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inbabylontheywept · 8 months ago

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by tradition, the first day of the camp was spent pranking the group next to us. our prank was ziptying the zippers on their sleeping bags together. we figured one of them would sleep with a knife, because we all slept with knives, because we were dangerous maniacs and half the danger of a dangerous maniac is that they tend to think that they are Actually Normal. so. obviously that didn't pan out, and instead they got stuck in their sleeping bags for like half an hour and because their scoutmaster slept in their car and couldn't hear them yelling, they actually only got out when one of them went full caged animal and chewed through the plastic. which meant they had time to make it to the axe throwing station, but they did miss breakfast.

the scale of our victory was impossible to understate. it was an epic prank. unrivaled. the best in years. we knew they were going to retaliate, and we both feared and craved it. maybe i'm still a maniac, but that feels like a common thing, right? do well adjusted people that are not maniacs crave Judgement?

(serious answers only please, from people who would never spoon a knife.)

anyway, the next day we got back to our camp, and the neighors had skipped dinner to just come back and fill all our tents with pinecones. which was like, a decent prank, i guess, but it probably took them an hour to fill all the tents up, and it took us like 15 minutes to tip the tents out, and as a return volley to the ziptie prank it was incredibly underwhelming. we felt a little cheated.

so our scouting group held a council, and we agreed, unanimously, that our prank was 100% better and theirs sucked and that there would be no escalating tensions because we were the clear victors. they'd had their chance to retaliate, and they failed, and so the war was over. that was it.

we agreed on this. we swore. but madness is a relative thing, and in our group of maniacs, we still had J. i have many, many J stories. too many. i biked up to school with him from 4th grade to 8th, and i saw him get hit by cars thrice. he'd just swerve into the road sometimes. one time on a rainy day in 4th grade, a car splashed me, and before i could even consider my response J yelled I GOT THIS and then he blitzed off after the car. i didn't see him the rest of the day. i was so anxious i barely slept that night. i saw him the next morning and he told me that he'd chased the car until it got to a gated community and then he'd climbed over the fence and looked in peoples garages until he found the one with the car, and then he'd ripped the hood ornament off and broke their window. then he gave me a hood ornament to a different brand of car from the one that splashed me and i didnt tell him because i didnt want him missing more school. i want you to mentally adjust your mental model of the things a 9 year old is capable of doing to include chasing a car for five miles, hopping a fence, breaking into a garage, and vandalizing a randos car.

and that's just the tip of my J stories iceberg.

the point of all this is just to say that J was so crazy that he made us knife spooners look like accountanting enthusiasts.

so we agreed the war was done, and we shook on it, and then J, in the name of friendship, in the name of honor, in the name of avenging our pinecone filled tents, snuck over to their camp that evening and fornicated with a watermelon that they'd been saving in their cooler.

i want to emphasize, again, that this was not the consensus of the group. that is not a prank. like i know it seems like we dont know what pranks are because of the whole ziptie thing, but even we knew that fucking someones food is not a prank, it is a crime, and a sin, the kind of weapon that had only been ethically used once in history by Horus in his battle against Set and none of us dumb assholes had owl heads.

so.

the next day went pretty well. we threw some more axes again, which is a valuable and important skill for children to learn i guess, and we learned how to tie knots, which is a skill that turned out to be far sexier than i ever expected, and i learned how to light fires with a magnifying glass, which was great. i'm looking back at this, and i am actually just now beginning to realize that the clear and obvious point of scouting is turning child sociopaths into apex predators.

and then the day ended, and we went back to our camps, except for our leaders, who had a sort of Scout Leader Meeting they were going to have for a few hours at least. it was built into the camp, that day was supposed to be our day to chill as a group, and make peach cobbler, and just be buddies.

except, as it turned out, our neighboring group's alternative to making peach cobbler was eating their watermelon. so at some point they opened their watermelon, and woo boy. oh man. you think catholics hated seedless watermelons? you should see how much mormons hate seeded ones.

so we were chilling by the fire, and then we heard screaming from the camp over, but we didn't pay much mind to that because there are many reasonable explanations for a group of 10ish children to scream simulanteoulsy, such as wasps, which are abundant in arizona, and then the screaming got closer, which did not bother us because there were many reasons for a group 10ish children to scream and run towards us, for example, wasps, which are abundant in arizona, and then we noticed they had large sticks on them, which we figured were perhaps being used to drive away the wasps, which are abundant in arizona, and then they arrived and they started beating the shit out of us, abundantly, in arizona.

so we ran into the woods.

now, at this point, we had no idea what was up. we knew that the camp next to us was out for blood, which was crazy, because we'd actually locked them in fartproof bags for 30 minutes and they'd barely done anything back, and were trying to figure out what could possibly have happened that could drive them to Terrible Violence when we realized that J was cackling like a witch that had learned how to order children off of ebay.

so we politely asked J what the hell he had done, and he politely explained that had "done" their watermelon, and we politely beat him with large sticks because life is nothing but endless cycles of violence.

we were still being chased by the other camp btw. so it was them, chasing us, chasing J, and then they got tired and went back to their camp, and we chased J a little longer because we were mad we'd all been walloped with sticks, and J did not care because he was a supernatural entity whose only weaknesses were Needles and Fire, and then we got tired and went back and J kept running, and we just kind of figured he would come back eventually.

he did not.

we went back to our tents, and we waited, and J did not come back. we stayed up all night, peering into the forest, worrying. our leader came back, and we did our best to hide our battlewounds, and he either genuinely did not notice or simply accepted this as part of Boyhood. then he went to bed, and we waited, and waited, and waited. And Waited. and did not sleep.

eventually, we convened again, and we agreed that if J was not back by after breakfast, we would have to tell the scoutleader about what exactly had transpired. and we really did not want to do that, because it would have meant that everyone would have gotten in a very large amount of trouble.

morning came around, and J still was not back. we went to breakfast, and we ate very, very slowly. we were afraid the other camp was going to continue their war with us, but they actually looked fairly frightened. one of them actually came to us and asked for a truce, and we agreed because we truly felt bad for them. like, yes, they did beat us with sticks, but J fucked their watermelon. we werent complicit in the watermelonfuckening but they didnt know that, and it was definitely the kind of crime that left one outside the bounds of the social contract.

and then when we could eat no more bits, when breakfast was almost done, right when i was getting pushed to go and tell the scoutleader that we needed to find J, he arrived. he was sleep deprived, and noticeably scraped and bloody, and tied to his belt was a blood squirrel tail.

and i asked him, J, where did you get that? and he said, don't worry man, it was already dead, which did not answer by question and gave me several more.

the camp ended that day, and the other groups avoided us like the plague, and it was not until some weeks later that we were able to piece together what happened.

J, in his sojourn through the forest, managed to find (or, possibly, make) a dead squirrel. he then cut off the tail to keep on his belt, because he was a weird little freak like that. he also took the dead squirrel, and he skinned it, then he tied it to a little crucifix made of wood, and he left it in the other scouting group's camp. which is why they were so scared of us.

it was such an unhinged thing to do it actually sobered us up for a while. scouting became a scary thing for us. we'd found something dark and primal there, in the place where no adult could see, and our appreciation of J as a wild ride kind of changed into seeing him as something truly dangerous. we had a sense wherever he went, something terrible would follow, and the only way to escape it was to not be there when it arrived. and so piece by piece, the scout group dissolved. it wasnt until he moved out of that ward that the rest of us started daring to go back to scouts.

and for the final epilogue of the tale:

i have a little brother who was friends with a younger cousin of J's, and the two would go to parties together in highschool. and sometimes J, who was in his early 20's at that point, would show up at the parties, and it was unsettling in such a way that it just became a known risk at parties with the cousin. and at one party, they were playing truth or dare, and J wasn't even in the room, but someone asked him the Truth of how he always knew how to find the cousin, and J said the cousin's mom had mentioned she was worried about him and the parties so he'd put a tracker in his car. and when he saw that the cousin was out of the house on weekends, he'd made a visit by, just to make sure he was safe.

then he left. and every single person at that party went over that poor kid's car. they searched the wheel-wells, checked underneath it, the works, until they found the tracker. then because they were clever, they didnt break it, or throw it away, or anything that would've given away what they'd done. they just gave the tracker to the cousin, who put it in his glovebox. and on schooldays, he'd take it with him, so J could see him in the parking lot. and on weekends, he could leave it in the garage, so he could go to parties with out Hell coming with him. because everyone that met J - every single person - knew that the only way to be safe from him was to be far, far away.

#this is a funny story i promise #but it's also a really fucked up story #about a very fucked up person #scouting #babylon-lore #writing #anecdotes #tw: stalking #tw: blood #tw: bullying #tw: dead animal #tw: violence

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batsovergotham · 26 days ago

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tangled threads pt 1

"You've got the costume. You've got the power. You're Spider-Woman. Act like it."🕷🕸️

Main!Mark Grayson x Spider-Woman! Reader

warnings: more smut guys i cant be contained, mentions of cheating, shit abt to go down next chapter, jealousy, reader is lowkey an overthinker

w/c: 11.7k

a/n: prepare yourselves mentally for the next chapter. anyways yummy possessive mark smut. also shout out to anons birthday today ily mama<33

Your suit itches a little under your arms.

It’s not a big deal, not really. You’d stitched this one yourself after all, and honestly, it’s the greatest version yet. Sleeker, cleaner, sturdier. No duct tape. No odd wrinkles that make you appear like an amateur. The webbing design is symmetrical this time, and you finally worked out how to line the soles so you wouldn’t fall off every damp rooftop like a young deer on ice.

Progress.

Still, you quiver a bit as you crouch over the alleyway, perched on the edge of a fire escape, head inclined.

It was calm a second ago. Just the normal city street , car horns, distant music, some man yelling at his phone. But then you heard it.

A skirmish.

And then

“Shut up! I said give me the bag!”

Your eyes bolt up wide.

There it is.

It’s the type of stuff you’re supposed to be used to by now. A classic mugging. Textbook crime. You should feel like this is ordinary, that it’s no big deal because this is your work now. Your obligation.

But your stomach still twists, adrenaline coiling like a spring behind your ribs. You’re nervous. You always are.

Still, you move.

You slither up the side of the structure with a practiced elegance you didn’t have a few weeks ago. Natural webs have some attractions. They’re stronger than the synthetic stuff more elastic, too. And your fingers? They just know how to hang on now, like your DNA rebuilt itself into something savage and spider-ey.

You glance down from the rooftop and notice them two guys in jeans and jackets, both jittery, frantic. One of them’s clutching a knife. The other’s snatching a pocketbook out of a woman’s arms middle-aged, short brown hair, immobilized with fright. She’s too stunned to yell. Just wide eyes and shaky hands.

You don't hesitate.

You leap.

The air whistles past your ears as you tumble midair, webbing connecting to a lamppost to slow your descent. You fall precisely between the woman and the assailants, hunched low, one hand on the pavement, head angled up beneath the white glare of your glasses.

They flinch.

You straighten slowly. Try not to sound cocky. But… well, maybe a touch cocky.

“Hi. So. I know muggings are, like, a city staple, but have we considered not scaring innocent people today?”

The person with the knife lunges, predictably. You sidestep and web his arm to the dumpster behind him in one smooth motion. The webbing adheres instantaneously, holding strong.

“Whoa, fast reflexes,” you mutter. “But uh… maybe don’t stab strangers. Ever.”

The second person attempts to run. You link his shoes to the pavement and he eats it hard, sprawling face-first with a muffled moan.

The woman holds her bag tighter. She’s trembling.

You turn to her softly, keeping your voice low. “You okay?”

She nods once, speechless.

You motion toward the opening of the alley. “There’s a police station two blocks over. I can walk you there if you want or I can wire these dudes to a lamp post and call it in.”

She blinks. And then she grins.

“I can make it,” she murmurs. “Thank you. Thank you.”

You grin under the mask. “Anytime.”

She hurries out, heels clicking on the sidewalk as you link the assailants together and lift them up onto the wall like hanging, very puzzled Christmas ornaments.

You're still smiling a little when you leap back up to the roofs. The breeze feels good against your skin. Cold, crisp. You exhale and let yourself breathe.

That’s the problem with evenings like these. You don’t just halt crime.

You recall why you’re doing this in the first place.

You’re not a cop. You’re not a soldier. You’re not a millionaire with gadgets or a flying suit.

You’re just… you.

Some nerd with a brain full of comic books, a heart much too tender for your own good, and a weird radioactive spiderbite that chose to make your life complicated.

But right now, someone’s safe because you showed up. And that’s enough.

You fire a web, swing into the night, and let the city hum beneath your feet.

You’re back on patrol five minutes tops when your phone buzzes against your hip.

Which is odd.

Because, like… no one actually calls you when you’re out here. You’ve been careful, about the mask, about the second persona, about compartmentalizing. The entire double life thing is taxing, yet you make it work. You have to.

Still, your heart skips. Because if it’s someone who knows you, truly knows you, then something could be wrong.

You land on an empty rooftop and fumble to grasp the burner you keep strapped inside your suit, right below your ribcage. The screen lights up.

Blocked number.

Great. Classic. Totally cool.

You hesitate, thumb lingering.

Then sigh. “Fine,” you mumble. “Caution to the wind, I guess.”

You tap the response button.

There’s static, heavy, thick. Then a voice, low and piercing.

“Spider-Woman. Confirm identity.”

You freeze.

Nobody calls you that. Not out loud. Not formally. You didn’t even select the name, it kind of just happened. You made a few public saves, and the news stations did the rest. You still shudder a bit when you hear it, like it belongs to someone else.

“…Who is this?” you question carefully, without hiding your mistrust. “Because if this is a prank, it’s very elaborate and kind of terrifying, and also I have a paper due tomorrow, so-”

“We don’t have time,” the voice snaps. “We’ve been tracking you for a while. You’re registered as an unclassified enhanced. We’ve got graphics, reports, footage. And for now, we don’t care about jurisdiction.”

Your mouth gets dry.

That’s not good.

That’s the antithesis of good.

“…Okay,” you respond warily. “Still waiting on the part where I don’t hang up.”

Another beat. Then the voice changes, less harsh, more strained. Still serious.

“There’s something happening. Midtown. Three blocks south of the Flaxan contact point. We’ve got Guardians on-site. Situation's escalating rapidly. You’re the only augmented we have in range not tied up in a response unit.”

Your brain strains to keep up.

You’ve heard of the Guardians of the Globe. Who hasn’t? They’re legends. Heavy hitters. Real-deal superheroes with powers that make your webs look like party tricks. You’re quite sure if you ever met one, you’d forget how to talk. Or breathe.

And they need backup?

“You’re sure you have the right person?” you ask, voice thin. “Because I’m kind of more of a friendly-neighborhood-falling-off-buses type. If this is, like, end-of-the-world level stuff, I’m not exactly your girl.”

“You’re in the air in thirty seconds or we send in someone else,” the voice says. “We’ve got a possible offworld breach. Hostile. High-speed descent. Debris fields are developing. Civilians still in the area.”

Then quieter, almost like a warning.

“This isn’t about being ready. It’s about showing up.”

Your stomach twists.

You want to say no. You truly do.

Because you’ve battled muggers and bank robbers. You’ve hauled drivers out of automobile crashes and stitched up the occasional robbery victim, but this? This sounds larger. This sounds weird.

This sounds like the type of thing that people die in.

You squeeze the bridge of your nose through your mask. “God, I didn’t even bring snacks.”

The voice doesn’t laugh. You hang up.

And then you’re running.

You swing hard, fast, quicker than usual because suddenly there’s a tightness in your chest that won’t quit. You’re thinking about debris. About civilians. About what the hell “offworld breach” means. You’re thinking about the Guardians. About what type of thing makes them require support.

Your mind swirls through every half-finished scientific headline and tabloid theory you’ve ever skimmed. Alien threat? Another dimensional rip? Viltrumite thing? No, can’t be. You’d know. Right?

You don’t know.

That’s the worst part.

You’re swinging into the unknown, and you’re not ready.

But you’re going anyhow.

Because the woman in the alley’s probably home by now, cuddling her family.

Because someone else might not be.

Because if this is what it means to matter, then maybe you owe it to the city, and to yourself, to try.

You thrust yourself into the sky, pulse thumping, and hope, desperately, that you’re enough.

The first thing that hits you when you go to Midtown is the smell.

It clogs your nose through the filters on your mask, acrid smoke, burnt metal, dust. There’s a peculiar flavor in the air too, electric and biting, like the city’s been scraped raw. The type of stench that tells you something very, very wrong is happening.

You fall on a rooftop hard enough to make your knees ache, lungs burning as you take it all in.

Below you, the city is tearing itself apart.

Chunks of the roadway are caved in. Cars are flipped, on fire, some burning wrecks with doors hanging open. Windows are broken for blocks. Civilians are rushing in every direction, carrying wailing children, holding phones, yelling names. Sirens cry from someplace nearby, but the noises get swallowed in the tumult.

And in the middle of all of it?

Flaxans.

You’d seen them before, on TV, in the news, maybe once or twice in the darker reaches of the internet. But this? Seeing them in person is like getting a hit to the stomach. They’re shorter than you expected, barely five feet tall, but muscular. Thick limbs, squat bodies jammed into luminous green armor that hums with alien electronics. Their moves are military, coordinated, rehearsed, rapid. They march ahead in line, mowing out anything that stands in their path with pulse rifles and wrist-mounted plasma cannons.

And strangely, they appear comfortable here.

Like this is normal.

You swallow the bile rising in your throat. Then you fire a web and descend directly into the midst of the combat zone.

You hit the ground in a tumble, spring up swinging, literally, and web a Flaxan’s face to a mailbox before he can aim. Another rounds on you, but you flip over his head, twist his arm back with a webline, and smack him to the pavement. It’s like a dance, only you’re the only one not invited and everyone else brought weapons.

A flurry of yellow and red surges past you.

You turn just in time to witness Rex lob a bright metal bolt toward a clump of Flaxans. It adheres to the earth between them and detonates, sending them flying like crash test dummies. Shrapnel showers down in every direction.

He’s delving into the belt around his hips now, fingers lightning-fast as he retrieves more discs, random stuff, really. You can’t even tell what half of it is until it flashes brilliant orange and shoots into the air in a beautiful arc.

You don’t hesitate.

You leap in.

“Nice throw,” you yell, arriving behind him just as another disc goes off. “That from baseball practice, or just lots of recreational violence?”

Rex turns, eyebrows rising under his visor. “Spider-Woman?”

You web a Flaxan attempting to sneak up behind him and slam it into a wall. “The one and only. Unless someone’s cosplaying extremely hard right now.”

“I thought you were just some social media hoax.”

“Honestly? Same,” you mutter, ducking a plasma shot. “But it turns out I’m very annoying in person.”

He tosses a metal disk that flashes brilliantly and pops like a firecracker in the face of another soldier. “Well damn. Welcome to the big leagues.”

You web-swing over a mound of rubble, land on a Flaxan’s back, and kick him flat. “Didn’t get the welcome basket. Just smoke and aliens.”

Rex flings a handful of incandescent bars at an advancing gang. They disperse, and two get knocked off their feet by the concussive explosion.

“You got moves, Webhead.”

You roll your eyes under the mask. “You’re gonna call me that again, aren’t you.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

You don't have time to answer. There’s a harsh noise, mechanical, electric. A pulse in the air. It makes your teeth ache.

You both whirl around just in time to witness another portal blast open in the center of the roadway. The borders glow green and sticky, like jelly formed of static. A dozen more Flaxans fall through, landing in tight formation. Their weapons are already pointed.

“Come on!” you groan. “Does this planet look like it has the resources for this??”

Rex chucks a disk like a grenade and blasts out the first line. The following batch doesn’t even flinch.

You lunge forward, webbing two of them to a lamppost, only to get blasted backward by a pulse round. It hits your side, not a clean shot, but enough to knock the wind out of you.

You slam against the bonnet of a Prius, denting it so severely the windshield spiderwebs below you. Your ribs sting.

Rex lands near you with a grunt. “Still with me, Webhead?”

You groan. “Yeah. But I think I messed up this guy’s insurance premium.”

He grins and pulls you up, tossing another glowing disk into a Flaxan’s chest. “You always this mouthy in fights?”

You cough, then web-launch yourself into a wall run. “You always this explosive in team-ups?”

His laugh is wild and short, like it’s simply muscle memory now.

But then you hear it.

A grinding, metallic screech.

You jerk your head toward the sound and freeze.

The school bus from earlier, still teetering on the verge of the hole in the road, is starting to tilt.

The earth underneath it collapses.

You don’t think.

You just move.

You shoot a webline to the back of the bus, push yourself forward, and fall hard on the side of a building across the street. Your arms extend, strain tugging hard through your shoulders, almost enough to dislocate. But you hold. You have to hold.

The bus tilts. Groans.

And finally settles.

The back wheels impact pavement again. You release the web slowly, carefully, and the frame creaks as it levels out.

The hatch in the back breaks open.

Kids pour out. A dozen of them, coughing, eyes wide with horror. One tiny girl, maybe seven, throws her arms around your waist and clings like her life relies on it.

You freeze.

Then softly, one arm still shaking, you embrace her back.

“You’re okay now,” you mumble. “I’ve got you.”

A tremendous thud hits nearby. You turn just in time to see Monster Girl fall in her altered condition, covered in gore, panting hard.

She stares at you, then the kids.

Her voice is gruff, yet real. “Nice save.”

You nod, still breathless. “I had help.”

She snorts. “Hope you’ve got more where that came from.”

Another portal flickers open. You hear more screaming in the distance. The sky’s become a peculiar green in places, the boundaries of the city flashing like a glitch in a video game.

But you’re here.

Rex is still tossing homemade bombs like it’s second nature. Monster Girl is smashing through enemy lines like she was born for it. Dupli-Kate and Bulletproof are assisting evacuate civilians from an overturned ambulance.

And you?

You're bleeding. Sore. Ribs bruised. Every bit of you screaming.

But you’re still standing.

Still swinging.

Still saving lives.

You’re not the strongest. Not the quickest. Not the most powerful person on this block.

But you showed up.

The world narrows.

It’s not the smoke, or the wailing sirens, or even the metallic fragrance of burning debris that surrounds your senses now.

It’s him.

Invincible.

Hovering only a few feet above the ground, suit scuffed, hair a wild jumble around the edges of his mask, chest heaving from the strain of smashing through an alien army and nevertheless, somehow, beaming at you like this is just a pick-up basketball game instead of a war.

"You’re good," he replies, voice raspy with exertion but obviously warm. Genuine.

You blink, briefly disarmed. You’re used to people shrugging you off, underestimating you, some kid in a handmade suit but there's none of that in his voice. No condescending tone, no expression of amazement that you managed to stay up.

It’s simple. Honest.

“You’re not terrible yourself, Hotshot," you fire back, heart thumping foolishly hard under your ribs.

The second the words leave your tongue, you wince inside.

Hotshot? Seriously? What are you, a walking 90s action comic script?

He glides a bit closer, hands slack at his sides, his whole body still crackling with velocity he hasn’t completely burnt off yet.

"Hotshot, huh?" he says, taunting, cocking his head slightly.

You struggle, backpedaling like a defective Roomba. “I meant, you’re fast! Like, you know. A hot... thing. Flying. Through... air."

You trail off, humiliated. You can feel the heat spreading over your cheeks inside the mask.

But he simply laughs, not harshly. It’s smooth and brilliant, somehow cutting clear through the smoke and sirens. It smacks you down in your gut, a vibration you don’t know what to do with.

“Well, I’m not gonna argue,” he adds, mouth twisting into an even larger smile. “I’ll take ‘Hotshot.’ Makes me sound cooler than I am.”

You huff a chuckle without intending to, the stress oozing out of your painful muscles for just a second.

Movement out of the corner of your eye yanks you back to reality.

A group of Flaxans, still armed and regrouping over the ruins, assemble for a charge.

Instinct kicks in.

You don't need a plan. You don’t even need a glimpse.

You and Invincible move in perfect harmony.

You dash low and quickly, webbing the ground in front of the Flaxans to make them slip. He swoops above in a broad arc, striking his fists together in a shockwave that flattens their first row like bowling pins.

You’re almost there by the time the second line regains footing, slingshotting off a lamppost and kicking the leader square in the chest. He goes down with a groan, shattering pavement.

Another Flaxan tries to flank you, Invincible intercepts effortlessly, seizing the soldier by the collar and flinging him through the remnants of a bus stop.

You dart forward, webbing a plasma weapon out of a Flaxan’s hands, catching it midair, and tossing it to Invincible.

He catches it one-handed, turns it, and smashes it over another alien’s head in one seamless move.

Crash.

"Good job, Web-head!"

You sigh loudly as you fall alongside him. "Spider-Woman!"

He grins, the type of grin that’s half apology, half doing it on purpose because it’s hilarious.

You don’t punch him.

You want to.

But you don’t.

Instead, you focus.

There’s a lull, brief but golden, and in it, you hear the crackling of something greater starting up. Another portal. A last wave.

The earth under your feet shudders.

Invincible soars higher, searching the horizon. His expression hardens behind the mask.

"They're bringing in heavy reinforcements," he says. "Bigger tech. Maybe even tanks."

You shoot a web at a cracked traffic light and pull yourself up to perch at his height.

"So what’s the plan, Hotshot?" you tease, but your voice is firmer now, shifting into something more natural, like the two of you have always battled together.

He stares at you, really looks, and flashes that same, unbreakable, reckless smile that must terrify the hell out of every criminal he confronts.

"Plan? Easy," he adds, rolling his shoulders. "We hit 'em harder."

You snort, shaking your head. "Ohhh, you’re one of those. Big punch, no intellect."

He pretends to be hurt. "Hey! I have at least some brain."

"Sure," you quip, firing a webline at a neighboring structure to swing ahead, "Maybe half a brain cell rattling around in there like a marble."

He laughs again, loud, unguarded, real, and it fires something in your chest.

Not simply admiration. Not simply attraction.

Something familiar.

...Weird.

You don’t have time to linger on it.

The last Flaxan gateway opens with a shriek that shakes your teeth.

The roadway virtually implodes as a massive mech suit strides through, Flaxan design, green armor, twin weapons strapped to its shoulders, storming toward the city center like a behemoth out of a nightmare.

Civilians trapped under a smashed taxi yell nearby.

Invincible cracks his knuckles.

You web-swing down and settle alongside him.

He stares at you, grinning crookedly again. “One last dance?”

You beam a grin back behind your mask, pulse pumping.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

And without another word, you launch yourselves together, him a blur of yellow and blue, you a streak of red and black, straight into the heart of the war.

Side by side.

Like you’ve been doing it forever.

The Flaxan’s mech claw snaps around Mark’s neck mid-flight, yanking him down like a broken toy. Metal fingers crush into his throat and collarbone, bruises bursting dark and ugly across his skin. He gasps, head wrenched back so violently his collarbone creaks under the pressure. Blood fills his mouth, hot and metallic, his vision swimming at the edges. The Flaxan squeezes harder, grinding bone and muscle until his skin blooms purple and black.

"Not... today," Mark rasps, his voice shredded. He slams his forehead into the mech’s cockpit, shattering glass, the grip faltering.

He crashes to the ground, coughing, the bruises burning like brands but rage drives him back to his feet, fists clenched, ready to rip the monster apart.

The mech lets out one more, earsplitting cry before it smashes backward, its metal structure crumpling like a soda can under its own weight. Invincible doesn’t hesitate, he leaps forward, shouldering the wreck mid-fall to redirect it away from the crumbling residential block.

The mech smashes into an abandoned construction lot with a gut-punching BOOM, sending a rolling wave of dust and grit into the air.

You hardly have time to respond.

You shoot a web at a damaged crane, hauling yourself up and swinging in a broad arc, your body cutting through the dust cloud in a tight corkscrew spin before you crash softly into the battered pavement.

It’s silent now.

Not peaceful, there’s still the distant screech of sirens, the crackling of burning debris but the worst is passed.

The Flaxan gateways are gone.

The aliens are scattered or unconscious.

You straighten up slowly, every part of you hurting.

Your suit is ripped across your side, your suit torn at the knuckles, and you’re quite sure you twisted your ankle on that last nasty landing.

But you’re alive.

Standing.

Victorious.

And as you peek over your shoulder, you see him.

Invincible.

He drifts down through the settling dust like a shot-out star, boots hitting the cracked pavement with a hard, grounded thud. His suit is charred and shredded in parts, a deep cut flowing sluggishly from his brow, yet he’s grinning anyway wide and dumb and sincere.

His eyes meet yours over the wreckage.

And despite yourself, despite the tiredness tugging at your limbs, you grin back behind your mask.

"You’re good," he says first, a touch raspy but very sincere, dusting soot from his gloves.

You breathe out a nervous breath, adjusting your weight. “You’re not so bad yourself, Hotshot.”

He laughs, a pleasant, youthful sound that cuts through the smoke hanging in the air.

"Hotshot, huh? Might be my new fave."

You cock your head. “Could’ve been worse. I nearly nicknamed you Flyboy.”

He scrunches his nose, appearing to be terrified. "Ugh. I’d have to start wearing a cape if you did."

You snicker, and maybe it's the adrenaline, maybe it's the bizarre connection you had fighting back-to-back but for a minute, it’s easy.

Like you’re just two foolish kids who stumbled into rescuing the world.

Before any of you can say anything further, heavy shoes crunch on the pavement.

Rex Splode comes walking toward you like he rules the battlefield, brandishing a burned Flaxan weapon between his fingers.

He pauses a few feet away, sizing you both up like he’s stumbled across a scene developing.

“Oh, wow," Rex exclaims, loud enough that you wince. "Look at this. Banter. Flirting. Dramatic tension."

You and Invincible both quickly stiffen.

“What?! No!” you blurt, far too fast.

Invincible grunts, raking a hand through his hair. "Dude, knock it off."

But Rex is already in full performance mode, tossing his arms wide. “I mean, the way you two were syncing up back there? Chef’s kiss. Someone call Hollywood, we found a new power couple.”

You shake your head, horrified. “I have a boyfriend, thank you very much!”

Invincible lifts a hand too, clumsily. "And I have a girlfriend."

You and him both point at each other like you're setting down evidence at a trial.

Rex whistles low, grinning. "Yikes. Star-crossed and everything."

You sigh into your palm, feeling the heat climb up your neck behind your mask. "This is not a thing."

Invincible crosses his arms, fidgeting nervously. "Yeah, Rex. Seriously. Cut it out."

But Rex only smirks, flinging the burnt weapon over his shoulder. “Sure, sure. Totally believable. No chemistry at all. Couldn't even tell you were two seconds away from proposing mid-battle."

You almost choke.

Even Invincible makes a strangled sound like he’s struggling not to die on the spot.

You square your shoulders, pushing yourself to breathe. "For the record, my boyfriend is basically the world's biggest nerd. He thinks jaywalking is too rebellious.”

Mark runs across your mind, messy hair, naively sweet eyes, a voice breaking somewhat when he attempts to flirt.

You feel a silly, overpowering warmth spring in your chest at the thought of him.

Meanwhile, Invincible huffs, attempting to appear nonchalant. "My girlfriend’s way cooler than me. She's, um... smarter. Way smarter."

(He glances sideways at you for a fraction of a second before clearing his throat and focusing hard at a broken light post.)

You catch it, but you brush it off.

It’s just fighting adrenaline.

It doesn’t signify anything.

Probably.

Rex isn’t helping.

He slaps a hand on Invincible’s shoulder and laughs big. “Well, tell your lady thanks for letting you share the battlefield with your love tonight."

Invincible shoves him off softly. "You’re such an idiot."

You can’t help it, you laugh.

The tension breaks, just a bit.

You gaze at Invincible again. He’s smiling too, crooked, exhausted, a touch ashamed.

There’s blood crusting at the corner of his lips, a bruise deepening on his jawline, his whole body drooping with exhaustion, and he still seems like he’s having the time of his life.

You shouldn’t feel so warm inside.

You really, really shouldn’t.

You push your hands onto your hips, attempting to seem nonchalant.

"Anyway. I’m out. I've got a hot date with an ice pack and a thousand regrets."

Invincible chuckles, raking a hand over his shaggy hair.

"Same. Except, like, two thousand regrets."

You shake your head and blast a webline up to a shattered billboard.

You hesitate for just a second, staring back at him.

"See you around, Flyboy."

He grins, lopsided and careless.

"You better."

You jump into the air, soaring high across the rubble of Midtown, heart still thumping hard against your ribs.

You’re smiling too hard behind your mask.

And you don’t realize

neither of you realizes

that when you meet Mark Grayson tonight, when you fumble through a weary, uncomfortable coffee date...

you’ll be seeing the same boy who caught you mid-fall.

Who grinned at you through flames and blood and broken concrete.

The same boy you already, somehow, unconsciously, entirely belong to.

Morning strikes you like a freight train.

You wake up aching in areas you didn't even realize you had muscles, your body fighting the mere act of breathing.

Your ribs ache deep and hot under your skin. Your arms feel like they’re burdened down with lead.

Even your fingers are tight, bruised and painful from slinging webs for hours straight.

You sit up carefully, cringing as a stinging pang slashes through your side.

You look at the bedroom ceiling for a few long seconds, heart heavy, lungs feeling too big in your chest.

The war feels like a dream now.

Like it didn’t happen.

Like it was some foolish dream you thought up between classes and homework.

But the bruises are genuine.

The cuts are genuine.

The way your body trembles when you force yourself to your feet is quite genuine.

You get dressed mechanically, loose pants, a big sweatshirt you can hide yourself in.

You take twice as long as normal doing your hair, covering up the bruises on your face with meticulous makeup on your bruised eye.

Your hands tremble a little when you apply the concealer.

You pretend it’s just tiredness.

By the time you make it to campus, the sun is high and the sidewalks are full.

Students swarm by you in every direction, chatting about schoolwork, weekend plans, gossip.

Nobody looks twice at you.

Good.

You need today to be normal.

You need to visit Mark, and sit with him beneath some stupid tree with coffee and chat about anything but superheroes and cities breaking apart.

You hold your coffee cup like a lifeline, the cardboard warm against your injured fingertips.

Your ankle twinges intensely with every other stride.

You breathe through it.

You’re fine.

You’re halfway at the library when you notice him.

Mark.

He’s standing near the steps, bag thrown over one shoulder, hair as unkempt as ever.

He’s wearing one of his normal awful graphic tees, the Seance Dog one that’s virtually falling apart, and a pair of pants so old they’re more thread than fabric at the knees.

Your heart stumbles the way it usually does when you see him.

You halt your steps, some silly smile already pulling at your mouth without permission.

But then you see her.

Eve.

She’s standing close, too close, from where you are.

They’re laughing at something, heads inclined toward one other like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

You pause, your feet clinging to the concrete like you just walked into quicksand.

Your fingers clench reflexively around your coffee cup. The cardboard crumples slightly beneath your fingers.

You aren't even aware you're holding your breath.

Eve reaches out, casual, easy, and punches Mark softly on the arm.

He ducks his head, laughing, scratching the back of his neck the way he usually does when he's embarrassed or flustered.

You recognize it.

You know that gesture like you know the back of your own hand.

You bite the inside of your cheek till you taste copper.

You try, really try, to persuade yourself it's nothing.

They’re simply friends.

Mark told you. He said he and Eve were old news. That it never truly went anywhere after Amber broke up with him. That it’s just friendship now.

But standing here, watching them...

It doesn’t feel like just friendship.

It feels like something you’re not supposed to witness.

Eve is attractive in that easy, nonchalant manner that makes your stomach twist.

Sunlight captures the red in her hair, the way it drapes over her shoulders.

She’s beautiful. More elegant. More sure about herself.

And Mark.

Mark's staring at her with that easy, comfortable grin you used to believe was reserved exclusively for you.

Your heart kicks into your ribs, quick and terrified.

You shift your weight, attempting to seem busy, pretending to scroll through your phone.

But your eyes keep sliding back, betraying.

They’re still chatting.

Still smiling.

Still appearing like they fit together flawlessly in a manner that you will never quite measure up to.

You feel sick.

Your coffee has gone cold in your hands, the warmth leaking away without you knowing.

You tell yourself to move.

You tell yourself to stroll over there, to wave, to say hey like a normal human being.

But your feet won’t move.

You’re glued to the place, staring like an idiot from across the quad.

You’re so dumb.

You’re so, so dumb.

You’re Spider-Woman, for God's sake, you battled alongside actual superheroes, you survived an alien invasion, and yet here you are, petrified by a gaze.

You peel your look away finally, your throat tight.

You sink your head lower under your sweatshirt and slink toward the Humanities building, weaving between the masses as swiftly as your aching body would allow.

You don’t look back.

You can’t.

Your chest hurts in a way that has nothing to do with damaged ribs or strained muscles.

You stagger inside the building and slump into the nearest bench, hands quivering around your coffee cup.

You set it down before you crush it completely.

You sit there for a long period, simply breathing.

In. Out. In. Out.

You can still see it behind your eyelids, Mark laughing, Eve gazing up at him, the comfortable push of familiarity between them.

You close your eyes tight, hating yourself for how much it hurts.

It’s unreasonable.

It’s insecure.

It’s unjust.

But you can’t turn it off.

Not when you’ve never felt like enough to begin with.

You push the heels of your palms into your eyes, wishing the anguish away.

Later…later you’ll meet up with Mark, like you arranged.

Later you’ll sit across from him with coffee or fries or anything stupid and normal.

And he’ll grin at you, and he'll grab for your hand without thinking, and he'll say something dumb and charming like he usually does.

And you'll remind yourself that you're the one he's dating.

Not Eve.

You.

You'll push yourself to believe it, even if your foolish heart still hurts with uncertainty.

Even if some part of you, small and nasty and terrified, already feels like you're waging a battle you don't know how to win.

You sit there on the bench for a long minute, simply breathing.

In, out.

Trying to shove the dumb, unpleasant emotion back down where it belongs.

Trying to remind yourself that you’re exhausted.

You’re sore.

You’re emotional after all that happened last night.

It’s not Mark’s fault.

He hasn’t even done anything wrong.

And yet, when you hear familiar footsteps sprinting up the steps toward you, your body tenses without thinking.

You glance up and there he is.

Mark.

He’s a bit out of breath, hair a mess like he rushed across campus to make it on time.

His backpack's falling off one shoulder, and there’s a coffee stain on the front of his Seance Dog T-shirt like he spilled it in a haste.

You would normally smile at the sight of him.

You would normally feel that silly, automatic flutter in your chest.

But right now?

It just bends into something heavier.

“Hey!” he exclaims, flashing you his boyish, too-bright smile. “I thought I was gonna be late, but turns out Professor Connors is running behind. We’ve got like, five minutes.”

You nod mutely, straightening up stiffly.

Mark’s grin falters a little, his brow furrowing.

“You okay?” he says, putting his backpack higher on his shoulder. "You look... tired."

You shrug, pushing past him without meeting his eyes. “Didn’t sleep much.”

Which isn’t a lie.

You didn’t sleep.

You spent half an hour reliving the picture of Eve smiling at him over and over until it burnt itself into the backs of your eyelids.

Mark falls into stride with you as you approach into class.

Normally, he’s a touch clingy in that stupidly cute way bumping your shoulder, brushing your hand with his, sneaking small looks when he thinks you’re not looking.

Today, you keep just enough distance between you that he notices.

You see it in the way he hesitates mid-step, like he’s not sure if he should approach closer or not.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again, softer now. “You seem... I dunno. Off.”

You exhale through your nose, hard, holding the strap of your bag until your knuckles hurt.

"I said I’m fine," you mumble, harsher than you want to be.

Mark blinks at you, thrown off.

You don’t typically snap at him.

You don't normally snap at anyone.

He falls silent for a beat, staring forward at the structure.

You both climb the steps in awkward, weighty quiet.

You can feel him stealing looks at you from the corner of his eye.

You know he’s worried.

You know he’s confused.

You hate yourself a bit for making him feel that way.

But you can’t help it.

You can’t stop picturing it, him standing there with Eve, smiling, laughing like he belonged next to her in a way he doesn't next to you.

You don’t want to be that person, the jealous girlfriend, the insecure mess.

You trust Mark.

You do.

But that doesn’t stop the anguish gnawing at you from the inside out.

You enter inside the lecture hall together.

You normally sit close, shoulder to shoulder, sharing silly whispered commentary throughout the dull sections.

Today, you place your bag onto the seat by the window, giving yourself an extra chair of space between you without thinking.

Mark waits nervously before sitting next to you, near, but not as close as usual.

Professor Connors starts talking.

Slides click onto the projector.

The normal mind-numbing drone of a lecture fills the air.

And you sit there, looking at the board, not hearing any of it.

You’re too conscious of Mark fidgeting beside you, tapping his pen against his notepad, bouncing his knee, stealing looks at you every few minutes like he’s trying to figure out how he ticked you off and has no clue what he did.

You feel him lean down slightly, voice low and hesitant.

“Did I... do something?”

You shake your head fiercely, gaze fixated on the screen. "No."

"But you’re mad," he adds, not accusing, just perplexed, a little hurt. "I can tell."

"I’m not mad," you lie, voice too flat.

He leans back, appearing a bit more upset now, but keeping it under the surface the way he usually does when he doesn't know how to solve anything.

You cross your arms across your chest, sliding deeper in your seat.

You hate this.

You hate that he’s trying.

You hate that you’re blocking him out.

You hate that you feel so little, so childish, so disposable.

You twist your fingers into the hem of your hoodie, pushing your nails into the cloth.

You’re being unfair.

You know you are.

Mark didn’t do anything wrong.

You’re just exhausted.

You’re just insecure.

You’re just frightened that one day he’s going to discover that someone like Eve fits better beside him than you ever could.

And you won’t even be able to blame him for it.

You look toward the front of the room, willing yourself to focus on anything but the burn behind your eyes.

Beside you, Mark goes still.

Quiet.

Trying to give you room.

Trying not to make it worse.

You sit there, side by side, the slight distance between you feeling like a canyon.

And for the first time since you started dating him, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, you’re not as sure of yourself as you thought you were.

Class drags like a big weight behind you.

You keep your eyes forward, your expression neutral, trying not to think about the agony in your chest, or the ache in your ribs, for that matter.

The lecture is just a jumble of slides and half-hearted notes.

Beside you, Mark fidgets incessantly.

He’s never been excellent at sitting still.

His knee jumps beneath the table, his pen taps a rhythm on his notepad still, and every so often, he stares at you.

You ignore him.

Or you attempt to.

You can feel the confusion radiating off him like flames.

He doesn't understand why you’re suddenly cold.

You can literally hear the gears in his mind turning.

Normally, he’d mutter a foolish joke under his breath, just to make you roll your eyes and smile.

Normally, you’d push his arm or steal his pen simply to screw with him back.

Today you don't.

You just sit there, frozen, looking blankly at the blackboard while your chest tightens tighter.

Finally, mercifully, the lecturer dismisses you.

Everyone around you rushes up, grabbing bags, talking.

You stuff your notepad inside your backpack with hard, jerking movements.

You can feel Mark watching you, waiting for you to look at him, but you don’t.

You rush toward the door.

You’re halfway down the hall when you hear him jog to catch up.

"Hey-"

His voice breaks a little on the word.

He clears his throat and tries again, maintaining pace with you. "Wait up."

You keep walking, not slowing down.

Mark scuffs his sneakers across the tile, visibly worried. "Um... you doing anything after this?"

You peek at him out of the corner of your eye.

He’s staring at you, hopeful, wary, all huge blue eyes and tangled hair, and something terrible and tender twists inside you.

You hate that you still want to fall into him.

You hate that you can't.

You shrug. "Why?"

Mark touches the back of his neck, a classic motion when he's uncomfortable or awkward.

"I dunno. Thought maybe we could, like... hang out or something."

He says it like he’s winging it.

Like he hadn’t been planning it in his thoughts for the previous twenty minutes while you gave him the cold shoulder.

"We could get food," he says hurriedly. "Or, uh, Netflix. Something silly. Whatever. I mean, if you want. No huge issue if you don't. Just-"

He’s spiraling.

Fast.

You halt at the entryway of the main building, fingers clenching on the strap of your bag.

You eventually gaze at him.

He’s got that uncomfortable, serious face you know too well, the one that indicates he has no idea what he did wrong but he wants to repair it regardless.

You should say no.

You should put distance between you.

Give yourself room to breathe.

But the words stick in your throat.

You can’t make yourself shove him away.

You can’t.

"Maybe," you respond quietly.

Mark perks up quickly and his whole face glows. It's so foolish and innocent that it makes your chest feel harder.

"Cool," he adds, going for casual and failing terribly. "Yeah, nice. No pressure."

You nod, tugging your sweater sleeves down over your wounded knuckles.

You step outdoors together.

The sun is too bright; it makes your head hurt.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

But he keeps strolling next to you, shoulders slouched, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, stealing looks at you like he’s trying to figure out how upset you are without risking saying anything idiotic and making things worse.

After a minute, he clears his throat again.

"You sure you're okay?" He repeats it lowly, trying not to seem like he’s lingering.

You hesitate.

You could tell him the truth.

You could say. ‘I saw you with her. I saw you smiling. I saw how easy it was.’

But you don't.

You just pull your arms tighter over yourself and whisper, "I'm fine."

Mark studies you for a second longer, like he knows you're lying but doesn’t know how to call you on it without making everything worse.

"Okay," he replies eventually, quietly. "I’ll shut up."

He touches the back of his neck again, gazing at the sidewalk.

You soften a little.

Just a bit.

Because he’s trying so hard.

Because he doesn’t even know what he’s attempting to solve.

You decrease your speed a little so he can catch up.

You don’t take his hand.

But you don’t draw away when your arms brush.

You stroll side by side in silence, awkward, wounded, fatigued.

Not healed.

Not really alright.

But trying.

His dorm is still a disaster.

Not a biohazard-level mess, not yet, but busy enough that you wind yourself carefully stepping over a crumpled sweatshirt and a couple of tossed notebooks on the floor as you go in. The curtains are half-drawn, plunging the room into a pleasant sort of half-shadow, and Mark quickly sinks face-first onto his bed like a dead body.

"You pick," he mumbles into the covers. "Netflix password's saved."

You snort under your breath, laying your bag down and poking his foot with your knee. "Lazy."

"You knew what you signed up for," he mutters back, voice muffled.

You roll your eyes, but a faint smile comes across your face before you can stop it. You walk to his desk, turn on his laptop, and navigate through Netflix until you find something silly and familiar, something you both can half-watch without actually paying attention.

By the time you press "play," Mark’s switched over, rolling onto his side to make way for you without even opening his eyes. Like he simply expects you to be there. Like it’s normal.

And somehow…somehow it is.

You kick your shoes off and climb onto the bed with him, the mattress lowering beneath both your weight. He quickly drags you closer without thinking, flinging one arm around your waist and nestling his face into the crook of your neck.

You go stiff for a second, the heat running up your neck so fast it makes you dizzy, but Mark only sighs, pleased, and squeezes you once before relaxing. His breath is warm on your skin. His body is warm against yours.

You tell yourself not to read into things.

You convince yourself it's simply who he is. That Mark Grayson is the sort of person that hugs people like he means it. The sort of man who laughs at your idiotic jokes, who waits for you after class, who doesn't notice when you gaze at him like he's the whole universe wrapped up in an oversized sweatshirt and a poor Netflix suggestion.

You don't even know you’re crying until Mark stirs against you and pulls back, looking blearily up at you in uncertainty.

"Hey," he replies, voice suddenly crisper, more aware. "What's wrong? Are you…are you crying? Oh my gosh, did I elbow you in the face? I knew I should've moved the laptop-"

You let out a wet laugh, brushing your sleeve across your face. “No, no, you didn’t elbow me, you idiot. I’m OK. I just-" You swallow. "It’s stupid.”

Mark sits up fully now, his hair sticking up in a million different places, looking absolutely wrecked with stress. His hand hangs over your back like he wants to touch you but isn't sure if he should.

"It’s not stupid if it’s making you cry," he adds, so sincerely, so earnestly that your throat tightens again.

You shake your head, producing a feeble grin. "I’m just-" You breathe deeply. "I’m really glad I met you."

Mark stares at you for a second, like he’s attempting to download those words right into his head. Then he grins, tiny, gentle, real, and leans in to place a kiss on your forehead.

"You’re stuck with me now," he says playfully, attempting to make you laugh, but you can hear the reality behind it. The way he means it.

You close your eyes and lean toward him, letting yourself breathe him in.

For a little while, you simply remain like that, tangled together on his bed, the laptop playing some bad comedy nobody’s actually watching, the late afternoon light creeping golden over the room, and for the first time all day, that unpleasant knot between your ribs starts to ease.

Maybe you’re not Eve.

Maybe you’ll never be as confident or as flawless or as easy as she looks.

But you’re you.

And oddly, that’s the person Mark wants next to him right now.

You don’t know how long you stay like that.

The world outside disappears, the sounds of campus traffic, the distant sound of someone laughing down the hall, even the quiet hum of the laptop playing some show you’re no longer recognizing. It’s all background static now.

All you can feel is Mark.

The calm, steady rise and fall of his chest on yours.

The weight of his arm, relaxed but protecting, wrapped over your side.

The way his thumb continues pressing little, absentminded circles into your hip through the fabric of your shirt, like he’s grounding himself there.

It’s dumb.

It’s so ridiculous.

But you’re terrified to move.

Scared that if you shift, if you break the fragile enchantment hanging in the air, you’ll lose whatever this is, whatever glittering, delicate thread has weaved itself between the two of you.

God, you love him.

And the notion strikes you, abrupt and raw and terrifying, He could leave you at any second.

He might discover you’re not what he needs. That you're too much or not enough. That he deserves someone simpler to love.

And it would break you.

It would totally break you.

You’re so weary of pretending you’re cool with it.

So tired of smiling through it.

So weary of being too timid to tell him.

The panic rises in your chest, overpowering, and before you can think better of it, before you can convince yourself that you're meant to be sensible, or wise, or at least not a complete disaster-

you lean up and kiss him.

Hard.

It’s clumsy. Desperate. You just manage to angle your face right before your mouth crashes into his, your palm fisting uncomfortably in the front of his sweatshirt like you need anything to grasp onto, something substantial to prevent from falling apart altogether.

Mark freezes.

For a single, painful heartbeat, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t kiss you back.

You nearly flinch, almost draw away, terrified at yourself, heat blooming up your neck so quickly it burns

But then he makes a sound.

A quiet, broken, shocked sound down in his throat.

And then he’s kissing you back.

It’s not polished.

It’s not gentle.

It’s hungry.

Mark turns, rolling fully onto his side, his hand sliding up to cradle your jaw, pushing you more into him like he can’t take the notion of even an inch of gap between you. His mouth is hot and a touch feverish against yours, and you can feel the strain he’s been carrying, the perplexity, the doubt, the hope, pouring out into every weak breath he exhales into your skin.

You gasp against his mouth as his other hand finds your waist, dragging you closer, and the sound seems to destroy him, he sighs, deep in his chest, and kisses you harder, like he’s scared if he lets off for even a second you’ll vanish.

Your heart is beating so fiercely it feels like it could break your ribs wide.

You feel alive in a way you didn’t even aware you weren’t before. Like the world has sharpened into something brutally vivid, every nerve-ending lighted up, every inch of your skin throbbing with how hard you want more.

When you eventually draw back, it’s only because you have to because you’re both breathing like you just ran a marathon, foreheads crushed together, hands still clutching to each other like the ground may drop out beneath you if you let go.

Mark’s eyes are blown wide, his pupils black and blurry, his cheeks heated. His lips are red and a bit puffy. He looks destroyed.

He looks fantastic.

“Jesus,” he whispers, voice low and rough. “You’re-you’re just full of surprises today, huh?”

You want to laugh, or joke, or say something funny, but all you can do is gaze at him, chest heaving, your hands still knotted in the front of his sweatshirt. You feel stripped bare. Exposed.

You attempt to talk, but it comes out tiny, hoarse “I’m sorry-”

Mark’s visage dissolves, softens, and he shakes his head instantly.

“No.” He crushes his forehead more firmly to yours. His hand brushes across your cheek, trembling just slightly. “No. Don’t apologize.”

You blink hard, tears pricking the corners of your eyes again but this time it’s different. Not fear. Not jealousy.

Relief.

Hope.

Something terrifyingly near to bliss.

Mark draws back just enough to actually look at you, his thumb stroking across your eye where a tear slid loose. His voice is so soothing it nearly breaks you. “I didn’t even know what I did wrong,” he mutters against your lips, voice shaking with relief and leftover fear. His hands roam your back like he’s reassuring himself you’re real. “I just… thought you hated me or something. Thought you were done.” Your throat tightens so tightly it aches. You attempt to grin, and it wobbles all over the place.

“You’re…you’re quite awful at subtlety, y’know," you say, your voice barely holding steady.

He grins, crooked and lovely, like he understands precisely how much he’s destroying you with it.

“Guess it’s a good thing you’re bad at it too.”

And then he kisses you again, softer this time, slower, like he’s enjoying it, like he’s remembering the way you taste, the way you breathe against his mouth.

And you let him.

God, you let him.

You sink into him, let yourself drown a little, because you finally can.

For once, you don’t have to pretend you’re OK.

For once, you’re exactly where you want to be.

Right here.

With him.

Mark kisses you like he’s forgotten the rest of the world exists.

It starts soft, a brush of his mouth against yours, tender and a little shaky, like he’s still not totally sure you’re real, but it doesn’t stay that way for long.

Because you kiss him back.

You kiss him back with everything you've been holding in, every second of pining and doubt and hope and fear you've tried to swallow down for months. You kiss him like you're afraid he might disappear if you don't.

Mark responds like he’s been starving for it.

The hand cradling your jaw slides down, finding the side of your neck, his thumb brushing the line of your throat where your pulse is hammering wildly. His other arm tightens around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and the sudden press of his body makes your breath catch.

You don't even remember tilting back, but somehow you end up half-lying across his bed, tangled together, the world narrowing down to the slow drag of his mouth against yours and the heat coiling low in your belly.

You feel clumsy.

Overwhelmed.

Alive in a way you didn’t even realize you weren’t before.

When he parts your lips with his tongue, you let him, and the soft, involuntary noise that slips out of you seems to light something up inside him, something a little reckless, a little raw.

Mark shifts over you, bracing himself with one hand beside your head on the mattress, and you grab the hem of his hoodie without thinking, clinging to him, pulling him closer.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you, flushed, breathing hard, pupils blown wide, and for a second you just stare at each other, hearts pounding so loud you’re half-convinced he can hear yours through your ribs.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice hoarse, serious.

You nod, dizzy, breathless. “Yeah. Yeah, just-”

You swallow, and your voice wobbles. “You’re really close.”

Mark grins crookedly, something soft and helpless in the way he looks at you.

"That’s kinda the idea," he murmurs, leaning down to kiss you again, slower this time, savoring it.

The heat between you builds with every touch. It’s not frantic, not like the movies make it seem but it’s constant. A steady, aching pull. A need that feels so much bigger than just your bodies.

His hands are everywhere and nowhere all at once, skimming along your waist, tracing the curve of your hip, ghosting up your side under the fabric of your shirt but never pushing too far, never crossing a line without some kind of silent permission. Like he’s letting you set the pace. Like he’s terrified of hurting you, even by accident.

And it just wrecks you.

The way he touches you like you’re precious.

You fist your hands in the front of his hoodie again, pulling him closer, and he follows your lead without hesitation, pressing against you, the firm heat of him impossible to ignore now. You can feel the hardness straining against his jeans where he slots between your thighs, and the realization sends a molten jolt through you so strong you almost whimper.

Mark pulls back just enough to look at you again, searching your face, his own flushed and almost wrecked with want.

“We can stop,” he says, his voice low, rough. “If you want. Just say the word.”

God.

You’ve never wanted anything less.

“I don’t wanna stop,” you gasp, fingers clutching him tighter. “Just…” You blink rapidly, breath hitching. “I thought you didn’t want me anymore. And it hurt more than it should’ve.”

Mark lets out a short, shaky laugh, not mocking, just unbelievably fond. He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheekbone, then the corner of your mouth, slow and patient and sweet.

“Neither do I,” he breathes against your mouth, his voice rough but honest. “I’m just… trying. Trying to be good enough for you. Half the time I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

You let out a wet, half-laugh, half-sob of relief, and he kisses you again, really kisses you, deep and slow, like he’s trying to tell you with his mouth that you don’t have to be perfect. That you’re enough.

Your hands find the hem of his hoodie again and tug, clumsily. He breaks the kiss to help you, grinning a little as he yanks it off and tosses it somewhere behind him.

Your heart trips at the sight of him, broad-shouldered, solid, every muscle in him straining under light golden, sweat-slicked skin. He’s not some giant, he’s real, tangible, all lean strength and quiet power.

Everything you know, everything you’ve missed. Everything.

Mark leans back down, and this time, when his hands slip under your shirt, you arch into him instead of flinching. His palms are warm against your ribs, exploring slowly, reverently.

You kiss him harder, and he groans against your mouth, grinding his hips against yours in a way that makes you gasp, your fingers scrambling at his shoulders for something to hold onto.

It's messy. It's uncoordinated. You’re both breathing like you just ran a marathon and half-laughing into each other’s mouths whenever your teeth accidentally bump.

And it’s perfect.

Because it’s real.

It’s honest.

It’s you and him, no games, no pretending, just raw, aching want.

Mark kisses a trail down your throat, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin just below your jaw, and you shiver, your hands sliding up into his hair without thinking. He groans when you tug gently, pressing closer, and you realize with a dizzy, giddy kind of wonder that you’re driving him just as crazy as he’s driving you.

You don’t know who breaks first.

Maybe it’s you, maybe it’s the soft, broken little gasp you let out when Mark shifts his hips against yours again, grinding slow and helpless, like he can't stand being apart from you even for a second. Maybe it's him, maybe it’s the way your hands find their way up under his muscles, tracing the warm, solid lines of him, feeling him shudder against your palms.

It doesn't matter.

Because the next thing you know, Mark is pulling back just enough to look at you, his face flushed, his hair a mess, his breathing ragged, and there’s something wild and pleading in his eyes.

"Bedroom," he mumbles against your mouth. "Please."

It sends a bolt of heat straight through you, grounding and electrifying all at once.

You nod before you can think twice, and he stands up, gathering you into his arms without missing a beat.

You let out a surprised little yelp, clutching at his shoulders as he lifts you like you weigh nothing, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

"Mark!" you hiss, half-laughing, half-mortified as he stumbles a little, nearly knocking over a pile of laundry in his rush to the door.

He’s laughing too, low and breathless and giddy, but he doesn’t slow down. Doesn't even pretend to put you down. His hands are firm under your thighs, holding you steady against him like he doesn't want to risk losing even an inch of contact.

"William’s gone," he says, a little smug, like it’s the greatest victory of his life. "He’s at Rick’s for the weekend, remember?"

You barely remember your own name right now, let alone William’s plans.

All you can focus on is the way Mark is carrying you like you're something precious. Like you're something he’s earned.

He kicks the door open with his foot and fumbles inside the darkened dorm bedroom, still carrying you, still kissing you in little stolen gasps and nips whenever he can reach your mouth.

He finally manages to get you to the bed, half-dropping, half-tumbling you onto the mattress, and you both collapse into a heap, laughing, breathless, tangled together.

The mattress springs squeal under your combined weight, the familiar scent of Mark's cheap laundry detergent and body wash surrounding you like a second skin.

And for a second, you just look at each other.

Really look.

His cheeks are flushed deep pink. His dark hair sticks up wildly. His chest rises and falls fast, like he’s been running.

He’s beautiful in a messy, real way that makes your throat ache.

You reach up, your hand trembling a little, and brush his hair back from his forehead. He leans into the touch without thinking, his eyes fluttering half-shut, like it's the best thing anyone’s ever done for him.

You love him.

The thought knocks the air right out of your lungs.

But before you can spiral too far, Mark’s kissing you again, softer this time, slower, more deliberate.

He pulls back just an inch, his voice low, rough.

"You sure?"

You nod, your throat too tight to speak.

But then you catch the flicker of doubt in his eyes, and you make yourself say it, voice a little shaky but certain

"I’m sure."

Relief floods across his face so raw and visible you almost cry again.

Mark kisses you like he’s thanking you. Like he’s worshiping you.

His hands slip under your shirt, tracing your ribs, your waist, the curve of your back, reverent, slow, giving you a hundred chances to change your mind that you’re never going to take. He sits up just enough to tug your shirt over your head, and you arch into him, trying not to shake.

He’s so careful with you.

It undoes you.

When your shirt’s gone, Mark sits back on his knees for a second, just staring at you like he can’t believe you’re real. Like he’s trying to burn the sight of you into his memory.

You flush, biting your lip, self-conscious but before you can squirm or cover yourself, he reaches out, slow and steady, and drags his fingers down your arm, your side, your hip, like he’s memorizing you by touch.

"You’re beautiful," he says, like it’s a fact, like it’s inevitable, like it was always true and you were just the last one to figure it out.

You want to say something, something smart, something funny, something to fill the aching, awful tenderness spilling out of you but all you can do is pull him back down into another kiss.

It gets messier after that.

Hungrier.

Mark’s mouth moves to your throat, then down to your collarbone, then lower still, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to every inch of skin he can reach. You arch into him, gasping, your fingers scrabbling at his hair, his back, his shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto.

His hands roam your body like he’s discovering it for the first time, reverent, careful, greedy all at once and you can feel how badly he’s trembling, how hard he’s holding back.

It makes your heart clench.

It’s not perfect.

It’s messy, clumsy, and breathless.

It’s hands fumbling with buttons, knees bumping into the mattress awkwardly, both of you half-laughing, half-moan.

But it’s real.

And when he finally slides his hand low, cupping you through your pants, you can’t help the desperate little sound that punches out of you, wrecked, needy, shameless.

Mark groans against your throat, his voice rough and low.

"God, you sound so good."

You whimper, hips canting up helplessly into his touch, and he curses softly under his breath, like he’s losing the last shreds of his self-control.

"Need you," he mutters, frantic. "Need you so bad, baby."

You rake your hands down his chest, feeling him shudder under your touch, and he drops his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

"Tell me if you wanna stop," he says again, voice breaking a little. "Please."

You cup his face in both hands, pulling him down into a kiss that leaves no room for doubt.

"I don’t want to stop," you whisper against his lips. "I want you. Please, Mark."

His thumb traces up your ribs, brushing the edge of your bra and that’s when he freezes.

The room feels suddenly too still. His fingers ghost over your cheekbone.

You blink, confused, and then, fuck.

The makeup. The damn sweat had smudged it enough that the bruise was showing, an ugly smear of purple and yellow blooming beneath your eye like some kind of poisonous flower.

Mark pulls back a little, his brows knitting together, worry carved into every line of his face. "What-?" he starts, voice low, almost afraid to finish the question. "Who did that to you?"

You jerk back, instinct lashing out before you could think. "It’s nothing," you snap, too quickly, too defensively. The words slapped the air between you. You scramble back off the bed, arms crossed tight over your chest, heart hammering like a bird in a trap.

Mark holds his hands up, palms open, like you’re some skittish animal he didn’t want to scare. "Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m not- I just…are you okay?"

"I said it’s nothing," you bite out. You can hear your voice crack, and hate it. Hating how exposed you feel. How soft and messy and wrong it all is now.

You can’t tell him. Can’t tell how you’d gotten it during the Flaxan invasion, fighting side by side with Invincible, half the city in flames around you. Can’t tell him that you were just some girl in a homemade suit, stitched together with shaky hands and stubborn hope, swinging into a war zone like you actually belonged there. That you’d thrown yourself into the fight with no real training, just reckless bravery and a desperate, aching need to make it right. To prove to yourself you could be something more than scared, more than helpless.

You swallow hard, fighting the sting behind your eyes.

Mark doesn’t push. He just stays where he is, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at you like he wants to gather you up and shield you from the whole goddamn world. And that, that almost breaks you more than anything.

Because you don’t know he was the same. You don’t know that under that rumpled mop of hair and the nerdy smile, Mark Grayson carries bruises a thousand times worse, stitched into his skin from fights against monsters and gods and nightmares with teeth. That he had secrets pressed into his bones so heavy it was a wonder he could stand up straight.

He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous tic you’d seen a hundred times. "If you ever wanna talk about it," he said, voice low, "you can. You don't have to pretend around me."

You don’t know whether you want to scream at him or throw yourself into his arms. Maybe both. Your heart twists painfully. You want to believe him so badly it hurts.

"I’m fine," you lie, voice barely a whisper.

Mark doesn’t believe you. You can see it all over his face. But he doesn’t call you out, doesn’t make you say more than you can handle. Instead, he just nods slowly and says, "Okay."

And somehow that okay messes you up you more than a thousand questions would have.

You don’t even bother putting your shirt back on properly. You just yank it over your head, backwards, half your hair tangled inside the collar. Your fingers fumble with the remainder of your garments, quivering with the type of terror you haven't felt since your first disastrous chemistry presentation in front of the whole class. It’s almost comical, how much simpler it was to be nude in front of Mark than it is to look him in the eye right now.

You can still feel the way his hands hesitated, confused, once he saw it, the way the perspiration on your skin distorted the delicate layer of makeup you’d spent twenty minutes putting on, the bruise below your eye emerging like an ugly secret. And Mark… he noticed. Of course he noticed. He’d been running his mouth all night on how lovely you were. You should’ve known there was no way he wouldn’t notice it once things got hot and close and-God, you’re so foolish.

You wrench the zipper of your jeans up too hard and it jams midway. You have to stop, breathe, and force your fingers to settle down enough to correct it. Mark’s still sitting on the side of the bed, his face all tense and anxious, looking like he’s trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

"Wait, hey-" he starts to stand, reaching out.

"No, I'm fine," you cut him off far too soon, way too harsh. You throw your bag over your shoulder, nearly knocking over the light on his bedside in your hurry. "I just remembered, I have to…I have to go. Homework. Big exam. You know. School."

Your voice breaks uncomfortably halfway through, and you want to crawl into a hole and die right there. But instead, you push your sneakers on without bothering to knot them and fumble toward the door.

Mark’s standing now, looking like he doesn’t know whether to chase you or stay put. His hair's a tangle, his cheeks still red from earlier, and there’s this look in his eyes that makes your heart lurch sideways. Confusion, primarily. Hurt.

You don't give him a chance to say anything else. You slam the door open and virtually rush down the hall, your footsteps loud and dumb on the poor dorm flooring.

You don't even know you’re sobbing until you step outside and the cold air hurts your moist cheeks.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

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idkyetxoxo · 29 days ago

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Gwayne Hightower - Bad Things

Summary - Torn between her unfaithful husband, the fiery Daemon Targaryen, and the calm, captivating Gwayne Hightower, she finds herself drawn into a dangerous, secret affair. As the tension between passion and guilt rises, she discovers a side of herself she never knew existed.

Pairing - Gwayne Hightower reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!), infidelity

Word count - 2552

Masterlist for Gwayne • House of the Dragon General Masterlist

Don't matter what you say, don't matter what you do. I only wanna do bad things to you. So good that you can't explain it. What can I say? It's complicated.

In the world we inhabited, a husband's infidelity was often dismissed as a trivial misstep, a careless indulgence forgiven without consequence.

Society reserved its harshest judgment for women who strayed, branding them with words like "treacherous" and treating their unfaithfulness as an unforgivable plague.

The double standard was suffocating, a twisted dance where his sins were seen as forgivable lapses, while hers were considered crimes against the very fabric of morality.

For me, such hypocrisy was more than theoretical. My husband was none other than the rogue prince, Daemon Targaryen—a man as captivating as he was capricious.

By daylight, I was his devoted wife, tethered to his stormy charm and reckless ambition. But when night fell, my heart betrayed him, its rhythms beating for another.

Gwayne Hightower. A knight of arresting beauty, with a strength of character that bewitched me from the first glance.

Where Daemon was fire, unpredictable and consuming, Gwayne was the steady pulse of warmth I hadn't known I craved. He possessed a grace that seemed almost foreign in contrast to the chaos of my husband, and his allure became my quiet rebellion.

I remember the day we first met.

It was hardly the beginning of a love story—our words to one another were brief, stifled by Daemon's venomous disdain for anything bearing the green crest of House Hightower.

My husband's hatred for Gwayne should have repelled me, but it had the opposite effect.

The very qualities that made Daemon bristle intrigued me: Gwayne's stoicism, his discipline, and the quiet power in his gaze.

What Daemon dismissed as weakness, I saw as strength. What he loathed, I longed to know.

And so began the subtle unravelling of my loyalties, a secret tide pulling me toward the knight who embodied everything my husband was not.

That night the Great Hall was alive with the hum of courtly chatter, the golden glow of torches reflecting off the polished stone walls and casting flickering shadows over the assembled nobility.

Daemon had insisted I attend, his arm looped possessively around mine as we made our way through the sea of finely dressed lords and ladies.

He was, as always, the centre of attention, exuding a magnetic arrogance that made people part like waves in his wake.

I was used to being invisible beside him—a mere ornament to enhance his presence. But that night, something shifted the air. Someone.

Gwayne Hightower stood at the edge of the hall, his armour polished to a mirror shine, his green surcoat a deliberate provocation in this den of dragons.

His tall frame was relaxed, but there was a quiet authority in his stance, a confidence that drew my eye despite my better judgment.

He wasn't just handsome—he was devastating.

A strong jawline, piercing eyes that seemed to see straight through me, and a slight curl to his lips that suggested he knew exactly what effect he had on the women around him.

Including me.

Our eyes met across the room, and for a moment, the bustling hall seemed to fade into silence. The intensity of his gaze was a tether, drawing me closer even though I hadn't moved an inch.

He inclined his head slightly, the faintest smirk playing at his lips as if daring me to acknowledge the spark arcing between us.

"Don't stare," Daemon muttered, his grip on my arm tightening. I snapped out of the trance, cheeks flushed, but the fire of Gwayne's gaze lingered, burning its way under my skin.

Daemon, for all his swagger, didn't miss much. His narrowed eyes darted toward Gwayne, and I felt the simmering tension ripple through him.

"Otto must be pleased," Daemon remarked with a caustic edge, his voice low enough for only me to hear. "The golden son playing knight so well. Pity he's wasting his talents here, don't you think?"

"Not wasted, surely," I replied, my tone breezy but my heart pounding. "A knight of his caliber elevates the court."

Daemon snorted, steering me sharply toward a group of lords before I could say more.

Yet, even as he regaled them with some tale of his exploits, I found my thoughts drifting back to the knight.

And then he was there.

As Daemon turned to grab a goblet of wine, Gwayne stepped into our circle, bowing with just enough deference to mask the mischief in his smile. His eyes found mine instantly as if drawn by an invisible thread.

"Prince Daemon," Gwayne said smoothly, his voice rich and self-assured. "And my lady. A pleasure to see you both tonight."

Daemon's lip curled, but he dipped his head in the faintest nod. "Hightower. Enjoying the evening?"

"Immensely," Gwayne said, his gaze never leaving mine. "Though I find myself surprised—no one warned me the dragons kept such radiant company."

The compliment was blatant, and my breath hitched at the audacity of it.

Daemon stiffened beside me, but I could feel the heat of Gwayne's attention like a caress, sparking a blush that betrayed me.

"Careful, Ser Gwayne," Daemon drawled, his tone sharp. "Compliments like that can be misconstrued."

"Surely not, my prince," Gwayne replied, his expression the picture of innocence, though his eyes danced with amusement. "A simple truth is hardly dangerous, is it?"

Daemon gave a tight-lipped smile, but his hand on my arm was insistent, pulling me toward the far side of the hall. I let him guide me, though my heart hammered in rebellion.

When we reached the corner of the room, I couldn't resist. I turned back, searching for Gwayne one last time.

He was already watching me.

Our eyes locked again, and for a fleeting second, I forgot where I was, who I was. His expression had softened, but there was no mistaking the intensity in his gaze.

It felt like a promise, a challenge, and an apology all at once.

My stomach twisted in a way I hadn't felt in years, a longing so sharp it left me breathless.

Daemon's voice cut through the haze. "Forget him," he ordered, though there was a shadow of uncertainty in his tone.

But how could I, when the memory of Gwayne's gaze burned brighter than the fire of any dragon?

─── ✦⋅♡⋅✦ ───

Nothing's that bad, if it feels good so you come back like I knew you would and we're both wild and the night's young and you're my drug.

Now, here I was, perched on Gwayne's strong, muscled thigh, rocking slowly back and forth, each movement fanning the fire that only he seemed able to quench.

The dim light in his chambers played tricks on my mind, painting us in shadows and secrets, a tableau of longing that no one else could understand.

This was our ritual now—our stolen moments in the quiet dark. Away from prying eyes, from judgment, from the endless weight of who I was supposed to be.

Here, with him, I could just exist.

"I've missed you," I whispered, my voice trembling as I struggled to keep the steady rhythm of my hips.

His hands found my waist, their touch possessive but tender as he guided me effortlessly, knowing my body as though it had been crafted just for him.

"You have no idea how long I've waited for you to grace my chambers again," he murmured, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of my neck.

The teasing touch made me whimper, and he pulled back just enough to meet my gaze, his eyes blazing with an intensity that left me breathless.

"My sweet, desperate girl," he cooed, his thumb grazing my cheek in a way that made my heart clench. He knew exactly how to unravel me, one whispered word at a time.

"Are you going to cum for me?" he asked his voice a low, velvet whisper that sent shivers down my spine. I shook my head, not trusting my voice, knowing exactly what he wanted.

"Good," he breathed, his lips curving into a knowing smile. "Because I want to feel you come apart on me."

Effortlessly, he lifted me off his thigh, laying me back against the soft expanse of his bed.

The loss of his touch between my legs made me ache in ways I didn't know I could, but the promise in his eyes was enough to soothe the frustration clawing at me.

The night was young, and Gwayne had a way of making time stretch endlessly, each second a universe unto itself.

"Such beauty wasted on such a beast," he whispered, his fingers tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear with a tenderness that belied the hunger in his movements.

Slowly, he pressed into me, and the world fell away again, leaving only the two of us.

My back arched instinctively, my hands clutching at the sheets as he found a rhythm that felt like it had been crafted for me alone.

He knew exactly how to drive me to the edge and pull me back, over and over, his control over my body absolute.

I traced my thumb along his lips, marvelling at the softness there before pulling him down to me, capturing his mouth in a kiss that was as desperate as it was deep.

Our tongues fought for dominance, a battle I was more than willing to lose.

When I pulled back, gasping for breath, he rested his head on my chest, his breath warm and teasing against my skin as he licked and nipped at the flesh of my breasts.

Each touch was a promise, a reminder of the man he was behind closed doors—the one who could break me apart and piece me back together with nothing but a look, a word, a touch.

The world outside was chaos, full of lies and half-truths, but here, in the sanctity of his arms, everything felt like bliss.

Gwayne knew me—truly knew me. And even as guilt clawed at the edges of my conscience, I couldn't bring myself to regret it.

"You're exquisite," he murmured, his voice a husky whisper against my ear as if he couldn't help but voice the thought. His fingers traced the curve of my jaw, his thumb brushing against my bottom lip.

"Do you feel it? How perfectly we fit?"

I nodded, unable to speak, my breath hitching as he shifted slightly, angling himself in a way that made me cry out.

He smiled at the sound, a low, satisfied chuckle rumbling in his chest as he dipped his head to capture my lips in a kiss that was anything but gentle.

It was hungry, consuming, the kind of kiss that left me dizzy with need.

When he pulled back, his lips were swollen, his breath ragged as he looked down at me. "I love the way you fall apart for me," he said, his voice a mixture of reverence and possession.

"Gwayne," I whispered his name like a prayer, reaching up to tangle my fingers in his hair and pull him back down to me.

Our mouths collided again, this time slower, more tender. His tongue moved against mine with the kind of patience that drove me mad, the tension between us building with every second that passed.

He broke the kiss first, his lips trailing down my neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin there.

My hands clutched at his back, my nails digging into the hard planes of muscle as he worked his way lower, his tongue flicking over the hollow of my throat before moving to my collarbone.

Each touch was deliberate, his mouth mapping every inch of me as though committing me to memory.

"You taste like heaven," he murmured against my skin, his voice thick with emotion. His hands slid down my sides, his fingers leaving trails of fire in their wake.

When his lips found my breasts, I gasped, my body arching into him as he took his time, worshipping me in a way that left me trembling beneath him.

His mouth was warm and teasing, his tongue flicking over sensitive peaks before he sucked gently, drawing soft, desperate sounds from my lips.

"Gwayne," I breathed his name again, my voice trembling with both need and awe. He lifted his head at the sound, his gaze meeting mine.

The intensity in his eyes made my heart stutter, his expression so open and raw that it felt as though he were baring his very soul to me.

"Say it again," he demanded softly, his thumb brushing against the curve of my cheek.

"Gwayne," I whispered, my voice cracking as emotion overwhelmed me.

His lips curved into a smile, and he leaned down to kiss me again, this time softer, more deliberate. It was as though he wanted to savour every second, to draw out the moment until it stretched into eternity.

The slow, steady rhythm of his body against mine matched the unhurried pace of the kiss, both of us lost in the feeling of each other.

"You're everything," he murmured against my lips, his voice so low I almost didn't catch the words.

I tightened my arms around him, pulling him as close as I could.

His pace quickened slightly, just enough to push me closer to the edge, and I clung to him as though he were my lifeline.

The sensations coursing through me were overwhelming, a flood of pleasure and emotion that left me gasping. I could feel him losing himself in the moment too, his breaths coming faster, his movements growing more erratic as we both neared that inevitable crescendo.

But even as we hurtled toward the edge, there was a tenderness in the way he touched me, a quiet reverence that made my heart ache in the best way.

When I finally shattered, it was with his name on my lips, a cry of pure ecstasy that echoed in the room around us. He followed moments later, his body trembling as he buried his face in the crook of my neck, his breath hot and ragged against my skin.

For a long moment, we just stayed like that, tangled together in the aftermath. His weight was a comforting presence against me, his heartbeat a steady rhythm that matched my own.

He lifted his head eventually, his gaze soft as he looked down at me.

"You're everything I didn't know I needed," he said quietly, his voice filled with a sincerity that made my chest tighten.

I cupped his face with trembling hands, my thumb brushing against his cheekbone. "And you're everything I didn't think I could have," I replied, my voice breaking on the words.

He kissed me again, this time slow and lingering, as though sealing a silent promise between us.

In that moment, it didn't matter that the world outside was waiting, or that what we were doing was forbidden.

All that mattered was us—our shared warmth, our whispered confessions.

I used to believe love was simple, something pure and uncomplicated. But now, I realize it's a tangled mess of passion, regret, and need.

What is betrayal, after all, but a moment of truth in a world of lies?

And in that truth, I find a kind of freedom.

I want you forever even when we're not together scars on my body so I can take you wherever, like, I want you forever even when we're not together scars on my body I can look at you whenever.

A/n - this is purely for that one person who asked for more Gwayne and Daemon rivalry I absolutely loved writing this it was so fun!!

Gwayne tag list - @deniixlovezelda @randomnerdyfan @callsign-blue

#house of the dragon #house targaryen #hotd #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #hotd one shot #hotd season 2 #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd s2 #team green #gwayne hightower #gwayne x reader #gwayne hightower x reader #ser gwayne #ser gwayne hightower #gwayne x you #gwayne fanfic

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