see how often they lingered on him.

“Your lie would be convincing if you hadn’t spent the past hour stuck on the same page,” he breezily replied, pulling up a chair to sit beside you.

Has an hour already passed?

And how did he know you hadn’t flipped pages? Had he paid that much attention…?

“Some words are confusing in their translations; no need to be concerned.” You didn’t want him to burden himself with such a silly thing. This wasn’t something a lord needed to concern himself with. There was also a flush of embarrassment creeping up on you. You wanted him to see you as competent and intelligent, not fumbling over simple translations.

“Allow me to offer insight. It is my native tongue, after all.”

You stared at him for a moment, lips pursed. His expression never wavered, and you couldn’t think of any reason to dissuade him from helping you. Apprehensive, you grabbed the book you’d previously pushed away. There was a light shake in your body from nerves, and you prayed to whatever god there was that Maedhros wouldn’t notice.

Flipping through the page, more delicate with it than usual to avoid Maedhros thinking you disrespectful, you pause on the last page you’d read. You point at the sentence you were struggling with and push the book toward Maedhros.

He leaned forward to read the sentence, and you took the opportunity to appreciate his side profile. His facial structure was sharp, with a tall, noble nose and a strong jawline. Pristine and void of imperfections, he was even more beautiful this close up. With each breath taken, the warm, heady cologne was enough to send you into a dizzy spell. It wasn’t fair for one person to be so…perfect.

He whispered the sentence under his breath, then straightened his posture. As he did, you moved your eyes from his face, looking at the book as if that was where your eyes always were. His eyes met yours as he began to speak.

“Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn' Ambar-metta.”

You mimicked his pronunciation, awkwardly fumbling over the words as you did. The faint whisper of a smile appeared on his lips. However, as soon as it was there, it was gone.

“Do you know what it means?”

“No, I was having trouble translating.”

This time he allowed his lips to turn upward into a faint smile, eyes glimmering in the dim lighting of the room.

“It’s no wonder. This is in Sindarin. My understanding is you’ve been learning Quenya.” He reached over and grabbed the book, pulling it closer to him.

“What’s the difference?”

“Quenya is an older dialect, though many of the Noldar still use it, whereas Sindarin is a newer version of the Eldar language.”

You didn’t respond, simply nodding your head as you fiddled with the fabric of your dress. Maedhros closed the book much more gently than you initially did, though he made no move to stand.

“I apologize; I have yet to inquire about your stay here. Have you found the accommodations to your liking?”

His question was nearly word for word what you fantasized he would say to you. Was he teasing you? Could he truly read your every thought, or was it just a coincidence?

“They’ve been great, better than I could’ve hoped.” You were nervous, so nervous it wasn’t even a joke anymore. Why couldn’t you just be normal?

“And how do you find yourself settling in?” He seemed so relaxed and at ease; why can’t you be more like that.

“I’m getting accustomed, but it’s all so different from the home I knew. I will admit, it is refreshing to speak with someone in a language I am familiar with.”

Maedhros pauses, slightly tilting his head to the side, something flashing across his face.

“Forgive me; I did not think about how few people share a common language with you.”

You shook your head once again afraid of accidentally offending him. “It’s no issue; if anything, it forces my Quenyan to improve.” You wanted to be reassuring, to show that you were more than comfortable with your current circumstances. The last thing you needed was the king thinking you were being difficult or ungrateful.

“But it must be frustrating not being able to convey your thoughts clearly.”

You merely shrugged in response. It was, and sometimes it made you want to scream and break something, but you couldn’t admit that. You didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

Maedhros hummed in response and pushed his chair back, now standing at full height.

“I must part from you, but perhaps we could meet here again tomorrow, if only so I may offer my translating abilities.”

A tentative smile appeared on your face, and you nodded in agreement. Maedhros tilted his head in a slight nod and turned, exiting the room with a flourish.

Only once you were left alone did you let a high and girlish giggle leave your mouth. It echoed in the quiet library, and unbeknownst to you, Maedhros heard it on the other side of the door.

And so a new tradition began as you and Maedhros met in the library every evening. You’d spend hours with one another, and within the first week, the excuse of studying linguistics had been forgotten. Enraptured in the presence of one another, you were both entirely unaware of the impending war.

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You were waiting by the gardens.

Wearing a new dress, fiddling with the bracelets that adorned your wrists. You were so nervous yet equally excited. Maedhros had broken tradition, and instead of meeting you in the library, he asked to meet you near the gardens.

Your heart was in your throat; nervous goosebumps were all over your skin. It was truly as if all of your fantasies had come to life. Light footsteps echoed on the marbled flooring, and it made you turn. Maedhros, your intended partner, walked towards you, taking long strides.

A smile was placed on your lips, and Maedhros matched it. Long ago had he shed the detached demeanor he so often presented to the rest of the world. Instead, he was open with his emotions - both good and bad - allowing himself to be vulnerable with you in a way so few people have witnessed.

“You came,” he spoke as he closed the distance separating the two of you.

“How could I refuse?” Your smile widened, eyes in the shape of crescent moons. He laughed, low and smooth, offering his arm to you. Your hand wrapped around the crook of his arm, and it fits as if your hand was met for his.

“Shall we?”

You motioned with your hand towards the gardens. “We shall.”

The two of you walked in near perfect sync, wandering through the gardens, making quiet conversation with explosive banter. He was not as stern and rigid as he once appeared. With the moonlight reflected in his eyes and the stars making him shine, he seemed more like an innocent child than a hardened warrior burdened with war and trauma.

You wanted to see this side of him every moment of every day. To see his eyes resemble glass and to hear his hearty chuckle as he threw his head back. Eventually, you gave up the guise of being interested in the flowers, even though they were quite beautiful. All your attention was focused on Maedhros, a sight you were determined to imprint in your brain.

If you were to wake up tomorrow, back in your old bed, in your old apartment, you’d be happy to remember this moment and this moment only. You’d dedicate the rest of your life to writing poems about him, painting portraits, and writing overly embellished love stories. Anything to commemorate Maedhros and everything you’d wanted with him. Even if he didn’t return your affections quite as fiercely.

“Tell me about your home. You never speak of it.”

Your expression fell, your smile dimmed, and your eyes downturned. Home. You hadn’t really thought of it as much. It used to be a constant thought, a thing you wished on every falling star to return to. But now… You couldn’t remember the last time you made that wish.

“It’s…different.” You fumbled over your words. How do you explain something you yourself hardly understand?

“In what way?” Maedhros pries, wanting to know more information. You’d be flattered in any circumstance or with any different topic. Yet the subject of home was complicated and one you hadn’t dared to broach with anyone.

“In every way.” A breezy laugh escaped your mouth, hoping to distract how tense you suddenly became.

“I’d like to hear it all if you’d be willing to tell me.”

“I--” You stuttered over the words, a lump caught in your throat. You wanted to tell Maedhros to bear your entire soul to him, but an inkling of fear gave you pause. Would he deem you a mad woman? Distancing himself and becoming as aloof as he once was.

Yet the two of you had grown so close as of late, and if you’d ever hoped to be more than friends, it would only be fair, to be honest.

“I don’t think I’m from this time.” You began, unsure of the best way to start.

Maedhros stopped, turning to face you. You nearly stumble but manage to catch yourself, meeting Maedhros’ gaze.

“In what way?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, pressing your hand into a fist. Fortune favors the bold. You have to be bold if you want this.

“I believe when I was dropped here, I was dropped in the past. My world is so different and so much more advanced in terms of technology.”

He gave you a hard stare, not speaking for a few minutes. The moments of silence dragged on, and you were half tempted to flee and never return. Yet your body had become so heavy, and your feet were bolted to the ground. There would be no escape.

“I don’t know why, but I believe you.” He spoke slowly, as if unsure of his own words as he said them. “At the very least, I believe you believe in what you say, and you have given me no reason to distrust you.”

Your breath that had been caught in your throat was suddenly released as your body slackened. The wide grin you previously wore returned to your face, all the worry lines and creases on your face melting away.

“You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that.” You were breathless, a weight you hadn’t even realized was weighing you down, relieved from your chest.

“I can only imagine how you must’ve felt, how confused you were.” His tone was soft and took a somber note, his eyes closer to an emerald green than the light color they previously were.

“I managed to get by.”

Maedhros nodded, a smile tugging on the edges of his lips.

“Well, please indulge me then, and tell me all the wonders of your home. I’m sure you’ve longed to do as such; you assimilated so quickly, I never would’ve thought you were from a completely different time.”

You stared at him a moment longer, a breath caught in your throat. Yet this time, it wasn’t from nerves or anxiety; no, the pounding in your chest was for an entirely different reason. It had everything to do with the softness in Maedhros’ eyes as he looked at you.

And so you indulged his every question and whim, the two of you wrapping around the garden a million times, talking until the moon was at the highest point in the sky, and all was silent.

You were exhausted, holding back yawns every other sentence, but you pushed through, soaking in the time with Maedhros. Who knew when you’d get another chance? But eventually, he caught on, noticing the droop of your eyes and the lethargic pace you walked with.

He guided you back to your chambers with all the chivalry gone from your world. You expected him to say farewell and give a single nod, as he always did when parting ways. He did bid you farewell, his smile warm and vibrant, and he did dip his head into a nod.

But he also placed a kiss on the very edge of your lips before turning and disappearing down the hall.

Frozen, you stood there for who knew how long, face awestruck and hand resting where his lips previously had been.

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Time had seemed nothing more than an illusion.

It seemed to move around you, yet you were the same, unchanged by it. Physically, you may appear the same, yet everything is so entirely…different. Maedhros made quick work of letting you know he intended to court you, and who would you be to deny it.

All the formalities and technicalities that came with courting royalty was dizzying, but Maedhros was always there to center you. Strolls through the gardens and long evenings in the libraries; it made everything more bearable. It was also worth the stiffness that came with court to see the child-like grin that would light up Maedhros’ face when it was just the two of you.

But doubt was a terrible thing.

You constantly feared you wouldn’t live up to not only his expectations, but the expectations of his people. You were a human among elves, and despite not aging, you knew the court talked. Their fascination with you long died out, and anyone who believed you were sent by the Gods was the minority. They hid sharp words behind pretty smiles and musical laughter, but you could see through the fakeness all the same. Their cruel words only helped reinforce the doubts you already had.

And you weren’t the only one weighed down by it.

Maedhros was a far cry from what he used to be. Before the oath, before the torment, and before all the death at the hands of his kin. Could he really be so selfish as to tie you down to him? You were blind to this of course. You knew he suffered from PTSD and trauma, but even as you held him under the light of the moon, you were never aware of just how deep his fears went.

How when he wept in your arms, it wasn’t only for what he suffered, but what he may suffer when you decide you want better. When you finally realized he wasn’t enough for you.

His anxiety twisted into something harsh, manifesting as anger rather than sadness. Yet even as he lashed out, you stayed. Your face would remain perfectly passive, seemingly unbothered by it.

It was another one of those nights.

You both sat on the balcony attached to his chambers, feet dangling over the edge. It was improper for you to be in his bed chambers, especially so late at night, but you couldn’t care about court etiquette at a moment like this.

Your arms were wrapped around Maedhros, keeping him as close to you as physically possible. His head rested in the crook of your neck, eyes shut as his breathing matched the rhythm of your heart. All was quiet except the occasional sniffle from Maedhros. But after a few moments he was the one to break it.

He pulled himself away from you, not an inch of his body touching yours. His relaxed posture suddenly seemed so tense and proper; an austere expression falling over his face. The sudden change was enough to give you whiplash, all the worst of your insecurities coming to head.

A moment passed before Maedhros stood, returning to his chambers. Tentatively, you stood, following after him. What made him suddenly change, as if a light had been switched?

He walked across the room, to the decanter holding a red wine. Maedhros took his time pouring it into a crystal glass before bringing it to his lips and nearly downing it all in one drink. He sent it down and refilled the glass, continuing the same pattern.

The entire time he refused to meet your gaze. Awkwardly you say at the end of his bed, intertwining your fingers in an attempt to distract yourself. It hadn’t worked, all your fears growing the longer Maedhros held the silence. Was it a contest? Was he waiting for you to poke and prod?

“We should dissolve our courtship.”

If you hadn’t already been sitting, you could’ve fallen to your knees. One simple sentence, that was all it took to make the past years come crumbling to nothing.

“What?” Your voice was barely louder than a whisper. “Why?”

Another glass of wine drank and another glass filled before he dared to answer.

“While I have enjoyed your company, I do not believe us suited to continue any further,” he said. Even still, he refused to meet your eyes. His hand gripped the table he stood before, his grip so tight you were half surprised it didn’t crack under the weight of it.

“So that’s it.” Your voice was like stone; hard, cold, and unwavering. “You decide to end our courtship, yet you can’t even look me in the eye as you do it.”

Maedhros didn’t move from his position, you however, stood from the bed.

All the anger and frustration, needling insecurities and self doubt came bubbling to the surface. You didn’t bother to push it down, or rationalize it so much you can’t even feel anymore. It came together in one chaotic concoction and exploded.

“Look at me.” You weren’t shouting, but there was force behind your tone. A warning and a threat all in one. Yet Maedhros still kept his back to you. You took three more steps towards him, nearly behind him.

“I said look at me.” The volume of your voice became louder, the stone facade breaking and cracks of desperation shone through you. You couldn’t understand why he was doing this, you’d thought he loved you the same way you loved him.

Had it all been a mistake, were there signs and clues you’d missed along the way?

Finally Maedhros turned to face you, and within moments all of your anger dissipated. Tears streamed down his cheeks, unshed ones exaggerating his red rimmed eyes. He looked absolutely broken, the worst you’d ever seen him.

“Why are you doing this?” You dropped the facade of nonchalance. Tears began to well in your eyes, a slight waver in your voice as you spoke.

Still he didn’t speak.

You closed the distance separating the two of you, grabbing his hand in yours, but he pushed you away. Still you attempted to grab it again and this time he didn’t bother rejecting your touch.

“Mae please, what is the real reason for this?” You looked up at him like a doe, so wide-eyed and teary. Any shred of conviction he previously held onto crumbled as he looked at your face.

He thought marrying you would be selfish, but perhaps this was the more selfish option?

“You deserve better. I can’t give you what you deserve.”

A crease formed on your forehead as your brows furrowed.

“Fuck it.”

Maedhros blinked, stunned by your brash words. For a moment he thought he might’ve misheard, he’d never heard you speak like that. But it would appear he hadn’t misheard you.

“What?”

“I said, fuck it. I love you, and you love me, and god dammit, if you’re not best for me then I don’t want better.”

You moved one of your hands from his, cupping his chin, forcing Maedhros to meet your gaze, an attempt to show the sincerity in every word spoken.

“I love you, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”

Your words hung in the room, imprinted on the floorboards and the walls.

The Maedhros’ lips were on yours. The kiss was quick and fervent, expressing everything he’d never be able to put into words. All the love and fear that clung to him like a shadow; his entire soul was laid before you. It was dizzying - you were drowning at sea, and Maedhros was your only lifeboat.

You clung to his form, never able to get close enough, one of your hands wrapped around his lithe form while the other reached towards the nape of his neck, gently tugging on his hair. He groaned against your lips and you swallowed the noise, deepening the kiss.

Closer, closer, you needed to be closer.

He pulled you just as tight as you were pulling him, just as desperate if not more so than you were. His one arm wrapped around your waist and held you against his body. His scent was intoxicating, that same heady cologne he’d been wearing when you first spoke in the library. Your teeth clacked against his, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. You needed him to know that every word you’d said, you’d meant.

There wasn’t a universe you wanted to exist in without him.

And while that thought terrified you, you repressed it, opting to deal with it later.

Maedhros needed to know you were all in, and you’d spent the rest of eternity convincing him if need be.

At some point he pulled back, the rise of fall of both of your chest and heavy breathing the only sound in the room.

His hand moved from your waist and into your hair, finger combing through it. There were stars in his eyes that you surely replicated.

“Forgive me, I was being foolish. I don’t want our courtship to end, you’re the woman I want to marry. I never want to leave your side and I promise to never send you away, I swear it.”

A smile, small and delicate, lit up your features as you frantically nodded in response. Maedhros huffed out a laugh, pressing his forehead against yours, muttering elvish endearments against your skin.

You closed your eyes, basking in his presence and the musical sound of his voice.

Oh to freeze this moment and live in it forever.

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Everything was silent and calm, but not in a way that would be soothing and leave behind a sense of weightlessness. Instead, it was harsh and grating, mile-high walls building up around you as you subconsciously prepared for...something. Anything that would cause a ripple and disturb this illusion that encased you.

You couldn’t deny it anymore and continue to make excuses for what was so clearly right in front of you. War had brought devastation, and with that came change, and with change came the end of a life you’d built. For so long, Maedhros was able to ignore the Oath he and his brothers had sworn. The Silmarils were forgotten but only for a time. Word had reached Ossiriand that the son of Beren and Luthien had inherited the Silmaril his parents had recovered.

Maedhros, once noble and as bright as the sun, now appeared worn and haggard, his eyes bearing the weight of a consuming madness. Restlessness gnawed at his soul as his insatiable quest for the Silmarils tightened its grip on his heart.

It was only a matter of time before the bubble burst, and you could no longer delude yourself into thinking he was still the same man you fell in love with.

“Maedhros,” you said quietly in hopes of not sparking another argument. “Are you certain this is the wise decision?”

He turned to you, his eyes stern and calculating. It was a stark difference from the love and warmth they used to be lit by. Instead of looking into the sun, you were staring into a fiery furnace.

“It is my duty, as well as my brothers, to honor the Oath we swore to our father. I have no doubt this is the right course of action.” He sounded so detached when he spoke to you. It was the same way he talked to commanding officers and diplomats, not how he should speak to his wife. Not the way he used to talk to you.

The fear you’d felt, the drop of your heart each time you looked into his eyes, intensified. He was teetering on the precipice of madness. You bit your lip, mulling over the right words to keep him from falling off the ledge.

“I understand your quest,” your voice trembled with slight trepidation despite your best efforts to keep it even. “But Maedhros, the toll it’s taking on you…I fear for your well being.”

His eyes bore into yours, a mixture of frustration, impatience, and slight madness evident in his gaze. It made you nearly flinch, but you held your ground.

“You doubt me?” His voice had an edge so sharp it cut you like a knife. It intensified your anxiety, but you swallowed it, steeling yourself against your nerves.

“I don’t doubt your intentions, Maedhros,” she replied, her voice steady now, “but I fear for what this obsession is doing to you.”

Your words seemed to strike a chord within him, his anger momentarily giving way to a flicker of doubt. A moment of clarity within his addled mind. “You think I don’t know the burden I bear?” he murmured, his voice softening now, but the anger still lingered beneath the surface.

“I know, my love,” you replied, much softer this time. You crossed the room’s threshold, gingerly sweeping your knuckles across his cheek. His eyes flutter shut, momentarily allowing your soothing touch to wash over him. “But I can’t bear to see you suffer like this. Your people need you. I need you. Not just as a leader but as a husband too.”

His eyes opened, and the green within them softened as his anger began to wane. Yet the turmoil was still evident within him. He was a man fighting two wars, one war with the forces of Morgoth and the second war within himself.

“It’s not easy for me either, and I curse the day I swore that oath.” His confession made the flicker of hope within you get bigger. Perhaps you’d successfully pulled him from the ledge. “But I cannot turn away from my destiny.”

Just as soon as it appeared, the hope was snuffed out; stubborn and proud, you now cursed what you used to admire about him most.

“But at what cost, Maedhros? The Oath has led to nothing but tragedy and death. You are losing yourself in this darkness, forsaking all that once mattered. Look around you! Our people suffer, our family crumbles, and still, you are blinded by this madness!” Desperate and pleading, you tried to force him to see reason.

As if your touch was made of acid, Maedhros pulled away and sidestepped you, a sea separating you from him. The anger returned to his eyes as they hardened once more. The brief moment of vulnerability was gone, and it was difficult to remember if it had ever even been there, to begin with.

“And for what? For some gems that shine prettily,” you continued; he needed to hear your words, to taste the venom behind them. If he held even an ounce of love for you, he would heed your warning. But your words seemed to fall on deaf ears, lost amidst the blaze of anger that threatened to burn the whole world.

“You know nothing of the weight I carry,” he snapped, his voice cutting through the air like a freshly sharpened sword. “You are my wife, not an advisor; quit constantly questioning me and stand by my side as you were intended to.”

The words caught in your throat faded, replaced with a bitter taste of the last bit of love and hope you held for Maedhros dying. Your eyes fell to the floor; there was nothing left to do. The butterflies he incited within you had turned to ash. Everything the two of you built crumbled, and Maedhros gladly helped, knocking down the pillars it once stood upon.

The Maedhros you loved was long gone; what stood before you now was a shell of the man he once was.

“If that’s the way you feel.” It was all you uttered before exiting the room, leaving Maedhros in the dimly lit room with nothing but anger and regret. He wanted to call out to you, to beg you to stay and reassure you he hadn’t meant it. But the grip of madness was unyielding, and even in the depths of sorrow, it would not relent.

The Silmarils that had once been a beacon of hope now seemed to mock him, and the emptiness in his heart felt like a chasm he could never fill.

In the stillness of the night, as Maedhros lay slumbering, you stole away into vast open fields. Cloaked in the darkness that came with night, you ran, nowhere in particular, just so long as it was as far away from Maedhros. Your heart was heavy with the weight of your decision and the finality of the ending of a love you thought would last forever. Yet the echoes of the argument lingered; his harsh words and austere face were a haunting reminder of what had been lost.

“It’s better this way,” you told yourself.

You would carry the memory of Maedhros until your dying day, praying that he might find solace and release from his Oath. But you couldn’t count on it, and you wouldn’t waste your days hoping he’d change.

“It’s better this way,” you repeated once more.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The warm glow of the sun was waning, warning you of the impending cloak of night.

You stood on the cliffside, staring into the waters below, feet buried in the overgrowth and dirt. The air was cool, and the world was quiet. So serene and perfect that it was hard to believe it was real. You burrowed your feet deeper into the dirt, desperate to ground yourself into reality.

The mellowness of your surroundings eased the grief within your heart. War was over, and the suffering you’d endured was but a distant dream. Residing in the lands of Aman, you could forget your life had been anything other than something full of beautiful poetic prose.

Yet it was hard to let go of all of your pain. But as time passed, it became twisted, no longer the stabbing pain of a needle. It poured from you into a melancholia that you would use to paint all your skies a dark blue. It lingered in the edges of your landscape, blurred in the edges and nearly unseen by anyone except for you.

A soft hum escaped your mouth as you allowed the sound of cascading waves to fall over you. Eyes fluttered shut, the faint mist of water touching your body.

You only opened your eyes once the sound of footsteps was heard. Your posture stiffened, ears sharpening to hone in on the sounds of the intruder. No one dared to intrude upon you, and if they did, it was preemptively planned, never just a sudden visit.

Slowly, you turned, but you were still surprised even though you didn’t know what to expect.

Standing before you, as tall and proud as the day you’d first met, was Maedhros. He was vibrant and real, only a hint of tentative uncertainty marring his neutral expression. He stopped a few paces away, silent as you took him in. Framed by the soft glow of the golden rays of sunlight, he was just as you remembered him, yet with an unmistakable touch of time.

It wasn’t in the traditional ways of humans; there were no wrinkles and lines imprinted on his face. It was all in the eyes, the centuries of wisdom, pain, and suffering making them heavier than they once were.

He’d died. You knew that. He cast himself into the fire alongside his brother when he could no longer possess the Silmarils. It was said they burned him upon contact and it was a fate too terrible for him to live. You’d wept for days on end upon learning his fate.

And yet here he was, as real as the day you’d met.

“Maedhros.” His name hung in the air as if you were unsure it was truly him. He simply nodded, an affirmation that he was really here, standing before you.

Silence stretched between the two of you, your eyes locked in a gaze that spoke the words your lips couldn’t find. There was a tempest of emotions within you - joy, relief, curiosity, and a lingering sense of hurt you couldn’t fully let go of.

And then, like the first rays of sunrise, a smile graced Maedhros’ lips, and it was as if the years spent separated vanished. The arguments disappeared with them, leaving only an overwhelming happiness to see him standing before you. Your strides were sure as you stepped towards Maedhros, and he helped to close the gap, your arms weaving around his body as you embraced him for the first time in years.

He smelled just how you’d remembered, and you buried your face into his chest, determined to remember how his arm felt around your waist.

“Is it really you?” you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of disbelief and delight.

You felt the rumble of Maedhros’ slight laughter as he nodded his head. “ Yes, it’s me, my love.”

You pulled back slightly, just enough that you could see his face but close enough that you could feel the warmth he radiated. “I- I can’t believe it; how is this even possible?” You were nearly out of breath as you spoke, eyes searching for answers within his.

“A twist of fate, I suppose. I was released from the Halls of Mandos, my time of repentance done.” A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips, his grip on you tightening. “I should have listened to you the night that you left. You were right, and I was just to--”

You cut him off by placing a searing kiss on his lips. His words were forgotten, the long speech he’d probably been preparing since the moment you left cut off. There would be an eternity for forgiveness and apologetic words. Right now, you just wanted to remember how his lips had felt on yours.

He melted into the kiss, his lips just as sweet as you’d remembered them to be. The years melted into oblivion; it was just you and Maedhros, with nothing severing the love you held. The kiss was a mixture of vehement remorse and a promise to never forsake the promise of love he’d made to you. Time slowed as the two of you savored the moment, fully immersed in the warmth of his body and the taste of his lips.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, you and Maedhros stayed tangled in one another. You’d both been given a second chance, something you hadn’t dared to think would be possible. And yet here he was, so intertwined with you it was hard to see where you ended and he began. It was a chance to reignite a love that had never fully died out.

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