#the voice that came out of her was indeed that of a queen-THEY BOWED BACK-the portrait of courtly grace lol-the letter worked well

[acourtofquestions]

KINGDOM OF ASH (by SJM)

Chapter 48

THE FAMILY REUINION🥹😆😭🫶& MY SOULLL

But when they reached Princess Hasar's battle tent, when they had all gathered around a map of Anielle, they had only a few minutes of discussion before they were interrupted. By the person Chaol least expected to walk through the flaps.

A moment later, Chaol was glad he was sitting down.

Nesryn breathed, "Holy gods."

Chaol was inclined to agree as Aelin Galathynius, Rowan Whitethorn, and several others entered the tent.

They were mud-splattered, the Queen of Terrasen's braided hair far longer than Chaol had last seen. And her eyes ... Not the soft, yet fiery gaze. But something older. Wearier.

Chaol shot to his feet. "I thought you were in Terrasen," he blurted. All the reports had confirmed it. Yet here she stood, no army in sight.

Three Fae males-towering warriors as broad and muscled as Rowan—had entered, along with a delicate, dark-haired human woman.

But Aelin was only staring at him. Staring and staring at him.

No one spoke as tears began sliding down her face. Not at his being here, Chaol realized as he took up his cane and limped toward Aelin.

But at him. Standing. Walking.

The young queen let out a broken laugh of joy and flung her arms around his neck. Pain lanced down his spine at the impact, but Chaol held her right back, every question fading from his tongue.

Aelin was shaking as she pulled away. "I knew you would," she breathed, gazing down his body, to his feet, then up again. "I knew you'd do it."

"Not alone," he said thickly. Chaol swallowed, releasing Aelin to extend an arm behind him. To the woman he knew stood there, a hand over the locket at her neck.

Perhaps Aelin would not remember, perhaps their encounter years ago had meant nothing to her at all, but Chaol drew Yrene forward. "Aelin, allow me to introduce"

"Yrene Towers," the queen breathed as his wife stepped to his side.

The two women stared at each other.

Yrene's mouth quivered as she opened the silver locket and pulled out a piece of paper. Hands trembling, she extended it to the queen. Aelin's own hands shook as she accepted the scrap.

"Thank you," Yrene whispered.

Chaol supposed it was all that really needed to be said.

Aelin unfolded the paper, reading the note she'd written, seeing the lines from the hundreds of foldings and rereadings these past few years.

"I went to the Torre," Yrene said, her voice cracking. "I took the money you gave me, and went to the Torre. And I became the heir apparent to the Healer on High. And now I have come back, to do what I can. I taught every healer I could the lessons you showed me that night, about self-defense. I didn't waste it-not a coin you gave me, or a moment of the time, the life you bought me." Tears were rolling and rolling down Yrene's face. "I didn't waste any of it."

Aelin closed her eyes, smiling through her own tears, and when she opened them, she took Yrene's shaking hands. "Now it is my turn to thank you." But Aelin's gaze fell upon the wedding band on Yrene's finger, and when she glanced to Chaol, he grinned.

"No longer Yrene Towers," Chaol said softly, "but Yrene Westfall."

Aelin let out one of those choked, joyous laughs, and Rowan stepped up to her side.

Yrene's head tilted back to take in the warrior's full height, her eyes widening-not only at Rowan's size, but at the pointed ears, the slightly elongated canines and tattoo. Aelin said, "Then let me introduce you, Lady Westfall, to my own husband, Prince Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius."

For that was indeed a wedding band on the queen's finger, the emerald mud-splattered but bright. On Rowan's own hand, a gold-and-ruby ring gleamed.

"My mate," Aelin added, fluttering her lashes at the Fae male. Rowan rolled his eyes, yet couldn't entirely contain his smile as he inclined his head to Yrene.

Yrene bowed, but Aelin snorted. "None of that, please. It'll go right to his immortal head." Her grin softened as Yrene blushed, and Aelin held up the scrap of paper. "May I keep this?" She eyed Yrene's locket. "Or does it go in there?"

Yrene folded the queen's fingers around the paper. "It is yours, as it always was. A piece of your bravery that helped me find my own."

Aelin shook her head, as if to dismiss the claim.

But Yrene squeezed Aelin's closed hand. "It gave me courage, the words you wrote. Every mile I traveled, every long hour I studied and worked, it gave me courage. I thank you for that, too."

Aelin swallowed hard, and Chaol took that as excuse enough to sit again, his back giving a grateful tinge. He said to the queen, "There is another person responsible for this army being here." He gestured to Nesryn, the woman already smiling at the queen. "The rukhin you see, the army gathered, is as much because of Nesryn as it is because of me."

A spark lit Aelin's eyes, and both women met halfway in a tight embrace. "I want to hear the entire story," Aelin said. "Every word of it." Nesryn's subdued smile widened. "So you shall. But later." Aelin clapped her on the shoulder and turned to the two royals still by the desk. Tall and regal, but as mud-splattered as the queen.

Chaol blurted, "Dorian?"

Rowan answered, "Not with us." He glanced to the royals.

"They know everything," Nesryn said

"He's with Manon," Aelin said simply.

Chaol wasn't entirely sure whether to be relieved. "Hunting for something important."

The keys. Holy gods.

Aelin nodded. Later. He'd think on where Dorian might now be later. Aelin nodded again. The full story would come then too.

Nesryn said, "May I present Princess Hasar and Prince Sartaq."

Aelin bowed—low. "You have my eternal gratitude," Aelin said, and the voice that came out of her was indeed that of a queen. Any shock Sartaq and Hasar had shown upon the queen bowing so low was hidden as they bowed back, the portrait of courtly grace.

"My father," Sartaq said, "remained in the khaganate to oversee our lands, along with our siblings Duva and Arghun. But my brother Kashin sails with the rest of the army. He was not two weeks behind us when we left."

Aelin glanced to Chaol, and he nodded.

Something glittered in her eyes at the confirmation, but the queen jerked her chin at Hasar. "Did you get my letter?"

The letter that Aelin had sent months ago, begging for aid and promising only a better world in return. Hasar picked at her nails. "Perhaps. I get far too many letters from fellow princesses these days to possibly remember or answer all of them."

Aelin smirked, as if the two of them spoke a language no one else could understand, a special code between two equally arrogant and proud women. But she motioned to her companions, who stepped forward. "Allow me to introduce my friends. Lord Gavriel, of Doranelle." A nod toward the tawny-eyed and golden-haired warrior who bowed.

Tattoos covered his neck, his hands, but his every motion was graceful. "My uncle, of sorts," Aelin added with a smirk at Gavriel. At Chaol's narrowed brows, she explained, "He's Aedion's father."

"Well, that explains a few things," Nesryn muttered.

The hair, the broad-planed face ... yes, it was the same. But where Aedion was fire, Gavriel seemed to be stone. Indeed, his eyes were solemn as he said, "Aedion is my pride." Emotion rippled over Aelin's face, but she gestured to the dark-haired male. Not someone Chaol ever wanted to tangle with, he decided as he surveyed the granite-hewn features, the black eyes and unsmiling mouth.

"Lorcan Salvaterre, formerly of Doranelle, and now a blood-sworn member of my court." As if that weren't a shock enough, Aelin winked at the imposing male. Lorcan scowled. "We're still in the adjustment period," she loudly whispered, and Yrene chuckled.

Lorcan Salvaterre. Chaol hadn't met the male this spring in Rifthold, but he'd heard all about him. That he'd been Maeve's most trusted commander, her most loyal and fierce warrior.

That he'd wanted to kill Aelin, hated Aelin.

How this had come about, why she was not in Terrasen with her army ... "You, too, have a tale to tell," Chaol said.

"Indeed I do." Aelin's eyes guttered, and Rowan put a hand on her lower back. Bad— something terrible had occurred. Chaol scanned Aelin for any hint of it. He stopped when he noticed the smoothness of the skin at her neck. The lack of scars. The missing scars on her hands, her palms. "Later," Aelin said softly. She straightened her shoulders, and another golden-haired male came forward. Beautiful. That was the only way to describe him. "Fenrys ... You know, I don't actually know your family name."

Fenrys threw a roguish wink at the queen.

"Moonbeam."

"It is not," Aelin hissed, choking on a laugh.

Fenrys laid a hand on his heart. "I am blood-sworn to you. Would I lie?"

Another blood-sworn Fae male in her court.

Across the tent, Sartaq cursed in his own tongue. As if he'd heard of Lorcan, and Gavriel, and Fenrys.

Aelin gave Fenrys a vulgar gesture that set Hasar chuckling, and faced the royals. "They're barely housebroken. Hardly fit for your fine company." Even Sartaq smiled at that. But it was to the small, delicate woman that Aelin now gestured. "And the only civilized member of my court, Lady Elide Lochan of Perranth." Perranth. Chaol had combed through the family trees of Terrasen just this winter, had seen the lists of so many royal households crossed out, victim to the conquest ten years ago.

Elide's name had been among them.

Another Terrasen royal who had managed to evade Adarlan's butchers.

The pretty young woman took a limping step forward, and bobbed a curtsy to the royals. Her boots concealed any sign of the source of the injury, but Yrene's attention shot right to her leg. Her ankle. "It's an honor to meet all of you," Elide said, her voice low and steady. Her dark eyes swept over them, cunning and clear. Like she could see beneath their skin and bones, to the souls beneath.

Aelin wiped her hands. "Well, that's over and done with," she announced, and strode to the desk and map. "Shall we discuss where you all plan to march once we beat the living shit out of this army?"

[thebadboyfanclub]

This Is What You Deserve (Daemon x Reader)

Look man you don't choose when the smut will come to you, it just does. This was requested by anon and @ladystrongofharrenhall which I feel the need to apologise cause it like barely is what you requested, if you feel like you don’t like it please let me know and we can figure out something else for me to write for you.

“The dowager lady of Harrenhall, (y/n) Strong with her son and heir Arryan Strong”

The man introduced the lady dressed in all black that stood before the iron throne with a toddler holding her hand that was dressed in deep blue, a spitting image of his father, soft curls fell directly on his face and eyes that had stolen the color right out of the deep sea.

The lady bowed before the king that had invited her to court after the incident that had occurred in Harrenhall, within the night she had lost her husband and good father, both of them gave their lives to save her and her son, now she was in kings landing for the first time since her wedding.

“My king, it is very thoughtful of you to invite me to your court”

“Nonsense, your husband was one of the most trusted men within the gold cloaks and his father was a good friend of mine, last time I saw you you were dressed in all white”

“A lot has changed since then I am afraid”

“Indeed, I grief for the loss you have suffered, I summoned you to offer you a place in my court, under my protection, your born family has been an ally since the beginning, your son will be my cupbearer and will receive the same education as every noble boy and you can live within the castle as the queens' companion”

“Your honor me, your grace, it gladdens my heart that you thought of us amongst the countless matters that demand the kings' attention”

(Y/n) had learned from a very young age that a lady was to act a certain way, she had just lost the earth from underneath her feet, left with a son in her arms and a scandal on her back that she had to shield him from, she could feel every pair of eyes on her back, all of them like crows that waited for a sign of weakness, she would not give them that satisfaction, not today, not ever.

“The servants will lead you to your chamber, I believe your travel is quite long”

“Indeed, thank you, my king”

“My king”

Sweet Arryans voice was heard as he bowed in unison with his mother, a boy of 4 years of age, he was (y/n)s sun and moon, anything and everything she did she did it to make sure his future is secured and his present time is as happy as it could be amongst the chaos.

-

“My boy”

“Mother!”

Little Arryan ran to his mother and hugged her as tightly as his little arms could although he could not completely wrap them around (y/n)s hips since this was the height that he was.

(Y/n) scooped up her son to check for any injuries or some type of harm, (y/n) had attempted to stay calm and calculated in front of the court, however, imagine her surprise when she left her little boy with Baela and Rhaena to play together and when she came back Baela told her that their father Daemon had taken Arryan up on Caraxes.

“You looked tiny from up there”

“I did, didn’t I? Let’s go inside now”

“You are welcome, I am sure that was a moment the child will never forget”

(Y/n) was fuming, Daemon had approached her a few morrows ago to offer his condolences, being a widower himself he could indenting the struggle and pressure she was under, at the time she faintly smiled and curtsied to thank him.

Now (y/n)s eyes threw a dagger and her lips were a thin line, how dare he so arrogantly demand a thank you for putting her child in danger? Arryan wasn't a Targaryen, nor was he a kin to Daemon, the possibility of Caraxes to harm the child was huge.

“Baela, take Arryan inside, I shall be with you in a moment”

Her voice grew cold, and the surroundings were resembling of a cloud closing in and overshadowing the sun, like a warning of a strong that gathered around Daemon's head who seemed clueless of the warning signs that he is daughters picked up so easily that got them almost running away from themselves

“Have you lost your mind?”

“Excuse me?”

“Who gave you the authority to take my son up on that beast with you?”

“You should feel flattered, he is one of the few people that get to say that they have gone up on a dragon”

“I know that your family likes to frown down upon us from your mighty dragons but listen to me well, my son is the future lord of Harrenhall and the carries my born name of Featherdall, we were the biggest army Aegon the conqueror had on his side when he took over the seven kingdoms, so the next time you even think of coming around me and my son with your high and mighty attitude I would advise you to think how well would it go for you if you angered the house that put you up on that throne, got it?”

Daemon was stunned, he just stared at the lady that stood before him with her breath heavy and audible enough for everyone to feel her fury, she wasn’t a dragon but Daemon swore he could see fire in her hues, no one had dared to speak to the rogue prince this way, still there she was, commanding him and keeping her head up high, not an ounce of doubt or fear in sight.

“Yes, my lady”

“That’s what I thought”

-

“Alright my love, let me tuck you in”

“Momma, can I go up to the dragon again?”

“I am not sure sweetling, the prince is a busy man”

“But he said he will find time whenever I want”

“Did you like the dragon that much?”

“Uh-huh, you said Papa is up in the sky, I wanted for him to see me better”

(Y/n) was speechless, tears welling up in her eyes at the doting explanation her son had given her, she could detect the joy the little boy had experienced that day, she had not seen him this happy since Harwin was alive.

“Go to bed now, I will ask Prince Daemon on the morrow”

“Thank you, momma, goodnight”

“Goodnight my love”

Regret took over her body and soul like poison, she lost composure and talked back to a royal, she did not even take a minute to think of how did Arryan end up on the dragon, (y/n) had switched to defense mode the moment she saw the humongous animal land and did not care of anything else besides that her child could have been harmed.

Daemon could not find sleep, he tossed and turned for hours but his mind was occupied with playing (y/n)s speech over again instead of leaving him to rest, she was fuming however there was something in the way she looked at him, at the trembling tone of her voice that Daemon could empathize with… grief.

It was almost like the Gods had orchestrated it, leaving them restless and wandering in the gardens with the encounter that had a sour taste in their mouths.

Daemon was the one that noticed her figure sitting down on the bench, a silk cape covering her as her hair was down instead of a tight undo like it was in the morning, he chose to remain silent as he approached slowly and sat next to her, (y/n) did not turn to look at the prince, something told her exactly whom it was.

“I am sorry, I should have not talked to you that way, it was entirely inappropriate”

“You were defending your child, I should have asked permission to take him with me. I understand why you lost your temper”

“Sometimes I dream of putting him in a bubble, to keep him from… harm”

Her voice cracked once more, at that little word so many emotions were hidden, love, fear, anger, confusion, Daemon looked at her side profile while the moonlight caressed her cheeks, the difference of expression between the lady he met in daylight was tremendous, she had lived every day in agony but painted a smile for her son, now he could see the true cracks.

“Why did you come back to kings Landing? Harrenhal might have been better?”

“The king summoned us, Harwin and I had never presented our son to the court, now I had to make sure he was established as the future lord of the house strong”

“Did you love him? Harwin”

“Deeply, he treated me with kindness and respect”

“I don’t know how much respect did he show to your wedlock, especially with all the whispers that surrounded his name”

“Harwin was a wonderful man, I lost three children before we had Arryan, my father told him that he would understand if Harwin wished to leave our marriage, still he stood by me and loved me”

“Is that what love is to you? A man sticking at your side while he has other children”

“I will not let you taint my dead husbands' name, I have already apologized why are you trying to get me riled up again?”

“I’m not”

(Y/n) scoffed at Daemon's protest and got up so she can get some distance from him, her back was now facing him and Daemon realized he was pressing down on a wound that was still tender, it was not his place to question their marriage since he has two on his back.

“I just, you are a young lady you certainly deserve more than the bare minimum?”

“Bare minimum? Are you even aware of what most women have to put up with when it comes to their husbands? Beatings, embarrassment, constant pregnancies, bastards, public belittling, Harwin treated me with care, he was sweet and offered me much more than any woman could ever wish for”

“He fucked Rhaenyra”

The harsh slap against Daemon's cheek was heard loudly around the garden, even (y/n) was taken back by her action, she did not understand why he kept pressuring her, like a knife that he had stabbed her with and now he kept twisting it around, Harwin was nowhere near perfect but there was a level of understanding between them, he kept her away from the dramatics and carefree enough, why was Daemon kept nitpicking at her?

Daemon's eyes grew wide, it stung but it did not hurt him, was most shocking, they both gawked at one another waiting for someone to do or say something, maybe it was (y/n)s sudden rush of emotion that compelled him to do the same or just him being compulsive, whatever it was that took over it was strong enough to push her against the nearest wall and plant the most passionate kiss (y/n) had ever experienced, at first she froze still the heat that radiated from his hands as they roamed her body and the strength his kiss held sweetened the moment and she closed her eyes, in a way one would say she surrendered.

“This is what you deserve”

Daemon growled as the kisses went down from her lips to the nape of her neck, Harwin was a sweet lover, his touch was soft, and (y/n) was taken care of, however (y/n) could see that it lacked in passion, he did not yearn for her, it was just another way to show her that he loved her.

“We could get caught”

“Not if you are quiet”

That would have been a piece of wonderful advice had he not made it so difficult by thrusting intensely, she whimpered from pleasure while her nails dug deep into his skin and drew blood, she even bit her lip to the point of bleeding to prevent herself from letting the whole keep know how much she was enjoying this, she had never felt what it was like to be craved, wanted, needed even, Harwin loved her still his body did not weaken at the sight of her nakedness nor did his hues darkened during their sacred bedding.

Daemon's eyes were as dark as the deep waters of the ocean, his grip on her waist was ironlike, and his body collided with hers while she hoisted up her leg to his waist for more access and comfortability, the match was resembling the concept of throwing fire to gasoline.

“Please Daemon”

“You sound so pretty when you beg”

Both of them were out of breath but kept pushing, their bodies acted like they knew each other for years, that this was a normal day for them, they instinctively were conscious of how the other liked to be touched, kissed, gazed upon, it was addicting, it was (y/n)s first time of feeling like the queen of the world and Daemons first time that he wanted to over-perform, to fill every need and tend to her every desire.

“Hush”

He shushed her when a yield escaped her lips as she reached her end, he kissed her once more as she moaned in his mouth, his pace slowed and both of their bodies relaxed when they rode the pleasure at the very last wave of it.

“Do you now understand what I meant when I said that you were getting the bare minimum?”

Daemon whispered in her ear before he left a kiss on her cheek, her face glowing and wet from droplets.

“Yes”

“You are burning up”

(Y/n) was sweating profusely, although Daemon wanted to take a good look at her, to remember the moment that a faint smile decorated her lips as she grew tired but her body was relaxed as it was used to the very bit of its powers, Daemon softly blew some air at the side of her neck to cool her, though all it did was compel her body to grow goosebumps and shake.

“Stop, it tickles, you are no better either, you are a sweaty mess”

“The sweat of a champion, anyone that would even glance at you would see how content you are”

“And you are not? You are still inside of me”

“I must admit, it is like a nice warm hug”

(Y/n) pushed him off at the cheeky comparison making him giggle, she fixed her dress to hide most of the damage while Daemon pulled his trousers up and buttoned up the shirt with the few buttons that were left since (y/n) had ripped it open.

“We must go”

“I will collect Arryan on the morrow after I break my fast”

“And who told you you could do that?”

“No one, I assumed I get privileges when you were holding on to me for dear life whilst I-“

“Alright alright, I will see you on the morrow”

Requests are open!

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 27 Chapter 27 | the trial of two disciplines⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

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As you were about to settle into a spot with Callias and the others to enjoy the tournament, a familiar face approached through the crowd. Eurycleia was making her way toward you, her expression bright and eager.

"Dear, the Queen has requested your presence with her and the King in the royal box," she announced, her voice carrying a hint of pride.

Before you could even think of declining—not that you would have—Callias gave you a gentle nudge. "Go on, we'll catch up later. Don't keep royalty waiting," he teased, his tone light but encouraging.

You nodded, turning to follow Eurycleia as she led the way. The nurse chattered as you walked, her words weaving through the air like threads in one of Penelope's tapestries. "It's such an honor, isn't it? To be invited to sit with the King and Queen," she mused aloud, glancing back at you with a smile. "And with your new title, Divine Liaison, it's no surprise. They must be very proud of you."

The pathway to the royal seating was lined with guards in ceremonial armor, their presence a reminder of the significance of the event. As you passed by, their stances seemed to stiffen in respect—a gesture that still felt surreal to you.

Reaching the royal box, the view was striking. The area was draped in fabrics of deep blue and gold, the colors of Ithaca, fluttering slightly in the breeze. The royal box was positioned perfectly, giving an unobstructed view of the arean under the afternoon sun.

As you approached the royal box, the gentle murmur of conversation between Odysseus and Penelope reached your ears. Penelope's laughter, light and musical, fluttered through the air, while Odysseus, with a rare grin, whispered something back, causing another ripple of laughter from her.

A few feet away, Andreia sat apart from this warm scene, her presence like a shadow on a sunny day. She was fanning herself slowly, her green eyes scanning the crowd below with an intensity that bordered on scrutiny. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a coldness in her gaze that seemed out of place amidst the festivity. Near her, two Bronte servants sat rigidly, their heads bowed in silent obedience.

Before you could take in more of the scene, Eurycleia announced your arrival. The sudden attention snapped you back to the moment. Penelope's eyes sparkled with excitement as she noticed you. "Ah, here she is!" she exclaimed, her voice carrying across the box. In a graceful motion, she gestured towards an empty, cushiony chair beside her.

You curtsied respectfully, acknowledging both the king and queen with a nod before making your way over to the indicated chair. Penelope, unable to contain her enthusiasm, leaned in as you settled down next to her, her demeanor motherly yet filled with a queenly grace.

"Such a pleasure to have you join us for this, dear," Penelope said, her voice warm. She glanced towards Odysseus, who gave you a nod of acknowledgment that seemed to carry both weight and welcome.

Andreia, meanwhile, continued to watch the scene below, her expression a mask that hid whatever thoughts passed through her mind. The contrast between her solitary figure and the connectedness of Ithaca's royal family was stark, highlighting the differences in their realms and perhaps, their hearts.

Responding warmly to Penelope's enthusiasm, you assured her it was indeed an honor to be invited to such an event. Immediately, Penelope launched into a flurry of inquiries, each delivered with her characteristic vibrancy and concern. "You look absolutely lovely today, dear," she commented, the genuine warmth in her voice making you blush lightly. "Those colors really bring out your beauty. Have you eaten yet? Were you enjoying the festival before this?"

Her barrage of questions came fast, each punctuated with a bright smile and an expectant tilt of her head, waiting for your responses. Odysseus, watching the exchange with an amused expression, let out a soft chuckle. He shook his head gently, his hand finding a familiar rest on his wife's thigh, a silent, affectionate gesture that seemed to ground her.

You blinked, slightly taken aback but also touched by this display of affection—Penelope, the queen you had served so diligently, now radiant in the return of her husband. It was a side of her you had glimpsed only in fragments, a joy so profound it reshaped the stern monarch into the woman who giggled like a girl in love.

"I've had a wonderful time, thank you," you replied, managing to get a word in. "The festival is more than I could have expected. It's beautiful, lively... and the food, well, it's delicious."

Penelope beamed, pleased with your answers. "Oh, good, good! I'm so glad to hear that," she said, her eyes twinkling with satisfaction. "It's important to us that you feel part of this celebration, especially given your new role. You do belong here, with us, in these moments of joy."

The affirmation from Penelope, heartfelt and sincere, deepened the sense of belonging and warmth you felt sitting there among the royal family.

Odysseus nodded in agreement with his wife's words. "She's right," he said, shifting slightly in his chair to look at you directly. "This isn't just a kindness, it's a statement. An acknowledgment of your importance, not only to Penelope but to myself as well. You've more than earned your place here."

His words sent a rush of warmth through your chest. It was one thing to have Penelope's open-hearted approval, but to hear it from Odysseus himself—the man whose absence had shaped Ithaca in his wake—felt like a true mark of honor.

You sat up a little straighter, the weight of your title, "Divine Liaison," settling into your bones in a way that felt more real than before.

You smiled brightly as you bowed your head slightly in gratitude. "Thank you, truly," you said, meaning every word. "It's an honor I won't take lightly."

Penelope waved a hand in the air as if to brush aside any need for such formalities. "Of course, dear! You deserve it," she said, fanning herself lightly before her gaze suddenly flickered past you, her expression shifting to one of delight.

"Oh, there's Telemachus!" she exclaimed, nudging you gently with her fan to direct your attention.

Curious, you followed her gesture, your eyes scanning the field below until you spotted him. A short distance away, in an open stretch of the tournament grounds, Telemachus stood with his bow in hand, his posture steady as he tested its draw; even from here, you could see the focus in his stance.

The midday sun cast golden streaks over his figure, catching in the rich brown of his hair and the taut pull of his arms as he prepared to release. The sight of him like this—poised, strong, fully in his element—sent an odd flutter through your chest.

"He's always been a natural," Penelope said with a soft fondness in her voice, watching her son with pride. "Ever since he was young, he's had that steady hand... just like his father."

Odysseus let out a short laugh, crossing his arms. "He's getting there," he said, though there was no real criticism in his tone, only the amused musings of a father who saw potential yet to be fully realized.

You remained silent, watching as Telemachus continued his warm-up, the tension in his bowstring mirroring the quiet anticipation that filled the air. His movements were precise, deliberate, a testament to years of practice. Each time he drew back an arrow, his form was steady, his breath controlled.

There was something mesmerizing about it—the way he seemed to disappear into the rhythm of his own concentration, his world narrowing to just him and the target.

Penelope leaned toward you with a knowing smile. "You must be wondering why he's still practicing," she mused, following your gaze toward her son. "Throughout the day, there have been preliminary trials, small competitions to determine the best representatives from each kingdom for the final tournament."

She gestured toward the field, where remnants of previous events could still be seen—targets riddled with arrows, makeshift wrestling pits marked by trampled grass, and servants bustling to reset areas of the grounds. "It is called the Trial of Two Disciplines," she explained, her voice laced with excitement. "Ithaca values skill and cleverness, so archery serves as a test of focus and strategy. Bronte, on the other hand, prides itself on physical dominance, so pankration—a brutal mix of wrestling and boxing—is their measure of true strength."

Her words painted a clearer picture of the event's significance. It wasn't just about the thrill of competition—it was a display of each kingdom's values, a means of proving their strengths before the eyes of the people. And among all those who had participated, only two remained.

"Telemachus was chosen as Ithaca's champion," Penelope continued, her eyes gleaming with maternal pride. "And for Bronte, their finest competitor was Sthenelos."

Sthenelos. The name alone carried weight, and you found yourself glancing toward the other side of the tournament grounds, where the Brontean contingent gathered.

There, among the warriors clad in Bronte's bold green and gold, a man stood taller than the rest, his presence commanding. His shoulders were broad, his arms thick with muscle, and even from this distance, his stance exuded an air of controlled power.

Before you could study him further, the sharp blare of trumpets rang through the air, cutting through the hum of conversation and stirring the restless anticipation of the crowd.

The voice of the announcer boomed across the grounds. "Lords and ladies, people of Ithaca and Bronte, the Trial of Two Disciplines is about to begin!"

A roar of approval swept through the stands as the tournament officially commenced, the excitement tangible in the air. You felt the shift, the change in energy as the playful nature of the festival gave way to something more serious, more charged with expectation.

From your seat, you could see Telemachus straighten, rolling his shoulders back as he turned toward the call. The casual ease he had during warm-ups faded, replaced with something sharper, more focused. This wasn't just sport anymore—this was a test, a battle of skill and strength between two kingdoms.

And as he took his stance, his fingers flexing at his sides, you couldn't help but wonder what was running through his mind. Was he thinking of his father, of the legacy he carried? Was he weighing the expectations placed upon him, the watchful eyes of Ithaca and Bronte alike? Or was he simply lost in the moment, instincts taking over, knowing that once the match began, there would be no room for hesitation?

Whatever it was, his expression gave nothing away. Only the faintest exhale left his lips, his gaze locked on his opponent.

And the battle was about to begin.

.☆.      .✩.          .☆.

Telemachus tightened his grip on his bow, scanning the tournament grounds with a careful eye.

The field, now cleared for competition, stretched out before him, the painted boundary lines crisp against the packed dirt. On one end, a ring where the pankration match would take place had been roped off, its sand already uneven from the movements of previous competitors.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. The moment he had spent the entire day preparing for had finally arrived, yet there was a weight in his chest that training could not dislodge.

For Ithaca, for Athena—his name had been chosen to represent them both. He knew what this meant, what was expected of him.

Ithaca's strength had never been in brute force alone; their victories came from cleverness, from adaptability, from outthinking their opponents rather than overpowering them. To face Bronte's champion, a man built like a war statue carved from stone, felt like a test of not just his skills, but of Ithaca's very values.

And yet, despite all of that—despite the honor, despite the pride—his mind kept circling back to you.

He clenched his jaw, willing himself to focus, but the echoes of the morning still haunted him.

Waking up had been a sickening experience. His first thought had been that he must have drunk too much wine at the festival, that the fuzziness in his head and the unease in his stomach was nothing more than the aftermath of reckless celebration. But the second he sat up, memories hit him like a chariot slamming into a wall.

The heat of your skin beneath his hands. The feverish way he had held you down. The words he had spoken, unfiltered, desperate, real.

It had all been real.

His blood turned cold at the recollection, mortification flooding his veins. He had been undone in front of you, unraveling like a man driven mad by longing. And worse, you had seen it. Felt it. The depth of his want, the raw edge of his affection—there had been no space for restraint, no room for hesitation. He had wanted, and he he'd taken.

And then he had collapsed.

He wanted to believe it had been a dream, some feverish illusion, but the truth was worse. The realization clawed at him—what had it been like for you? To see him like that, to witness the parts of him he had tried so hard to keep hidden? Did you fear him? Or worse... did you pity him?

Shame curled in his gut, sour and unrelenting.

He hadn't seen you yet today, hadn't dared to seek you out before the tournament. What could he even say? That he hadn't meant to come undone in your arms? That he had no excuse for the way he had needed you in that moment? That his feelings were true even if his actions had been muddled by some unseen force?

Would that even matter?

The uncertainty was unbearable.

Winning for Ithaca—that, he could do. He knew the mechanics, the tactics, the way to move his body and steady his breath. He could make each shot count, could fight with precision and skill.

But winning you?

That was a different battle entirely.

The tournament felt like a metaphor he couldn't ignore—two kingdoms, two approaches, two warriors standing across from each other, trying to prove who was worthy. He didn't want to win you with brute force, with the kind of recklessness that had stolen his senses last night. No, if he had any hope of earning you, of proving himself, it had to be through effort, through strategy, through sheer determination.

And yet... what if it wasn't enough?

A horn sounded, shaking him from his thoughts. He swallowed hard and straightened his shoulders.

No more dwelling.

If he was going to fight, he would fight with everything in him.

For Ithaca.

For himself.

And maybe, just maybe, for you.

The announcer stepped forward, his voice carrying over the hushed crowd, cutting through the anticipation that hung heavy in the air.

"Representing Bronte—Sthenelos!"

A deafening cheer erupted from the Brontean side of the stands, their voices a mixture of roaring approval and guttural chants of encouragement. The name alone carried weight; Sthenelos was a warrior born and bred, a man molded by Ares' domain, where skill alone was not enough—one had to dominate.

Telemachus watched as the Brontean champion stepped forward, his movements slow, measured, exuding an effortless confidence that could only come from a man who had never considered failure an option.

He was taller than Telemachus by nearly a head, broad-shouldered with a stance like an immovable mountain. His dark, olive-toned skin gleamed under the sun, his muscles taut beneath his crimson-trimmed tunic. A golden torque encircled his throat, a sign of his status back home—a warrior of renown.

Sthenelos bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment of the task before him, then strode toward the designated line. The Ithacan side of the crowd was notably quieter, watching with a mixture of curiosity and wariness, well aware that Bronteans prided themselves on spectacle.

The previous rounds had already tested speed, accuracy, and distance, but this final trial demanded perfection.

A single torch was set ablaze, its flame licking at the air as it was hoisted high onto a wooden mechanism. From it hung a small golden ring, no wider than a clenched fist, suspended by a pendulum. The device had been wound tightly, its tension barely contained, ready to swing the ring into an unpredictable arc once released.

The task was simple in concept but ruthless in execution: Shoot through the ring and extinguish the flame in one strike.

No hesitation. No miscalculations. Only a single moment to strike true.

A hush fell over the grounds as the pendulum was released.

The ring swung wildly, the flame dancing, teasing—daring the archer to fail.

Sthenelos exhaled through his nose, lifting his bow with the kind of deliberate ease that made it clear he was used to this kind of pressure. He was calm, in his element. He nocked his arrow, eyes narrowing in concentration, tracking the movement of his target with almost predatory focus.

For a beat, everything stilled. Even the crowd seemed to hold their breath.

Then—release.

The arrow cut through the air like a streak of lightning.

A split second later, a sharp twang echoed through the tournament grounds as it struck true, passing cleanly through the ring. The torch flame flickered violently—then dimmed. Not quite out, but flickering weakly, fighting to hold on.

The Brontean crowd erupted in cheers, their warriors banging fists against their chests in approval.

Sthenelos lowered his bow, his expression betraying nothing—no frustration, no disappointment—just a quiet, knowing smirk. He turned, stepping back to the sidelines with an ease that suggested he was not worried. His performance had been strong—damn near perfect. Even if the flame had not been fully snuffed, he had still bested most of the competitors from earlier trials.

Telemachus felt his fingers tighten around his own bow.

So that's the standard, he thought, his stomach twisting with something equal parts unease and resolve.

From the royal box, Odysseus gave an approving nod, arms crossed as he leaned forward slightly. Telemachus didn't even have to look at him to know exactly what he was thinking: Not bad. But you can do better.

He swallowed.

His name was about to be called.

And all eyes would be on him.

The announcer stepped forward once more, his voice carrying effortlessly over the hushed arena.

"Representing Ithaca—Prince Telemachus!"

A wave of cheers erupted from the Ithacan stands, but it was different from the raw, almost aggressive roars that had greeted Sthenelos. The Ithacans cheered with pride, with unwavering support, their voices lifting Telemachus up rather than demanding his victory.

He felt the weight of their expectation settle over him like a mantle, but he didn't let it crush him. Instead, he took a step forward, rolling his shoulders as he moved toward the designated line.

Don't look up.

He knew you were sitting there.

He knew exactly where you were in the royal box, seated beside his mother, the Queen, in a position of honor. He had heard her laugh about it earlier, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she teased him about how your new title meant you were seated closer to the King and Queen—closer to him.

"Perhaps that will give you some motivation, hmm?" she had mused, her fan tapping against her chin as Odysseus merely chuckled.

He had fought away the warmth that had threatened to crawl up his neck then, and he fought it away now.

This was not the time.

Gritting his teeth, Telemachus drew in a slow breath and stepped into position. The cheers dulled into a distant hum as the announcer signaled for silence, the entire tournament ground sinking into stillness. The only sound left was the faint creak of the wooden mechanism resetting, the torch being relit, and the golden ring swinging back into position.

Focus.

His hands moved instinctively, adjusting his stance, settling into a position he had practiced a thousand times before. The bow felt familiar in his grasp, its weight grounding him. He inhaled, slow and steady, and with it came the silence—not just around him, but within.

His heart slowed.

His mind emptied.

And then—he felt her.

It was not a presence he could see, nor one he could explain. But it was there, pressing against the edge of his consciousness. Cold and sharp as a blade, yet warm as a guiding hand. It curled around him, not forcing, not demanding, but guiding.

Athena.

The whisper curled behind his ear, woven into his very thoughts, yet separate from them. A voice older than time, softer than breath, stronger than steel.

"Release."

He did.

The arrow loosed from his fingers, cutting through the air with a sharp whistle, an extension of his will. He barely tracked its path—there was no need.

It struck true.

The arrow passed cleanly through the golden ring, its trajectory flawless, before piercing the flame's very core. The torch sputtered violently—then extinguished entirely, leaving only a wisp of smoke curling into the afternoon sky.

A moment of stunned silence followed.

Then—an explosion of sound.

The Ithacan side of the arena erupted into a frenzy of cheers, their voices ringing with triumph. Telemachus barely registered the roaring applause, the cries of victory. His breath left him in a sharp exhale, his body suddenly too light, his pulse thrumming in his ears.

He hadn't realized how tense he'd been until now, until the arrow had met its mark and the weight pressing on his chest had lifted.

His fingers flexed instinctively, still curled from the shot, before he blinked himself back into reality.

Across the field, the Brontean warriors stood with arms crossed, their faces unreadable. They did not cheer nor jeer, only watched—waiting. Because this was not the end.

This was only the first test.

And now, the second awaited.

.☆.     .✩.        .☆.

Your voice went hoarse from cheering, though you hardly cared. The energy coursing through you was too electric, too exhilarating to be dampened by something as trivial as a sore throat.

Funnily enough, you weren't the loudest person in the royal box—not by a long shot.

Penelope had been completely unrestrained, gripping the railing in front of her as she screamed for her son with unabashed pride. Her golden fan lay discarded on the seat behind her, forgotten in her enthusiasm. At one point, she had leaned so far forward you genuinely thought she might tip over the balcony's edge and go tumbling into the stands below.

"THAT'S MY BABY!" she hollered, her voice ringing out over the roaring crowd. "DID YOU SEE THAT?! PERFECT FORM! PERFECT! THAT'S MY BOY—"

Odysseus, in contrast, remained seated, his hand firmly gripping her waist as though prepared to yank her back at any moment should her excitement send her too far over the edge. He wasn't unaffected by Telemachus' victory—far from it.

Though his reaction was more subdued, there was pride in the sharp gleam of his eyes, the way his lips curled ever so slightly upward as he watched his son stand victorious on the field.

You swallowed a laugh as Penelope finally turned back, breathless and flushed, her hands still clenched into excited fists. "Did you see that?" she asked you, eyes wide and gleaming. "Oh, I knew he'd do well, I knew it—but that? That was incredible!"

"I did see it, my queen," you said, smiling, your heart still hammering in your chest. "He was—" You struggled for the right word. "—flawless."

Penelope nearly swooned, placing a hand dramatically over her heart. "Flawless," she echoed, as though the word itself was divine. "Oh, my dear, that's exactly it! Absolutely flawless! My son, the pride of Ithaca, the future of our kingdom, our champion!"

Odysseus sighed through his nose, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes as he leaned forward, giving his wife a knowing look. "You're going to make his head even bigger than it already is, gynaíka mou," he murmured, his voice rich with fondness.

Penelope huffed, turning her nose up. "Let me dote on him," she insisted. "I had to wait twenty years to do so properly. He deserves it."

Odysseus chuckled but didn't argue, instead pressing a brief kiss to her temple before finally releasing his hold on her waist now that she seemed marginally calmer.

The energy in the arena began to shift as the announcer's voice rang out once more, this time with a note of finality.

"A ten-minute recess will be taken before the next trial of the tournament. Contestants may rest and prepare themselves while the field is adjusted for the second phase."

The collective excitement of the crowd began to settle, cheers giving way to chatter as people took the opportunity to stretch, fetch refreshments, or discuss the previous event.

Penelope let out a happy sigh, finally sitting back down, fanning herself now as though she had exerted more energy than her son. "Oh, this is wonderful," she said, practically beaming. "And to think we still have another round left! I cannot wait to see how he does in Pankration."

You, however, felt a flicker of unease at that.

Archery was one thing.

Pankration—Bronte's specialty—was another.

Your gaze drifted back toward the field, watching as Telemachus set down his bow and rolled his shoulders, stretching out the tension. His face was unreadable from this distance, but you could sense it.

The shift.

The challenge yet to come.

And what it would mean.

As your thoughts swirled with the implications of the next round, you barely registered Penelope shifting beside you—until her voice rang sweetly in your ear.

"Oh, dear, will you be joining Telemachus during his break?"

You choked on air.

Spluttering, you turned to the queen, wide-eyed and teary from the sudden struggle for breath. "Pardon, your majesty?" you wheezed, voice high-pitched and thoroughly scandalized.

Penelope merely giggled behind her fan, tapping it playfully against her chin as she leaned ever so slightly toward her husband. Odysseus, to his credit, didn't react beyond a slow blink and a knowing hum, as if he'd long grown used to his wife's antics.

"N-Nothing, dear," Penelope mused, waving a hand, though her eyes gleamed with mischief. "Just thought it might be nice for him to have a bit of... support, you know? Something to keep him... motivated."

Her tone—gods her tone—was far too innocent to be anything but teasing. She knew exactly what she was doing, enjoying it far too much.

Your face burned as you quickly looked away, shifting in your seat, suddenly very aware of your own heartbeat. Having a conversation that might actually kill me on the spot, you thought wildly, your mind racing.

Support.

Motivation.

The unspoken meaning behind her words was not lost on you.

Your thoughts spiraled, unwillingly wandering toward dangerous territory. Did she approve of you? Was she encouraging��something? The warmth in her voice, the giggle behind her fan, the playful glance she shared with Odysseus—it all felt like an unspoken nudge toward a reality you hadn't dared fully consider.

Your fingers curled against the fabric of your skirt, trying to ground yourself as a sudden flutter bloomed in your chest. If she accepted me—if she truly wanted us together—

Before your thoughts could spiral any further, a smooth, measured voice cut through the moment like a blade.

"I suppose I should go see how our competitors are faring," Andreia mused, a slow, coy smile gracing her lips as she lifted her fan to her chin. "It wouldn't do for me to let my champion feel unsupported. After all, I am his princess."

The shift in the air was immediate.

The queen's giggling ceased, the warmth between you all flickering as if snuffed by a sudden draft. For a moment, it was as if you'd all forgotten she was even there.

Penelope's expression schooled into something unreadable, though the way she slowly straightened in her seat was telling. Odysseus, meanwhile, remained silent, but his brow lifted in something that might've been amusement—though it was impossible to tell if it was toward Andreia's words or his wife's reaction.

After a beat, Penelope cleared her throat and gave a composed nod. "That is very kind of you, Lady Andreia," she said, voice smooth, betraying nothing.

Andreia's eyes gleamed at the praise. "Oh, not at all, Your Majesty," she said sweetly, flicking her fan open and waving it lazily. Then, she turned toward you, tilting her head as if examining you, and smiled. "Enjoy the rest of the break, dear."

Before you could form a response, she stood gracefully, her movements practiced and elegant. With a dainty snap, her fan closed in one fluid motion, the sound crisp against the lively noise of the festival below.

Immediately, the two Bronte servants seated near her rose as well, their movements eerily synchronized, their heads still bowed in silence. Without a single glance spared toward them, Andreia stepped forward, moving toward the exit with a presence that demanded attention without a word.

Just before she disappeared, she glanced over her shoulder, her hair shifting over her shoulder like liquid fire. "I'll be back before the next event begins," she assured smoothly before slipping away, her silent shadows following closely behind.

The air she left behind felt noticeably cooler.

Penelope exhaled slowly, rolling her fan shut as she leaned slightly into Odysseus, who hummed under his breath. Neither of them spoke immediately, as if absorbing the brief shift in atmosphere.

You, on the other hand, were left sitting stiffly, your thoughts still rattled—not just from Andreia's departure but from the realization that, for a moment, you had completely forgotten she was there.

And the fact that Penelope had as well.

That realization sent a sharp jolt through your chest, a cold hand wrapping around your ribs and squeezing. Andreia had heard every teasing lilt in Penelope's voice, every not-so-subtle hint about you and Telemachus.

You swallowed thickly, suddenly hyper-aware of how silent you had gone, your fingers curling into the fabric of your skirt as your thoughts churned.

What did she think of it?

The first time you believed she had grown upset over your closeness to the prince, she had shattered your lyre—an act so cruel and deliberate it had left a scar deeper than any physical wound. Your breath hitched slightly at the memory, the phantom echo of broken strings still whispering in the back of your mind.

And now...

Now, she had witnessed something far worse.

Not just a moment of friendship, not just idle words exchanged between you and Telemachus—but the Queen of Ithaca herself, openly encouraging something more.

Your stomach twisted. What did that mean for you?

What would she do?

Where in thunder and tides would her anger lead this time?!

Your pulse quickened, and your breathing shallowed as your mind began to spiral—

But before the panic could fully take root, Penelope's voice cut through the tangle of thoughts looping in your head, drawing you back to the present with an effortless grace that only she possessed.

Seated beside you, she took a delicate sip from her wine cup, her fingers effortlessly keeping hold of her fan in the other.

Just as you were about to compose yourself, Odysseus—ever the observant one—gently took the cup from her hands, smoothly replacing it with a fresh goblet of water. He didn't say anything, merely casting her an amused glance that had her rolling her eyes with a quiet huff.

Unbothered, Penelope continued, flicking her fan toward the field below where Andreia had just finished speaking with her own kingdom's representative.

"She's making her way to Telemachus now," she mused, her voice carrying a knowing lilt. "She's been hovering around the competitors all day—oh, which reminds me!"

She turned to you suddenly, the shift in conversation catching you completely off guard. "During morning tea earlier," she said, her voice lowering conspiratorially, "Andreia let something rather interesting slip."

You blinked, momentarily distracted by the fact that she was still having morning tea with Andreia?

"She called him 'Machus.'"

Your entire body stiffened.

Penelope smirked, clearly relishing your reaction. "She caught herself quickly," she continued, "smoothing it over as something between the two of them, but oh—you should've seen her face when she realized what she said."

You barely registered the end of her sentence before she suddenly tilted her head, gaze sharpening with unmistakable curiosity. "Now that I think about it," she drawled, a teasing glint in her eye, "do you and Telemachus have any special nicknames for each other?"

Your mouth fell open, and for what felt like the tenth time today, you were spluttering.

"A-Ah, I—what? No! We—I mean, why would we—what kind of—?" Your hands uselessly flailed for a nonexistent escape route.

Penelope only giggled behind her fan, her expression positively delighted.

Thankfully, salvation came in the form of Odysseus, who—while certainly entertained by your reaction—decided to spare you from further torment. He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he lightly tapped two fingers against Penelope's wrist in a wordless gesture to rein her in.

"Pen," he said, his voice warm with affection yet edged with amusement, "I believe you've had a bit too much wine."

Penelope gasped softly, scandalized. "How dare you?" she said, clutching her chest in mock offense before dramatically narrowing her eyes at him. "You poured it for me, husband."

Odysseus smirked. "And now I'm cutting you off."

She pouted, looking between her goblet and her husband like a child who had just been denied another helping of sweets.

You let out a deep breath, quietly thanking Odysseus for the rescue—though the moment was short-lived. Because the very next thing out of his mouth was—

"Although," he mused, stroking his chin as if in deep thought, "if there were any nicknames between our dear guest and my son, I'd certainly like to hear them."

You nearly keeled over.

"Odysseus!" Penelope beamed at him, her previous pout vanishing as she turned and placed a playful kiss against his cheek. "See?" she giggled, her eyes shining. "I knew you were on my side."

Your brain short-circuited.

Your entire body felt like it had gone up in flames.

You had just been teased by Penelope and Odysseus.

The Queen of Ithaca and the Odysseus.

A living legend.

The man whose cunning outwitted gods and monsters, whose stories were told by poets, had just smirked at you like a father indulging in gossip about his son's love life.

Your lips parted, your mind desperate to find words—any words—to process what had just happened, but all that came out was an utterly pathetic, "I—"

A voice cut through the atmosphere, breaking the peace that had settled just moments before.

"I've returned~," Andreia announced, her dulcet tone sweeping across the royal box as she stepped inside.

Her two Brontean servants followed closely behind, heads bowed in that same silent obedience as before. Andreia, however, moved with deliberate poise, gliding back to her seat with the air of someone who belonged—not just in this space but in any space she chose to inhabit.

As she settled, she let her fan drift lazily in her grasp, her green eyes flicking toward the field before returning to the royals. "Both men seem to be in high spirits," she mused, a pleased lilt in her voice. "I must admit, I can't wait to see who emerges victorious."

Penelope hummed, nodding thoughtfully as she turned to you, her expression bright with curiosity. "And what do you think, dear?" she asked, tilting her head. "Who do you place your faith in?"

Without hesitation, without even thinking, the answer left your lips with a certainty that startled even you.

"Prince Telemachus."

A soft snort echoed faintly from beside you, but you ignored it.

Odysseus, who had been leaning back comfortably in his chair, suddenly straightened, casting you an interested look. "And what makes you so sure?"

You hesitated for a moment, not because you were uncertain, but because you wanted to answer properly. You glanced down at the field, watching as Telemachus rolled his shoulders, stretching his arms as he prepared himself.

Slowly, you began to speak.

"I won't pretend to be the smartest here," you admitted with a small smile, "but I've had the privilege of watching some of Ithaca's finest train the prince throughout his youth." Your voice grew steadier, more assured, as the words continued to form. "And if there's one thing I've always noticed about him, it's that he's observant—more than people realize."

Your gaze remained on Telemachus as he adjusted his stance, his body language shifting subtly as he sized up his opponent.

"Even as a boy, he picked up on things quickly. He learned, adapted, and absorbed everything around him, but for the longest time, that part of him was overshadowed by his own hesitation. He second-guessed himself, doubted his own instincts. That hesitation made others underestimate him, but when it truly mattered, when he was forced to act..."

You took a slow breath, watching as Telemachus bent down slightly, testing his balance.

"He proved himself."

Penelope listened intently, her fan resting lightly against her chin. Odysseus, too, seemed intrigued, nodding along as you spoke. Even Andreia remained silent, though her expression was unreadable.

You shifted slightly in your seat. "His adaptability isn't like yours... his father," you admitted, your tone softer now. "Your cunning is effortless, ingrained into your very being. But the prince? His cleverness was shaped by necessity. It was sharpened over time, forged through struggle."

As you spoke, your eyes remained locked on the field, watching Telemachus move with quiet determination.

And that's when you noticed it.

The heat creeping up your neck wasn't just from speaking so passionately—it was from the very moment you realized Telemachus was practically naked.

Your breath hitched as your eyes flickered down, properly registering what you were looking at.

His usual tunic was gone.

Instead, he stood in nothing but a simple perizoma, a cloth tied around his waist that left almost everything exposed. His skin gleamed under the sun, a fine sheen of sweat making every muscle far too defined. The broad expanse of his shoulders flexed as he rolled them, his back a map of hardened lines and sinew, his abdomen taut and dusted lightly with dark hair.

Your lips parted, your mind stalling.

And then—he poured something over himself.

Your breath stopped in your throat as a servant stepped forward, handing him a decorated clay vase. At first, you didn't quite register what was inside until Telemachus lifted it, tipping the contents over his chest.

Olived oil.

A thick, golden liquid ran over the planes of his chest, slicking down his torso, catching in the grooves of his muscles before sliding lower, over his arms, his stomach, his legs—wait. LEG?!

Your eyes bulged as you suddenly realized—

He wasn't just shirtless.

He was practically bare.

Your mouth snapped shut, throat working around nothing as heat flooded your face.

Your hands instinctively shot into your lap, fingers gripping the fabric of your skirt tight as you desperately forced your gaze away, fixing your attention anywhere else.

The sky. The crowd. The dust on the ground.

Dear gods.

Clearing your throat, you dropped your gaze entirely, willing your pulse to slow.

This was fine. You were fine.

You were not going to combust over a little bit of exposed skin.

...Or a lot.

You understood before competing, athletes would rub olive oil on their skin to help with muscle flexibility and made it harder for opponents to grip them, but rationalizing it sure wasn't making anything less difficult.

Remembering that you had been in the middle of answering a question, you quickly scrambled to regain your composure.

"So... yeah," you blurted out, clearing your throat and forcing your gaze anywhere but the field. "I apologize for rambling."

Odysseus let out a low hum, his lips quirking in amusement as he leaned back in his chair. "No issue at all," he said, the weight of his gaze settling on you. "It was very... insightful."

There was a peculiar note in his voice, one that made you wonder just how much of your little distraction he had noticed.

But before you could linger on that—or on the fact that Andreia had remained uncharacteristically quiet behind you—scattered murmurs from the stands below caught your attention.

"What in the name of the gods is he doing?" "By the gods, the man's covering himself with dirt!"

Your eyes snapped back to the field just in time to witness Telemachus crouching down, scooping up fine dust from the ground, and deliberately rubbing it over his freshly oiled skin.

A chorus of mixed reactions followed.

On the Ithacan side, murmurs of curiosity spread quickly, while the Brontean side was far less subtle, a few warriors scoffing outright.

"That defeats the entire purpose," one sneered, folding his arms. "The oil is meant to emphasize the strength of the body, to heighten the power of the strike."

Another shook his head, chuckling under his breath. "Ithacans—always scheming instead of fighting properly."

A few others muttered in agreement, their voices laced with thinly veiled derision.

But then—

"Hmm."

Odysseus' voice broke through your thoughts, his tone carrying a note of interest.

You turned, catching the thoughtful gleam in his eyes as he studied Telemachus below.

"Smart," he murmured, stroking his chin. "He knows this will be tough, but this..." He gestured toward the field with his goblet. "This might just give him an edge."

You blinked, glancing back at Telemachus, who had now dusted down his arms and legs, rolling his shoulders as if testing the difference.

"He's reducing slipperiness," Odysseus continued, smirking slightly. "Improving his grip. The oil was a necessity, but with this? He won't be at as much of a disadvantage when the real fight starts."

Your lips parted slightly as you processed his words, a realization settling over you.

What had seemed like an odd, almost desperate act was actually strategy.

A small, begrudging smile tugged at your lips. Of course. Telemachus wasn't about to charge in unprepared. He was thinking ahead, adapting—just as you had said he would.

As your thoughts settled, the announcer's voice rang out once more, commanding attention over the restless murmurs of the crowd.

"Now, for the final trial of the tournament—Pankration!"

A wave of excitement rippled through the audience, cheers and shouts filling the air. You inhaled sharply, your fingers curling slightly against the railing as you leaned forward.

"But before we begin," the announcer continued, his voice carrying over the din, "a clarification of the rules!"

He paused for dramatic effect, allowing the noise to settle before going on.

"As tradition dictates, Pankration is a test of raw strength, endurance, and skill. Traditionally, combatants would enter the ring unclothed to ensure fairness, as is the way of the great warriors before us!"

A few loud cheers erupted from the Brontean section of the stands, some of the warriors already pounding their fists in approval. However, just as quickly, an amused ripple of laughter followed from the Ithacan side, along with a few high-pitched groans from certain spectators.

"Due to the presence of unwed women and children," the announcer added with practiced ease, "both competitors shall instead wear perizoma!"

There was a chorus of exaggerated boos from a section of Brontean women in the stands, one particularly familiar voice dragging out a dramatic, "Oh, come on!"

A second later—

Thud.

"Ow!"

There was a sharp snort of laughter, and despite the gravity of the moment, you recognized Callias' voice yelping from somewhere below, followed by a hushed "Serves you right," that sounded suspiciously like Lysandra.

You bit down on a smile, shaking your head slightly as the announcer continued.

"With this adjustment, let it be understood that this will be a battle of integrity!" His voice boomed, ringing through the arena. "To emerge victorious, one must either force their opponent out of the ring or render them incapacitated! Ithaca values skill, control, and wit—while Bronte honors strength and power! Which shall triumph?!"

The crowd roared.

The announcer lifted a hand, and the noise ebbed just enough for his final declaration.

"Step forward, warriors!"

Telemachus took a deep breath and strode to the center of the sandpit, his movements steady and controlled. Across from him, Sthenelos did the same, his heavy footfalls pressing deep into the dirt.

As the two men approached, the differences between them became even more pronounced. Sthenelos was a mountain, broad-shouldered and thick with muscle, his skin scarred from previous battles. His bare chest rose and fell with controlled breaths, and as he rolled his neck, his knuckles cracked ominously.

He was built for brute force, his very presence exuding the power Bronte so deeply revered.

Telemachus, by contrast, was leaner but no less formidable. His body, honed through years of rigorous training, spoke of precision rather than sheer might. Where Sthenelos was a boulder, Telemachus was a blade—sharp, measured, and waiting for the right moment to strike.

The announcer motioned for both men to stand face to face.

"Do you understand the rules?"

Sthenelos let out a short, rough exhale, punching his own chest three times in rapid succession, his eyes locked onto Telemachus with an intensity that bordered on predatory.

Telemachus, in stark contrast, merely nodded once. "Yes."

You exhaled, crossing your fingers in your lap as the announcer stepped back.

"Then let the final trial... begin!"

*gynaíka mou - my wife.

A/N:  is it obvious im obssessed with this fic rn??? lowkey was feeling awful about this presentation i have coming up (i suffer from bad social anxiety, lol rip my steady voice) and jusr remember i have free will and can write, so that's what i'm doing instead of facing reality ❤️❤️ is chappie good? also, woooowwww came back from like a week gone and gained like 30+ followers?! no take-backsies! now you're stuck reading my deranged fantasies forever~ mwaaaahhhhhh- 😋

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog

[valiantroyalty]

There was happy chatter amongst the heartslabyul students in the rose garden. A tea party was taking place, and everyone was in a good mood. Riddle was at the head of the table, with Alice, Trey, Cater, Deuce, and Ace surrounding him.

“Man, the potions exam was crazy!” Ace complained as he took a fruit tart to his plate.

“It’s only difficult because you don’t study,” Riddle retorted with a deep frown to the Heart. “Cmon give me a break! You know Crewel is out to get me!”

“Riddle is right, I don’t see you study,” Trey joined in and was rewarded with a groan from Ace.

Alice laughed to herself at the playful banter amongst the six of them. She adjusted her potion in the chair she occupied before she reached for her cup, then paused. “Oh is this lemon?”

“Yes, it is. You know we take lemon tea, Alice.” Riddle told her. She frowned at him as she set the cup back down. “It’s part of the rules!”

“You know I can’t have lemon. I’m allergic,” the blonde pointed out.

“Yeah and I have pink hair,” Deuce added with a laugh. But he sobered up at how serious Alice was. “Wait, you mean you’re actually allergic?”

Before either Riddle or Alice could respond, another voice broke through. “Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

A very familiar voice. Alice paled at the sight of him. Knave. He shouldn’t be here. He couldn’t be here!

“I don’t believe you can be here.” Trey spoke up after all six heads turned in the direction the voice came. Indeed it was the Queen’s Knave. Here. In the rose garden.

Riddle shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “He is right. You cannot be here! You should be in your imprisonment!”

Alice opened her mouth then closed it. Was that common knowledge? She knew she hadn’t told anyone about that part yet, the aftermath of her slaying the Jabberwockey.

“Ah! Isn’t it the prince. My apologies for not greeting you so formally.” Knabe did a mock bow to the dorm leader, much to the confusion of the students.

“Prince? Did he say Prince?” Cater questioned as he finally looked up from his phone, after having set up his plate and drink accordingly. He looked between Riddle and the newcomer. Riddle never mentioned he was royalty. Just his mother was very demanding of him.

“Nevermind that. I’m here for the girl. Give me Alice!”

The blonde sank low in her chair as if to hide. How could he come here? No one in Wonderland knew she was here at the college!

“If you won’t give her up easily, well..” A wall of crimson colored playing card soldiers formed behind Knave. It’s then the other students noticed what was going on, and it’s only silence now. Deafening silence. No chatter, no porcelain clacking against porcelain. No laughter.

“I demand you leave at once!” Riddle finally spoke up. He stood, and faced the Knave, his expression grim. His cheeks were a light pink, a warning to the anger that bubbled up.

“I’m sorry your highness but I only follow orders from your mother, the Queen.”

that caused a stir amongst the crowd of students. But the order of “get her!” was easily heard.

“Run Alice!” Deuce yelled as he withdrew his wand. The three cards followed suit. Alice was one of them, and none would allow her to be taken.

Alice slid out of her chair and booked it from the tea party right as the card soldiers broke order to follow after her. Run, run, she’s running again. It’s a never ending cycle of her endlessly running. This time for her life (again).

Except she was not alone. Riddle was right behind her after the quick persuasion of Trey. He knew the four cards could handle the soldiers. He also knew the Knave would follow Alice, his target.

Through the rose maze the two traveled, away from the fight that was happening behind them. But not far behind them did they hear footsteps.

[lcvetapped]

       𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰 that surrounded Bilgewater proved both infamous and feared . . . even amongst the might and valor of a military nation such as Noxus . . . legends could be sung about the dreaded Gangplank's escapades . . . or Miss Fortune's successful battles against the metal juggernauts of their war ships ; yet such affairs proved tiresome , on captain, crew , and resources a like .

       These notions did not find themselves applicable when it came to trade ships sailing out from Noxian ports . . . much like the unfortunate vessel that was currently under siege by the dastardly crew of The Syren , led of course by their feared captain . . . Sarah Fortune .

       ❝ Swipe whatever loot your hearts desire , lads ! ❞ a woman's voice could be heard from behind the thick veils of smoke that filled the invaded deck . . . its source drawn towards the bow of the seacraft . . . and more specifically the captain's chambers .

       While the spectacle of looting occured all around her , The Pirate Queen would plant heeled boot firmly against the war torn wood of the chamber door . . . causing the structure to fly open without so much as an ounce of resistance ; armed with her trusted Shock and Awe . . . Sarah would sweep left and right . . . no whims of the ship captain in sight , peculiar . . . but not all too surprising .

       Emerald irises would catch whisk of the maps sprawled out across the desk of the captain . . . each depicting the newly established trade routes Noxus had established on the sea . . . and all with exceptional levels of detail . . . a mighty fine treasure indeed ; what followed would be Miss Fortune setting down her weapons to begin rolling up the navigation charts in question . . . her aim to take them back to Bilgewater with her all too easily apparent .

       But perhaps this moment of reward would prove deadly ? Or something else entirely ?

      @sincut

[masterfvck]

Crown

Minnie/Yuqi

Theme: Royalty

Content warnings: swearing, smut, mentions of domestic abuse.

Smut content warnings: G!P(Yuqi), loss of virginity, praise, love confession during sex.

Idols: Minnie and Yuqi from (G)I-DLE. There will be other idols as minor characters.

(cross posted on Wattpad(Ocanericard))

--

Being a royal sounds great. It sounds like a dream.

Imagining it: you're rich, you have total control and power over everyone, you can basically do anything you desire.

Well, that isn't the case with everyone.

Princess Nicha Yontararak, otherwise known as Minnie, or Miss Nicha.

Her parents, well... They aren't the best, let's say.

She has two older brothers, but she doesn't speak much to them personally. Her future was all planned out already: become the queen of the country. The Queen of Thailand.

But that wasn't what she wanted, deep inside. She always wanted to be a musician, a singer. She thought the commoner life looked way more interesting.

It was probably selfish of her to think that way, but she couldn't help it. She didn't want to be royalty.

The only three things she liked about being royalty were simple.

1: She was rich. Obviously, who wouldn't love that?

2: The way the commoner children interact with her are absolutely adorable. She loves children, and definitely wanted one as an adult.

3: That one cute knight she sneaks little letters to.

Yes, there was indeed a knight who she was flirting with through little letters.

They had never directly spoken to each other yet, but she planned on making sure it happens soon.

She wanted to get to know her more.

Yes, her.

It became legal to have female knights now, contrary to a few years ago.

She is 25, and it had been established when she was 12 years old.

So, right now, it was the reason the letter she sneaked her, that little yellow envelope.

That's why it read: "meet me in the garden tonight, at midnight. I will be waiting for you. -Minnie ❤️"

She smiled at the way the knight blushed slightly, putting her helmet back on to hide it.

-

And now, she waited for her, sitting in the green grass of the castle's garden, looking at the starry night sky.

The guards weren't very smart, so they don't guard the garden at night.

She hears footsteps, cautious and slow ones.

She turns her head back and sees the knight.

And much to her surprise, she isn't wearing her armor.

The knight freezes for a second, but walks to sit besides Minnie.

"You came," Minnie says.

"Well, yes... Obviously. How could I refuse?" She speaks, for the first time to her.

Her voice is deep.

In a really hot way, actually.

Minnie smiles, then looks away.

"I like your voice. What's your name?"

"I am Song Yuqi, I come from China. It's an honor to be speaking to you in person, your Royal Highness," Yuqi introduced herself, bowing at the end.

Minnie laughed, waving her off. "Please, speak to me casually. All this formality is gonna make me throw up, ew," she reassured, and Yuqi looks shocked.

"I- B-But-"

"Don't stress it, Yuqi. I assure you, be casual with me when we're alone like this. No one else besides us are here," Minnie insists, and Yuqi closes her mouth and nods.

"Okay then, Minnie. Uhm... What did you call me here for?" Yuqi questions, and Minnie looks back in her eyes, which made Yuqi gulp.

"Let's be friends. I want to get to know you better."

Yuqi's eyes widened, and she struggled to find her words.

"I- Uh, well- Are we- Are we allowed to... Be friends?" She asks, and Minnie rolls her eyes and scoffs.

"Who cares? I'm allergic to the rules. They don't matter to me." She sticks her tongue out like she tasted something terrible.

Yuqi starts questioning her whole life at that moment.

What??

"Should we go back to my room? There will be less chances of a guard walking in on us talking like this," Minnie suggested, and Yuqi starts feeling dizzy at this point.

The princess? Inviting her?? To her room???

Is this a dream?!

"Of course. Please lead the way," Yuqi stands up, holding out her hand to help Minnie up.

Minnie smirks as she takes her hand, and Yuqi feels tingly as they make contact.

"Such a gentleman," she teased, and Yuqi blushed slightly.

They sneakily walked to her room, having to hide in a certain spot a few times to hide from the guards nearby.

They finally managed, after a few minutes, to get to the door that led to the inside of her room.

Minnie runs to her bed and flops on it immediately.

She sits up and pays a spot next to her, signalling Yuqi to come sit besides her.

She hesitated a bit, but she followed her silent instructions.

"So, Yuqi. Tell me about yourself," Minnie demands, and Yuqi nods.

"Hmm. Well, I came here to Thailand to become a Knight, because I heard that they actually get paid unlike back in China, and that the pay is pretty good. I trained for multiple years and became a knight in China at 17, then moved to Thailand last year and started as a knight a month after my arrival. I am now 23 years old. I can play the guitar, and someone once told me I am like a puppy."

"I have a guitar! Let me get it!" Minnie exclaims, rushing to her closet and pulling out a guitar.

"Play something for me." Minnie hands her the guitar, and Yuqi starts by checking if it's well accorded.

When she made sure it was, her hands started moving on their own, creating a tune.

It was one Minnie knew well.

As her fingers gently strummed the strings, Minnie could only watch in amazement.

She started humming the lyrics of the song, which made Yuqi open her closed eyes to look at her.

Her voice was gorgeous.

It was nothing like any other voice she's ever heard before.

It was soothing.

She felt herself getting hugged by the melody.

She could almost fall asleep right now.

.

The song ends, and they look at each other.

"You play guitar really well-"

"Your singing voice is really beautiful-"

They look into each other's eyes.

And then they burst out laughing.

-

For the past three months, they've been spending a lot of time together.

Yuqi has been coming to her room almost everyday, and they talked about everything and nothing.

Along with that, they had fallen for each other.

With all the things they said, they learned to appreciate each other. To love their qualities, to love their flaws, and to love who they are as a person.

They haven't noticed it at all.

(Oblivious losers...)

This time, Yuqi walked in on something different.

Minnie was only in a sports bra.

And she didn't even seem to mind.

"Oh, hi! Come on in, quick." Minnie hurried, speed walking to her and closing the door.

"I was wondering when you'd get here," Minnie laughed, dragging her to sit on her bed again.

Yuqi was flustered. Very, at that. Her face was like a tomato.

"Uh- Why are you not wearing a shirt?" Yuqi asks quietly, clearing her throat with a loud ahem.

Minnie raises an eyebrow. "Hm? I didn't feel like wearing one. I'm comfortable in this. Plus, doesn't this make my chest stand out more?" She teases, moving angles and wiggling her eyebrows, to which Yuqi squealed and playfully punched her arm.

"Don't! Do that!" Yuqi whined, and Minnie simply laughed and teased her further.

"Why? Too hot for you to handle?" She smirks, and Yuqi stops functioning.

Yes, she wants to say. But she doesn't, she keeps silent.

Minnie expects another whine, or a scolding, but she only gets silence from Yuqi.

Which she found a bit strange.

"Hey, Yuqi. Are you alri-"

"You have a really nice chest."

It came out before she could hold it back. And she instantly regretted it afterwards.

"I-I mean!! Uhh..." Yuqi stuttered, trying to find the right words.

Minnie simply shushed her by placing her index on her lips.

"Hey, don't worry. I liked the compliment! Like, thanks! You have nice tits too, I'm sure!" She laughs, taking her finger off her lips.

Yuqi looks down.

"No, uh- Minnie, I- I, uh-" she sighs, biting her lip.

Minnie tilts her head, humming.

"Minnie, I have an erection." She finally admitted it, and Minnie was slightly taken aback and surprised by the statement.

"Sorry if it freaks you out! I can go if you want me to-"

"Do you want me to help?"

They stay silent, staring into each other's eyes.

Yuqi gulps again.

"I- I don't have much experience, but I can... I can try," Minnie suggested, and Yuqi thinks about it.

She didn't have any experience either. Hell, she could barely jerk off properly. She did once every like, three months or something. It wasn't often.

"I- Your don't have to if you don't want to," Yuqi reassured, not wanting to make her do anything she doesn't want to.

"But I want to," Minnie looked at her with practically pleading eyes, shining in enticipation.

Yuqi widened her eyes again, and she looked down again.

"I guess, if... If you really want to, then that's fine."

"But do you want to?"

Yuqi looks back at her, face redder than ever.

"Really bad, actually," she confessed, and unconsciously, the two started slowly leaning in.

Looking at each other's lips only.

And they held each other for support as their lips made contact and their eyes closed.

Their lips started moving on their own. They fit almost like two perfect puzzle pieces. Made for each other.

Minnie's hand reached to Yuqi's pants' waistband, tugging on it. Yuqi helped her take them off, leaving only her boxers.

They pulled away after a while, looking at each other again.

"How many inches are you?"

"Uhm... About, maybe, 7.4 inches," Yuqi declares, and Minnie yelps a bit. "Is that too much for you to handle? Not big enough?"

"No, no, it's fine... Nothing I can't handle," Minnie mutters, and immediately pulls her boxers down, revealing Yuqi's not even 7, but 8 inches.

"That's not 7 inches at all! You liar!" Minnie exclaimed, and Yuqi looked at her dumbfounded.

She muttered a quiet apology as Minnie started pulling her own pants and underwear down.

"W-Wait, shouldn't I like- finger you first? Prep you up?" Yuqi suggested cautiously, and Minnie nods.

Yuqi brings her hand closer, then slides a finger in between the folds of Minnie's pussy.

She's surprised at how wet it was already.

Minnie shuddered at the feeling, looking at Yuqi's fingers slowly rubbing and teasing her.

After a minute of teasing, Yuqi slid one finger in, which made Minnie let out a quiet moan, her hands gripping the sheets.

Her finger slowly sinked all the way in, and after a few seconds of not moving it, she slowly started pumping it in and out of her.

As she moved her finger, Minnie released soft sighs and moans.

"Can I add another?" Yuqi asks after a minute or two of moving her finger, and Minnie nods.

"Please," Minnie sighs, her voice quieting a bit.

Yuqi does so, slipping another finger and watching Minnie arch her back and cover her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut tightly and practically shaking.

Yuqi watches Minnie, being in such a vulnerable state, all from her hands.

It's crazy how much power her hands actually hold.

"Do you want to cum like this, or should I make you wait a bit until I get inside you?" Yuqi asks near her ear.

"Mmh- Wanna cum, please, like this," she begs, and Yuqi swears it's a better melody than any of the songs she played for her.

Yuqi kept going, curling her fingers at the greatest spots, watching as Minnie shuddered, moaned, how her hips bucked under her.

"Ah- Yuqi- Fuck!" She cursed. And she cursed before, of course she did, but it was different in this context.

She cursed, but she felt more like she was being blessed than cursed.

It felt amazing- she wondered if her fingers felt this good, how she would feel when Yuqi's erection would be inside her.

With one last pump of her fingers, Minnie's walls clenched around her as she climaxed. The knot shattered, at last.

And Yuqi simply admired her; her face was flushed a scarlet red, her lips were parted ever so slightly, her chest heaved up and down, her eyebrows fere furrowed and her eyes were closed softly. She looked beautiful, truly. Even more than that, she could not find the words to describe the beauty she held.

She must have been God's favorite, if he made her look so drop-dead gorgeous.

She watched as Minnie rode down her orgasm, keeping her fingers still as Minnie panted heavily.

Yuqi was thankful for her being louder than her, because she was a bit embarrassed by her voice sometimes. She had been picked on as a child for it, so she always felt a little shy about it.

As her fingers left her, Minnie opened her eyes and looked into Yuqi's.

Yuqi shuddered, biting her lip.

"I- Uh, I think I'm ready now," she whispered.

"You think? Are you really sure?" Yuqi worried slightly. It was all she did: worry. She worried a lot for people, because not many had been by her side and she didn't want to loose them in any way.

Minnie nods, pulling Yuqi closer to her desperately. "Please, I don't- I don't want to wait any longer. I want it, Yuqi," she begs, and Yuqi smiles at her.

"Okay, I- I'll give you what you want." She then remembered something, one that she should have thought of before.

"Condoms. We- Do you have condoms?" Yuqi asks, a bit rushed. Minnie furrows her brow a, then shakes her head.

"You can just pull out," Minnie suggested, trying to get her to fuck her already, as she was getting quite impatient.

But Yuqi was worried. As she always was. "I- I don't know how good my pull out game is... But, for you, I can try..." she whispered, then slowly aligned herself near Minnie's entrance.

The tip brushed against it, and Minnie shivered and bit her lip.

Yuqi slowly and carefully inserts herself in, and moans at the feeling. "Ah- God, I can already feel how tight you are, you're clenching around me so much."

She lets Minnie get used to the thickness for a moment before going in further, making Minnie moan a bit.

It was a bit more than halfway through, and Minnie already felt a bit full. And she wasn't even completely inside yet.

There was about an inch left, and Minnie was a mess. "Just- Just slam the rest in me, fast," Minnie sighs.

"Are... Are you sure? I don't want to hurt you," Yuqi asked worriedly, and Minnie rolled her eyes.

"Yes! I am so sure, if you don't I'm move myself," she groaned, and Yuqi nodded.

She then abruptly bucked her hips, and her length completely buried itself in her warmth. Minnie moaned quite loudly, arching her back further.

"Oh my god," she groaned, and Yuqi watched her, once again. She watched her as she slowly started moving little thrusts, listening to her soft moans and sighs.

And again, Minnie's voice overpowered Yuqi's. Yuqi also let out small moans and whimpers, with the feeling of Minnie clenching around her cock.

"Fuck, fuck Yuqi- Y- ah!" Minnie cut herself off with a moan, as Yuqi's dick hit her G-Spot. "Fuck! Right there- God," she grips onto her back, her nails scratching her back. But Yuqi endured the pain and kept going, speeding her movements a little bit and hitting Minnie's G-Spot repeatedly, watching her as she did so.

"Fuck- Yuqi- I'm so close, please don't sto- ah!" Minnie blabbered, and Yuqi obeyed, even speeding up her thrusts a bit more, which got Minnie even closer, and Yuqi as well.

"I- Yuqi, I- I'm c- ah!" With a last moan, Minnie came all over Yuqi's cock, her thighs shaking.

"I'm- ah- I'm gonna-

Fuck-

Minnie,

I- love you-"

She muttered before barely pulling out and releasing on Minnie's abdomen and chest.

They both took time to catch their breaths, Yuqi flopping down besides Minnie.

"You love me?" Minnie grinned, and Yuqi looked away in embarrassment.

"Don't be shy, baby~ Truth is, I do too." Yuqi moved to look at her, and was met with Minnie looking at her with sweet, sweet eyes.

And she smiled.

They didn't say anything else. Just buried themselves in each other's arms and stayed there until they fell asleep.

(Sneaking Yuqi out of the room was difficult.)

-

It had been 2 weeks since they started secretly dating.

Yuqi came to her room everyday, like usual.

And this time, it was different.

Minnie was crying, sobbing her heart out.

Yuqi rushed to her, holding her softly.

"Minnie! What happened? Are you okay?" She asked, full of worry. Minnie curled into a ball and laid on Yuqi's lap.

"I- Fuck- No... It hurts-" Her voice croaked, and Yuqi's heart broke a little at the words. "What hurts, sweetheart?"

"My dad- he-" Minnie couldn't finish her sentence, she broke out into heavy sobs again. Yuqi widened her eyes in rage. She couldn't do much against him. He was the king, after all.

She let Minnie calm down a bit, rubbing circles on her back soothingly as she sobbed on her lap.

As Minnie started to calm down a bit, she sits up besides Yuqi, revealing her tear-stained face, which was all red. Yuqi reached up to wipe her tears with her thumb, kissing the bridge of her nose.

"There, there. Can you tell me what happened?" Yuqi asks softly, holding her gently and Minnie nodded.

"My dad... I, uh. I talked back to him when he told me to get... A husband. I told him I didn't want to, that I would prefer even a wife. And then he... He- fuck, Yuqi, he slapped me and... He- Her started hitting me."

Yuqi grinded her teeth, and Minnie removed her hands for a second to take her shirt off.

It revealed several bruises and some cuts, all fresh and new. Yuqi widened her eyes again, and clenched her fists.

"That asshole," Yuqi muttered through her grinded teeth, and Minnie sighed.

She looked her, dead in the eyes, and she said:

"Let's run away together, Yuqi."

And Yuqi didn't even hesitate to accept.

-

The plan was pretty simple: Pack some stuff, run away to China, then get a flight to Canada and get their Canadian citizenship.

They would be moving to Toronto, and they would finally live a normal life.

But their plan was interrupted when they encountered another knight.

One that Yuqi knew very well.

"Yuqi? Y-You Royal Highness..?" He stuttered when he saw the two, taken aback by seeing the two together.

"Shit- Uhm, hiiii! Yukhei, my bro... What are you doing here?!" Yuqi whisper yelled nervously, hiding Minnie behind her as best as she could.

Yukhei raised an eyebrow, his face morphing into a confused look.

"Uh... I was going out for a walk... What are you doing with the princess?" He murmured, looking around to see if any other knights were there.

"Well-"

"We're running away. Please do not tell my parents you saw us, Yukhei," Minnie cut Yuqi off, and the latter flinched.

Yukhei looked stunned, but soon straightened his posture and bowed to them.

"I see. Then, I wish you good luck on your travel, and plenty of safety. Farewell, Yuqi, and your Royal Highness. I will miss your company," he said, and smiled brightly at them.

They both smiled back warmly, and bowed back to him.

"Thank you, I wish you a good life, Yukhei. Farewell, I hope we will meet again," Yuqi spoke, and they turned back and walked away.

"So, are you gonna tell on them?" Chittaphon asked, and Lucas chuckled.

"Of course not. Yuqi's my best friend. She's like my little brother. I couldn't betray her like that. And the Princess as well. Would you?" Yukhei replied, and the other boy shook his head.

"Nahh, the King's an asshole anyways. Couldn't be bothered to," he whistled, walking back to the castle and Yukhei followed him, laughing wholeheartedly in agreement.

"Don't say that out loud, you idiot!" He warned, and Chittaphon raised his hands up in a mocked surrender gesture.

"Oh, I'm sorry, dad!" He grinned, and they went to guard the garden.

Because no one else ever did.

-

Timeskip: 5 years later.

"Uh, hey, Honey?" Minnie called out as she peeked out of the bathroom, met with a star-eyed Yuqi.

"So? Is it positive?" She asked in enticipation, and Minnie smiled.

She nodded, holding back her tears.

"It is. We're having a child, Yuqi," she announced, and Yuqi ran to hug her wife tightly.

They both celebrated that night with a glass of orange juice for Minnie, and some champagne for Yuqi(which Minnie was very jealous of, so they ended up both having orange juice.)

-

"Twins?! Are you fucking me right now?" She exclaimed when she saw the ultrasound, and Yuqi laughed.

"No, but I did some months ago-"

"Yuqi!!" Minnie groaned, and their doctor, Kim Jiwoo(also known as Chuu,) laughed at the joke.

Minnie pouted and Yuqi approached closer to her belly, grinning widely.

"Hey you guys~ I hope you don't end up as sassy as your mama..." She mutters the last part, but Minnie heard her very well, and slapped the back of her head.

"Ow!!" "Keep in mind this is your fault!"

"You're the one who wanted a baby!"

"You still came inside!! I didn't expect to have twins, you know? There's supposed to be ONE winner in the sperm race!"

"I don't control my cum, Minnie!"

-

Yuqi looked at her first daughter's eyes.

They were barely open for the moment being. But she could tell, they were beautiful.

She smiled warmly at her, holding her hand out.

And her daughter grabbed her pinky gently with her two hands.

Yuqi's heart warmed at the sight, and her eyes watered.

"Welcome to the world, Ning."

Minnie held her first son in her arms.

He had stopped crying, at last.

And she looked at him.

She couldn't yet say what he looked like exactly, since he was just born.

But she knew he was going to be beautiful.

"Welcome to your life, Pasidh."

-

"Suck it up, Ning! You'll never be as fast as me!" Pasidh laughed, running

"Shut up! I'm gonna catch up to you somehow, just you wait, Bambi!" She shouted back, increasing her running speed.

Minnie and Yuqi watched as the two kids played together, smiling adoringly.

"It's Prince! Not Bambi!!" He screeched back, and Ning rolled her eyes.

Soon enough, they were both out of breath and laid down on the grass near their parents, breathing heavily.

"Hey, mama? Mommy?" Ning asked, and they looked at her.

"Can I invite Aeri and Minjeong over? Jimin's out for a trip to Italy," she looked at them with puppy eyes, and they laughed.

"Of course! Did you ask if they could come?" Minnie asked her, and the girl nodded.

"Hey! I wanna invite a friend over too!" Pasidh exclaimed, sitting up abruptly.

"Can I invite Woojin and Junseong over? Pleaaase?" He put his hands together and Yuqi raised her thumb up at him.

"Yeah! I can get more controllers from the basement for your Nintendo if you want," she said, and he jumped happily.

Minnie leaned her head on Yuqi's shoulder, and Yuqi did the same as they watched their kids run inside their house to call up their friends, saying they can come over.

Ah, childhood... The best stage of your life. It's something you miss as you grow older.

And watching it makes you feel warm inside.

Especially knowing that you were the one who caused those moments of happiness.

It makes you feel happy. Grateful.

...

And they lived happily ever after, probably.

---

A/N: this took me so long to write. It has like 4K words. I did not need to go all out for that but guess what? I DID ANYWAYS ☺️ hope you enjoyed this kinda rushed thing. Have a good day/night, eat well, drink well and stay safe ❤️

[apomaro-mellow]

Part 1

After getting the decree from the queen, Jonathan went right into the center of the square to make the announcement. The queen wanted as many people in attendance, all the better for finding a spouse for her son.

"The prince is having a ball", Jonathan said, getting everyone's attention. "His Royal Highness Stefano William, son of Her Majesty Queen Genevieva Ambre Angelique Anneliese Delta-"

"Delta?", a voice in the crowd called out in confusion.

"Delta", Jonathan continued without a beat, "Galatea....is having a ball!"

That was all anybody needed to go into a frenzy. In the crowd was Murray, who was immediately scheming. A prince on the prowl for a royal companion could be very advantageous indeed.

Meanwhile, Jonathan was on the move, going to florists, bakers, butchers, and tailors to begin setting up for the ball. Obviously any royal affair had to be big and loud but finding a suitor for the prince was even more reason to go big.

News of the ball reached far and wide and even Eddie heard of it. While he typically didn't give a rat's ass about royalty, even he wasn't immune to the implied romance of possibly meeting the love of your life at what was basically a lavish dance party.

Any excitement he would've had was instantly squashed when his family decided a ball meant they had to do extravagant shopping and use him like a beast of burden. The lack of consideration was so much that even when they got home, they expected him to open the door even with his arms full.

Sure. Yeah. Of course. Not a tall order at all.

The moment he opened it and tried to get inside, Tommy practically ran into him like a bull trying to get in first, nearly making everything fall from Eddie's hands.

"Edgar your lack of grace is staggering", Murray commented.

Eddie kept from muttering under his breath. No need to put anymore attention on himself. Turned out he didn't need to. Murray gave a put-upon sigh and went into his old spiel without Eddie saying a word.

"To think, people told me to throw you out. But I didn't! No, my saintly soul wouldn't allow it." Murray fiddled with Jason's hair until it was how he liked it. "Even though I already had two stallions in my home-don't slouch Thomas-I let the lame horse continue to live in my abode."

"You're almost a martyr, father", Jason kissed ass like there was no tomorrow.

Murray put a hand to his heart. "I know. Edgar, prepare us some tea and bring it to our rooms. Boys, we need our beauty rest if we're going to be ready for the ball. Come along now."

Tommy and Jason followed diligently as Murray went up the stairs. Eddie watched them go, holding his tongue until they were out of ear shot, but he only needed to wait until their backs were turned to flip them off.

Then he turned on his own heel to start making their tea. They'd probably be asleep before he finished making it but if they weren't and he wasn't it'd be hell.

"Who needs a ball anyway, I'll give em some balls", he muttered to himself as he got a kettle going. They could go off for their one night of splendor and entertainment. Eddie could get all that right here in the kitchen. His own little corner of paradise.

As the tea was being brewed, Eddie turned, making his hair flourish around his head.

"Your Highness, how do you do?" He gave a deep bow to the broom. "Lovely evening isn't it?"

Eddie had never laid eyes on the prince. But someone who had the whole kingdom fawning over him couldn't just be riding the royal title. He was probably as handsome and as charming as the rumors said. Eddie tried to imagine someone like that and to his surprise, he came up with the guy he met earlier.

He certainly had a cordial air about him. And handsome, there was no doubt about that. What had his name been again?

"Me? A dance?" Eddie pretended the stranger had just extended his hand. He was dressed to the nines, probably in blue or green, those colors suited him. And he wanted to dance with Eddie.

"Oh I couldn't. But if you insist~"

Eddie started to sway with the broom, thinking of what it would feel like to have arms around him. To have someone look at his mess of a hair and call him beautiful. To kiss his hands, raw from work, with love. To want him, to actually want him, from now until-

"Where's that tea!", Tommy's shrill voice barked from upstairs.

Well, that was it for play time pretend. Eddie poured three cups and balanced them all pretty masterfully if he did say so himself. They could keep their balls and temporary delights. Eddie had a world of wonder in his head to keep him content.

Part 3

[carewyncromwell]

McGonagall 🤝 Carewyn

in memory of Maggie Smith...rest in peace, sweet queen

The Battle of Hogwarts was hard-fought. With how many casualties there had been and how much the school had been damaged, it was inevitable that it would take a very long time before things would be as they once were. If nothing else, those poor students who had had to start at Hogwarts the year the Death Eaters took over would have to pretty much start all over again from the Defense Against the Dark Arts and Muggle Studies perspective, since everything they'd learned from the Carrows was both completely useless and incorrect. And that wasn't even touching just how hard it would be for the student body to find contentment and peace again after such a traumatic school year.

Hogwarts needed strong leadership, if it hoped to get through such a difficult time. Fortunately the school was in very good hands, with Minerva McGonagall as its Headmistress. There was truly no one better to take charge in Carewyn Cromwell's mind that her old Deputy Headmistress.

"Phoenix ashes," Carewyn stated the password that she'd received in her most recent letter.

At once the gargoyle moved aside, allowing her access to the Headmistress's Office. As she climbed the stairs, the Ministry's star lawyer caught the sound of two familiar voices.

"...word to Kingsley on the matter?" asked a very dreamy, serene male voice.

"I daresay our new Minister will have more than enough on his plate at present," said a much crisper, sterner female voice, before she exhaled. "But yes, I suppose I will have to. It's hardly a wonder last NEWT season was so disheveled: some retesting will be inevitable, under the circumstances..."

As Carewyn reached the landing, she found tall, austere Minerva McGonagall standing at the far back left of the office, speaking to the portrait of her old friend and mentor, Albus Dumbledore. The Headmistress had her graying dark hair tied back in a very tight bun as always, and she was dressed in high-necked black and red tartan robes. She had her back to Carewyn when she entered, which meant that Dumbledore's portrait caught sight of the red-haired Slytherin alumnus first.

"Hello, Carewyn," he said with a bright twinkle in his painted eyes.

Carewyn's red lips came together tightly. It was the first time she'd seen Dumbledore's portrait in the office. The last time she'd seen the man himself was nearly a year prior to his death -- hell, even the last letter she'd received from him had come through a good two years ago now.

"...Hello, Professor," she said stiffly.

She turned to McGonagall and her expression relaxed, seeing the small smile touching the older woman's features.

"Hello, Miss Cromwell."

"It's been a while, Professor."

"Indeed it has," said McGonagall. "I believe this is the first time we’ve spoken since I visited your flat at the start of the War…"

Carewyn nodded. She glanced around the Headmistress's office — it hadn’t changed that dramatically since she’d been there last, but there were a few things that felt off. Obviously the portrait of Dumbledore was new; there were a few magical instruments that had been replaced on the many shelves. The thing that caught Carewyn's eye, however, was the empty roost which years before had hosted Dumbledore’s familiar, Fawkes the phoenix.

McGonagall followed Carewyn's gaze, and her expression grew a bit more solemn.

"Fawkes left Hogwarts the night Albus died," she said, her eyes flitting back to Dumbledore's portrait as he swept out of it and out of sight. "Neither I nor anyone else I know of has seen him since."

Carewyn bowed her head. "I daresay with how loyal he was to Dumbledore, Fawkes will mourn him longer than anyone else."

McGonagall sighed. "Yes..."

Her eyes behind her glasses appeared misty and dark — Carewyn could sense a wave of nostalgia coming off of her, as well as a Dumbledore-shaped shadow sweeping silently around the office they now occupied. Even so, as she crossed the room back over to her desk, the Headmistress walked with purpose and pride in her shoulders.

"I lament you were unable to pay your respects, after what happened," said McGonagall, "but I suppose the role you played for the Order would have been compromised by your attendance?"

Carewyn frowned uncomfortably as she looked away.

"My Legilimency has…made it more difficult for me to be in tight proximity with lots of people. And people in mourning, especially people I knew…it would've been a struggle to act detached from Bill and the others, in the midst of that. With Umbridge and Scrimgeour in attendance as potential witnesses, I couldn't risk that loss of composure, if I wanted them to think I wasn't aligned with the Order."

Her blue eyes darkened.

"…Even coming to Hogwarts, after the Battle…even when separated from everyone by walls, the emotions were so loud and painful that I could barely stand."

McGonagall’s face gained a bit more compassion. "I see…"

The Headmistress indicated the chair on the other side of her desk. Carewyn accepted the mute offer and sat down.

"Would you like some tea?" asked McGonagall.

"That'd be lovely, thank you."

The Headmistress waved her wand. In a moment, a teapot had bounced off of a nearby table with a newly formed pair of legs and up onto the desk, little splashes of tea spilling out the top as it went. Not far behind it came two teacups, also bounding up onto the desk in front of Carewyn and McGonagall, respectively. McGonagall let the teapot pour its own contents into their cups as she flipped open a lid on a box to reveal a batch of Ginger Newts, which she placed down between them so Carewyn could reach them.

"I did visit his tomb on my way in today, though," said Carewyn. She picked up her newly full cup with a quickly murmured "thank you" to the enchanted teapot. "Mum asked me to drop off some flowers, for her."

"Albus would've appreciated that," said McGonagall. "He always spoke fondly of Lane…and of you and Jacob, as well. He does as well," she added, indicating the empty frame of Dumbledore's portrait with a nod of her head.

Carewyn eyed the empty frame too, but more beadily. However fond he may have been of them, Dumbledore had still expelled Jacob in a misguided attempt to protect Hogwarts from R, and that was something that even now Carewyn couldn'’'t forgive.

“How is Jacob?” asked McGonagall more solemnly. "I know he suffered his fair share of loss in the final Battle."

"He's doing as well as he can,” Carewyn said, grateful for the caring. "As we all are, after everyone we've lost in this War…"

The faces of Tonks, Lupin, Amelia Bones, Mad-Eye Moody, Fred, and Dobby ran over her memory as she glanced around the office again, her eyes lingering on the many portraits hung up on the walls.

For a brief moment, Carewyn had wondered if there would’ve been another portrait added of the Headmaster who had taken charge of Hogwarts for most of the last term — but, she reminded herself, someone would likely have to actively choose to put a portrait of him in the office for him to be there. And she had trouble thinking of anyone who'd want to hang a portrait of Severus Snape on Hogwarts grounds, after everything…

McGonagall’s own expression had become rather sad as she folded her hands on her desk.

"I daresay it will be a long time before we fully heal from all the pain we have suffered. Before our whole World heals..."

Her face then grew more serious again.

"...Fortunately, from what I understand, we've started on the proper path towards that. Is it true you've accepted the role of Chief Prosecutor, for the Ministry's upcoming trials?"

Carewyn nodded. "Minister Shacklebolt offered the role to me this last Tuesday. There's still a lot of work to do before we start, but all of the suspects the Ministry seeks to try are already in custody, so at least we don't have to worry about them causing any further damage. All we have to do now is prove the extent of their crimes..." Her eyes hardened. "...And I intend to make sure they all face justice — every last one of them.”

"I have no doubt of that, Miss Cromwell." Something proud seemed to flicker across McGonagall’s features. "If there's one thing Barty Crouch did not have while pursuing justice against Voldemort's supporters, it was a strong moral compass…and that is something you've never lacked."

Carewyn wasn’t able to fight back the flinch at the Dark Lord’s name; even now that he was dead, he remained her greatest fear, and the habit of not using his name was hard to break. Even so, she smiled slightly.

"…I appreciate the support, Professor. It'll take time to give everyone a thorough trial, but there are some who it'll be far easier to try and convict quickly. Those captured after the Battle of Hogwarts, primarily — I would say there is little to no defense anyone could offer for the likes of Alecto and Amycus Carrow."

McGonagall scoffed. "I doubt those savage simpletons would see any reason to excuse their behavior, as opposed to justify it."

Carewyn snorted in agreement. "The Malfoys, on the other hand, might require more deliberation…particularly Narcissa." She took a sip of tea. "...Then there are those suspects who will undoubtedly claim innocence and coercion, whether it's true or not — Dolores Umbridge, for instance."

McGonagall gave a louder scoff than ever.

"Oh yes, I'm quite sure she'll try," she said spitefully. "I do hope your case will be robust enough to contradict that?"

"Don't worry," said Carewyn with a cold smile, "I have a large file of evidence against Umbridge, and it should be more than enough to condemn her. If you want to submit your own testimony as to her sadistic character, though, I'd be happy to include it in my prosecution," she added with a larger smirk.

"You may expect it by tomorrow," McGonagall said very coolly.

"Much obliged," Carewyn said with a grin.

She put down her cup of tea so she could fetch a Ginger Newt from the open tin. She took a bite, chewing slowly as she considered her next words.

"...Professor...may I ask your opinion on something?"

McGonagall raised her eyebrows. "You may certainly ask it. Though I must confess, I'm pleasantly surprised to hear you openly asking for advice."

"I don't intend to make a habit of it," Carewyn said with a light huff. Glancing away, she then admitted a bit more seriously, "...It's just...you've had to look after a lot of children as if they were yours, even if they weren't. And well...I find myself in the position that I might have to, as well."

McGonagall peered at Carewyn over her tea with interest. "Oh?"

Carewyn smiled uncomfortably, her eyes averted as she rested her hand holding the Ginger Newt on the desk.

"...I...want to foster a child," she confessed.

McGonagall blinked in surprise.

"His name is Erik Apollo," Carewyn explained. "He's one of the children I'm representing before the Wizengamot, demanding compensation. He was orphaned, cursed, and rounded up by the Muggle-Born Registration Commission during the War -- he only just barely avoided getting chucked into Azkaban, after Umbridge's trumped-up trial of him. He's twelve years old, set to start at Hogwarts this September as a first year. His home was wrecked and he has no other family. He needs somewhere stable to live in the Wizarding World, while he attends school..."

"And you wish to provide him that?" presumed McGonagall.

Carewyn nodded very firmly. "I do."

"Hm..." McGonagall's face had warmed significantly. "...Well, Miss Cromwell, I think that is a truly noble and generous thing for you to do. I would be happy to give you any counsel you wish."

She then smiled a bit more wryly.

"And I sincerely hope your new ward gets up to less trouble than you or your brother got up to, when he arrives here this September."

Carewyn laughed.

Friendship Drabble Prompt!

[fumblingmusings]

Cardverse Week 2023

@aphcardverse-week

Day One: Royalty - Arranged marriage | Coronation | Tradition

Francis did not pick his new Queen, but watching her bear the weight of that heavy crown, he doesn't doubt Vash's judgement in this matter. Gen | No Romance | No Warnings Apply

The girl was small, fae like almost. She had daisies and sweet williams thread in a crown across the braid that spanned the top of her head. A white dress with cap sleeves and a yellow satin belt, tied neatly into a stiff bow at the back, reached her slim ankles, little pale yellow shoes poking out to reveal delicate feet. Francis could not quite see to confirm their colour, but her eyes stared doggedly at his knees, utterly respectable and reverent. According to her family, she was sweet, gentle, and good natured.

She was also practically a child.

Francis kissed Lili’s hand, then peered over at Vash. The girl’s brother, Jack of the Kingdom and the one who had reluctantly proposed the match, had a face like a thunderous storm. 

There was no law dictating that a King and Queen must love each other, nor even that they must marry. Indeed, of the four Kingdoms, Clubs’ King had deftly been set aside for the Jack by the Queen, whilst in Hearts, the King and Jack were as inseparable as any grand love affair told throughout the ages. Only Spades, odd tiny Spades, had the King and Queen in any sort of romantic entanglement. And that, from what Arthur had explained, had been designed from the men’s birth. Pushed together and forced to be in each other’s company until the only outcome was either virulent hatred or genuine love.

Sometimes Francis doubted Arthur was capable of feeling the latter... but it was not for him to judge.

Still. At least all of the Queens were quite safely several years into adulthood. Lili was young, but her brother’s unfortunate decision to ensure she was an utter ingenue, and completely unprepared for any complexity in court life, had left a foul taste in Francis’ mouth. If he did not know his Jack so well, the King would have assumed it was a way to ensure the Queen was totally dependent on her brother for guidance, unlikely to act independently and deny the traditional three point power structure that kept the monarchy in balance. 

Fortunately, the King did know his Jack. Lili had superseded all other choices for a reason. Blood was not one of them.

Lili smiled, said her thanks, then looked to Vash for guidance.

Uncomfortable as always, Vash’s eyes did soften when speaking to his sister. Softly, but still rather brusque - the Jack was not known for his empathetic nature - Vash urged her to stand straight, and to look her eventual husband in the eye.

In the grand mirrored hall, with half the court watching with a snide curiosity, the King searched for something to say. Something to find in common with the girl nearly ten years his junior.

“Tell me Lili,” he tried, “Do you play cards?”

Those soft blue eyes sparkled, little mouth popping open. She did not speak, but nodded enthusiastically.

“She plays a little,” Vash spoke for her. 

Lili tutted, finding her own voice. “If I may boast, I believe I am rather good at it.”

Francis resisted the urge to heave a sigh. It was a start. 

“Then let us go sit and talk over a game.”

*****

She was more than rather good, the King soon discovered. In fact, she was rather beastly at it.

It was hard not to treat her akin to a child. She was small, she was soft spoken, she did enjoy filling her chambers with soft toys, her favourite food was angel cake and there was nothing in her wardrobe which was not covered in flowers or glitter. 

But then and again she did odd little things. She had a knack for reading people which indeed did make her unbeatable in games such as poker. She revealed herself to be just as fiscally minded as her elder brother, albeit slightly less ruthless about it. 

Lili was also rather stubborn, when it came down to it. In the planning of her coronation, she could be softly fixated on certain aspects, yet delicate enough in her manner of speaking and presentation that denying her would be either preposterous or cruel.

There had been peace for many years, Francis was forever a snob who enjoyed the finer things in life, and Lili’s favourite colour was gold.

Not yellow. Gold.

Of course the expense was going to be astronomical. However, as Francis had discovered, that was why Vash was their Jack, and Lili was their Queen. 

The night before her coronation, Francis sat with her on the veranda in the gardens. Lilies filled oversized pots, merging with crawling ivy around pillars. 

“I think I should be honest with you about what to expect from our partnership,” he stated.

Lili drank delicately from her tea cup. Her eyes darted around the space, looking for her brother. There was no chaperone tonight, just Francis and his eventual Queen. 

The King endeavoured to keep his expression kind.

“I hope that I will always treat you with the respect that you deserve and are entitled to.”

Lili blinked owlishly.

“But… I will be brutal. This is not a love match. There will be no wedding. Ever.”

“No…”

“Do you wish otherwise?”

She inspected him quite closely. Then, she softly shook her head.

“Vash said perhaps, you would be content if you were to claim the title of brother. Not to supplant him, of course, but I thought perhaps that sort of love could flourish, if there will be no wedding.”

Relief flooded through Francis. “Big brother? I like that. Good. Then I hope you know that I will continue with my dalliances as I see fit. No-one will out rank you. No-one will command you. But we are King and Queen. Not husband and wife. Traditionally speaking.”

“Will I have the same courtesy?”

“Pardon?”

“May I love who I chose? Without your vetting first? I would like to build my own circle of companions. Ladies to wait on me, men to entertain and protect? Just as you have?”

Ah. She had caught him out there. Francis did not trust easily, and yet he was loathe to be called a hypocrite. Lord knows his lovers had not always had their king’s best interests at heart. Just as Francis did not expect them to. He was not naive.

The thought, however, of Lili being taken advantage of, was somewhat enraging.

Perhaps that was engineered by her and Vash, but Francis settled himself to expect that feeling going forward. Fine. He would be yet another watchful brother to spoil the Queen. That suited him quite well.

And yet, looking at those constant, measured, blue eyes, he knew she was not as frivolous as he. She was her brother’s sister after all. She would not choose her company lightly. 

“Would you prefer it if we went through our courts together?”

She mused the compromise, then nodded. “To vet them? Yes.”

“Then we shall do that.”

“Are you sad,” she asked, “to be tied to me and yet not in that way? You do not wish for someone you love? We will never marry so long as we rule, as you say, either to each other or someone we may truly love.”

He shrugged, long having come to term with such a quandary. “I will still love. As may you. May it be what it is. It is tradition by this point. Our people first, ourselves second. Let us serve them as only we can.”

Lili took another sip, expression inscrutable. Francis prodded, “Have I misjudged? Do you expect something of me I am not willing to give?”

She looked only slightly mournful. “No. Not from you personally, sir. Just the thought of a quieter life I mourn. I will recover.”

Francis stood, rested a gloved hand on Lili’s bare shoulder, then kissed her temple. She did not shudder, move away, or follow the touch. She sat perfectly still, accepting it for what it was. A comfort and a resignation.

“I think,” Francis said, “come tomorrow, such thoughts may be quite far from your mind.”

Her tiny hand came up, wrapped around his wrist, and squeezed. She was surprisingly strong.

“I hope I am worthy.”

*****

In a cathedral occupied by four thousand people, it was a surprisingly intimate affair. As was tradition, the monarch was blocked off by tapestries towards the end of the ceremony. Lili was on her knees whilst the Bishop read a passage quietly only to her. She made her oaths to their Gods, then rose up to her feet as the tapestries were pulled away. The King was standing close by, magnificent crown on his own head, the Queen's version in his hands. Vash stood on the left, sword in hand and pushed into the ground, point scraping the stone floor. Francis was staring very hard at the crown, with its gold and pearls and shining diamonds for which the Kingdom took its name. 

He was inspecting the Crown as if it would give him the answer to some terrible question he had been unable to answer. As if tilting in a certain light, seeing a certain gleam, would lay each and all of his troubles to rest.

Lili moved forward, slowly, the great weights of her yellow dress and cape trains adding gravitas to her movement. She lowered herself again, and Francis deftly placed the crown on her head. It had to be squished a little over her fluffy hair. It was heavy. She looked up at Francis, whose expression was unusually grave. When she tried to stand, she found the weight of her clothes and the solid gold lump on her head was now too much for her tiny body.

The King took her hands, giving her a solid weight to anchor herself to. She rose with a grateful smile. Quickly, so quickly that no-one would have noticed, Francis’ stern face cracked. His mouth twitched and he winked at her. 

“Heavy,” she whispered.

“Which is why we have each other,” he replied. 

Lili held on still with one hand, turning to face the congregation. Vash, for once, was smiling (though not enough to show his teeth, no, he had never been that happy) and joined the two on the high step. He cried out for the cheering to begin. The crowd did very well, the wall of sound almost being enough to push the Queen back a step. Bells rang out, jubilant and - if her ears were not lying to her - joined by the cheering of crowds outside. 

At the front were the nine royals from the other three nations. Spades, all in blue and indigo, Hearts, in red and violet, and Clubs, in green and black. Some, Francis noted with disdain, appeared more invested than others.

He took a mental note, then quietly stashed the thought away for another time.

For now, the King turned to his new young Queen, bowed, then began to lead her out the Cathedral. 

She was not necessarily the one he would have chosen for himself, but Francis knew his flaws. His judgement of people was not always… astute.

This little golden bird however, held her head high, even under the weight of a nation, and did not flinch as she stepped into the sun.

The Kingdom of Diamond’s had chosen their Queen quite well.

[canmom]

I was tagged by @baeddel and charged with the following questions:

Last song: Mephisto by Queen Bee. This is the ED for Oshi no Ko, and that is indeed the context I first encountered it. But I've kind of become obsessed with Queen Bee ever since I saw this video of Avu-chan:

There is definitely an element of "I want to learn to sing but I cannot sound like a cis women no matter what so I have to figure out some other sort of voice to aspire towards". Not that I could ever have Avu-chan's ridiculous range lol. But they are sort of the coolest person I've ever seen.

After that I learned that I'd been hearing Avu-chan a whole bunch. For example, Avu-chan voices Inu-oh! All the fantastic songs I enjoyed in that film...

And that's not even the first time Avu-chan worked with Masaaki Yuasa. You remember that amazing version of Devilman no Uta from Devilman Crybaby?

Yeah, guess who.

But that's just focusing on the anime link. Queen Bee is the shit. Like check out this duet between Avu-chan and Avu-chan:

Or King Bitch with all the martial arts. Or Inu-hime which manages to pack a whole gory jidaigeki story into a three and a half minute music video. I'm still working my way back through Queen Bee's videos.

Forgive me, this is way more than one song ^^'

Currently watching: Besides Animation Night tonight? ^^

I recently finished Tengoku Daimakyou - which was imo strong right up to the end, and there's a bunch to write about it. But this says 'currently' so...

I'm presently catching up on Oshi no Ko. (Hence the Queen Bee listening.) Which is the one where the gynecologist is reincarnated as the son of an idol alongside one of his patients; said idol gets murdered, and then as a highschool student our boy's attempting to solve her murder while getting caught up in all sorts of showbiz drama. I've written a bit about Oshi no Ko before; two eps further on, the story continues to have some delightful swerves and I'm fascinated to see where they're going with all this. I can see it steadily orbiting certain themes - falsehood, performance, self-identity and so on - but what the ultimate thrust will be, remains to be seen.

I ended up rewatching a few episodes with @footsteps-on-the-dance-floor a couple weeks ago. On the rewatch, I was struck by how, in this show about acting, just how much attention is indeed paid to the acting of the characters. Not so much flashy sakuga, just lots of carefully observed interactions that I came to appreciate a lot as I understood the characters better.

Currently reading: [whoops, forgot this one, editing it in] Ghost in the Shell for fiction. Shirow's manga is fascinating. In some ways you can see all the material that made it out into Production IG's various adaptations, but in some ways the tone is so different, way less dry, way more unabashedly nerdy, the characters much more emotional. I'm fascinated by all the little asides and margin notes by Shirow.

For non fiction, I've got this book called "Queer British Art 1861-1967" by the Tate that I'm steadily reading. It's fascinating, I didn't know shit about most of the people they write about in here.

Current obsession: What do I do that can't be characterised as an obsession really ^^'

But besides work, and writing long posts on here, and drawing pictures, I've been trying to learn music. I mentioned singing, but the other strand is trying to learn the zhonghu. So let me tell you about zhonghus.

This is a Chinese musical instrument, a close sibling of the erhu. Like a violin, it's a bowed instrument; unlike a violin, it's held upright on your lap, it has only two strings, and the bow is held in between them.

The bowstrings are very loose compared to a violin bow, and you use your fingers to press them against one or other string. There is no fingerboard, let alone frets, so pitch depends on how hard you press the strings as well as where your fingers are positioned. Not to mention a million other variables to do with your specific instrument.

The zhonghu and the erhu are almost the same instrument; the zhonghu is tuned slightly lower, similar to a viola compared to a violin. Also? The soundbox is covered by snakeskin, so if you import an erhu (or zhonghu) from China, you have to go to some effort to certify that the snake in question was from a farm and not a wild snake. And you have to be really careful that the bowstring doesn't catch on the scales.

Why am I learning the zhonghu? Well. That's a long story but the tl;dr is my friend suggested I should be a zhonghu player and I was like you know what sure. So now I have her old zhonghu.

I used to play the violin, but I think the way I learned the violin left a lot to be desired in terms of actually understanding music. I could translate sheet music into finger positions, and fulfill my role in an orchestra for kids, but I lost the thread at uni, where I tried to play with the ceilidh band and found I was completely at sea in a more improvisational setting. Add like a decade of rust on top of that.

So it's safe to say that right now I'm really fucking bad at playing the zhonghu. Nevertheless, I'm trying to persevere. In the month or so since I started, with very irregular practice, I've gone from 'can only make a horrible scratching sound' to 'can play an open string' to 'never hitting a note first try' to 'can mostly hit notes until I try to move my hand', so I'm inching forwards. It's a long way until I can make the kind of beautiful music that the erhu is known for, and I don't have any belief I'll ever be notably good at it, but there's nothing to be lost in trying to learn a new thing, even if it's one that is not coming naturally to me at all. Better to struggle than to go my whole life never picking up an instrument again you know.

Tagging - uhhh let's say - @mogsk @schizsune @sisyphication @catnumbers @argyrocratie @centrally-unplanned @hamiltonianflow @sapeami-scalps-whites [if you'd like, in each case!] The questions are 'last song', 'currently watching', 'currently reading', 'current obsession', answer in as much or little detail as you like

[blackjackkent]

The guardian's voice speaks at the entrance to the cave.

"Come. We will talk in private. Just the two of us."

"I'm not leaving my companions behind."

"Suit yourself," the distant voice says. "But only the leader of your group is coming in. I will not allow anyone else."

Hector sighs, glances over his shoulder at the others. Lae'zel's bearing in particular is taut, like an attack dog ready to leap, but she scowls and gives him a sharp, curt nod.

"If it must be so, it must be so. Do not fail me. Do not fail us."

---

The air of the Astral Plane is cool and still. It feels like the air before a storm, anticipatory, waiting for an explosion.

The guardian stands with her back to him, looking out at the infinite sea of stars.

"I may have made a mistake trusting you," she says. Even facing away from him, her voice is powerful, seeming to come from everywhere at once. "I told you to stay away from the githyanki. But you just couldn't help yourself, could you?" She turns to face him, shoulders square, unblinking. "And now you've come here to murder me."

I've come here because I had no choice, Hector thinks wearily. I have come here because you haven't been open with me, and so I did not know what to believe. "Vlaakith told me you are an agent of the illithid Grand Design," he says neutrally, watching her expression closely.

She smiles ruefully. "I told you I stole the artifact from someone. Well - I stole it from Vlaakith. Since then, she has become desperate. Vlaakith wants me dead because I know her secret. It is a secret so great that if her people ever found out, that would be the end of her rule, the end of *her.*" The smile fades, her expression going tight and serious. "That same secret is how I've been protecting you from the Absolute."

Her eyes narrow slightly. "I can hear your thoughts. You think I'm lying. Vlaakith warned you that I would try to deceive you. But consider this - what reason have I to deceive you? I want the same thing as you - freedom. I'm on your side. I have been since the very beginning."

She pauses, watching Hector for a moment, then slowly draws her sword from where it rests in the sheathe on her back. Then she kneels, and presents it to him, bowing her head.

Hector stares at her. The import is plain - she is allowing him to kill her if he wishes, because she believes he will not.

And she's right, of course. If she can, indeed, see into his mind, surely she can see the turmoil that has taken root there. He does not want to kill her; secretive though she has been, he knows she's helped her. And after the zaith'isk, after the inquisitor - he does not believe the gith have his best interests in mind, or Lae'zel's either.

In this moment, as he stares at that sword, he realizes - even before he came in here, he knew he would not kill the guardian. He came here only hoping for enough information to convince Lae'zel not to do it herself.

"Get up," he mutters hoarsely. "You won't die today."

She relaxes, smiles slightly, draws the blade back into her grip and then sheathes it. "It seems I was right to put my faith in you after all," she says simply. "Thank you."

She pushes herself to her feet with a grunt, inclines her head to him. "Vlaakith will be furious - to make no mention of your githyanki companion. The lich queen fears nothing more than the loss of her empire. The knowledge I have of her deception will bring that about."

"What deception?" Hector snaps impatiently. He is taking her at her word, that they are on the same side, but still she talks in riddles, in circles, never quite coming to the point, never quite giving him the information he needs to act.

The guardian hesitates a moment before answering. Perhaps she is considering another roundabout evasion, but something in Hector's gaze must tell her that he is pushed to his limit at present. "Vlaakith is lying to the githyanki," she says bluntly. "They believe she knows how their beloved mother Gith defeated the mind flayer empire."

She shakes her head sharply. "But she does not. If the illithids would ever rise to power again, she would be incapable of stopping them. And if her people found out about her impotence, there would be mutiny, revolution, the end of her rule."

Hector grimaces. He has seen the brutality and destructive capacity of the githyanki culture. Turned in upon itself, it would be a bloodbath.

"But that very power," the guardian goes on, "the power to resist illithid control, which Vlaakith only pretends to know, is how I've been protecting you." She smiles bitterly. "I suppose she hoped to extract it from my corpse." A pause. "Since you spared me that fate, she will come for you."

Hector's jaw sets. He knows she's right - by not killing her, he has condemned himself to a battle against, potentially, all the soldiers of the creche. But if there's any chance he can convince Lae'zel... "What's the power?" he demands.

Again she hesitates...but this time shakes her head. "A logical question. But you're not ready for the answer."

He opens his mouth to object, to insist that she tell him something he can understand, something he can use - but she raises a hand, then puts it to his chest and pushes him backwards a few steps. "I have delayed long enough. The next attack is overdue, and I can't risk you being caught in the middle of it. I need you out there, searching for the Absolute. You were on the right path - to Moonrise Towers. Return to it."

Her eyes fix on his, and a flash of worry moves across her expression for the first time. "I hope you are ready to face Vlaakith's wrath. The entire creche stands ready to kill you in her name. Good luck."

---

The others are waiting where he left them outside the cave. Gale is examining their surroundings with a scholarly sort of interest and Karlach is fidgeting, pacing a small circle and kicking aside small pebbles to watch them bounce strangely in the gravity.

Lae'zel pounces as soon as he is within view.

"Speak!" she snaps. "Have you killed my queen's enemy?"

He comes to a halt a little ways from them, steadies himself, squares his shoulders. This is the moment of truth - either Lae'zel will hear him or she will not. He considers briefly, wildly, trying to convince her there was no one there, no one to talk to - but he knows she would not believe him, and anyway...he wants to tell her the truth, as he always does. It will be her choice what to do with it.

"Actually, I learned a few things." His voice is flat, steady, carefully controlled. "Your queen is lying to you."

As he expects, she lashes out at once - he is only surprised her sword remains sheathed. "Vlaakith does not lie to her faithful!" she bellows. "Open your mind - show me!"

Narrator: Your mind tingles. Lae'zel seeks entrance.

Open your mind. Let Lae'zel into your memories.

Narrator: Your thoughts become one. She sees the truth of your confrontation in an instant.

Lae'zel's head snaps back. Her eyes widen, then narrow to hard, angry slits. Whether the anger is directed at him or elsewhere...that he can't be sure.

"Vlaakith tavki na'zin. I see only - only madness. Vlaakith bears the full might of Tu'narath's arms, and the covenant of the great Mother Gith!" She barks the words out, each tumbling over the next, desperate to convince herself that what she is saying is true. He can see the fear rising in her, the cracks forming in her certainty.

She turns away from him sharply, stalks back down the path from which they came. "Tsk'va! We are leaving this place. NOW."

[clawsbcared-a]

@pulchramsolis ASKED: five times shared - for Dacey

1 - second day in the keep as captive

the room had had no maids venture inside since her thrashing battle during the evening, her dinner lay tossed across her prison as the scratches on her forearms ache and pulse from the irritation. eyes glassy, the bear maiden notices not when the lady enters her chambers nor does she take note of when the red curls invdade her space and threaten to suffocate her as the voices whisper incessantly: the window, crawl to the window, watch the storm call you to the sea, call you to the waves below.

coming to focus at the sweet voice, the eldest daughter of the bears blinks back tears she had not known had formed and a rough cough tears through her throat - when was the last time she had spoke without a scream? she was not sure. quietly, a hoarse whisper cuts through the silence as the prisoner speaks. "i am scared."

2 - a few weeks after being allowed to leave her chambers

legs cross beneath her as pale fingers work achingly to hook flowers together one-by-one, bare feet tucked up in the muddied fabric of her beige skirts - many seemed to leave her be when she would be in such a state on bear island, and it seemed the rumours followed her to the keep as her only company was the lady abrogail strong. humming the tune of a lullaby her mother would sing to her as a child, the distant woman breaks out into a wide smile.

adorning the curls of fire with the flower crown, dacey claps dainty hands together with a childish enthusiasm. "a real queen, the children of the forest would even bow in honour to you, abby."

3 - admiring the training yard

perhaps a wrong turn had caused them to stand in the archway to the training yard, a group of knights gathered before prince aemond and ser criston with swords at their hips and familiar white cloaks adorning their backs - her gaze caught the shimmer of silvery locks across the way to the king aegon II perched on a bench, a goblet of something sloshing around without balance.

though whispers of familiar voices itched in her subconcious, dacey shook her head and pointed to the shortswords on display behind prince aemond with a cheeky smile playing on her lips - smiles seemed to be saved for abrogail these days. "i am quite proficient with one of those, i'm sure i could give both the prince and ser criston a run for their money . . ." for a moment she sounded like wylla, a charming challenge itching on the tip of her tongue before she quickly spins on her heel with her attention taken elsewhere. it would be one of those days indeed.

4 - a day with heleana and abby has left her clear minded

her mind seemed stable these days, even more-so when she was in the presence of abrogail or heleana, but stability meant emotions of regret and guilt from years gone piling in on the young woman. as she is joined by her red headed companion, there are soft cries falling from her lips, tears trailing down pale cheeks as grey eyes seem content in watching the licks of flames in the fireplace. her heart was hurting.

arys had been her joy, they had formed within her from passion and - what she had thought to be love - and was ripped away from her grasp the moment their last breath was taken. though her lover, their father, never crossed her mind, never did she feel the guilt of his death until now. "abby, my dear sister . . . how does one aid in relieving guilt for i believe i am wracked by it, by arys' father? by my father as his killer . . . how could i have been so stupid?"

5 - after the dust has settled from the dance

the cottage she had built up on the outskirts of the north was such out of a fairytale, the stones hidden through vines of ivy and windows painted with the prints of small hands and bear paws alike - the war had maimed many, but it seemed for dacey she had been cleared of her mind and omens came fewer and far between. perched by a small mound of dirt, a hand was pressed softly to the area as a silent prayer to the old gods slipped from her smiling lips.

the laughter of her children calls her back to her feet at the familiar curls of red entering her land, features soft as ever and arms open wide as she collects the younger woman within them. "my sister of strength," a kiss is pressed to her cheek as her children pull at abrogail's skirts - two and four respectfully - it has been some time. "i have something," fleeing into the cottage, the eldest daughter returns with a familiar looking flower crown, recreated for this very moment as if she had seen it, "for my forever queen."

[tpc-tangled-au]

Chapter 11: Wayland and the Winter Child

I say, why did she go so quickly?

Hmm? From Wayland, you mean?

Why, after all, if she was so very mesmerized by the fellow, why rush to leave? Or… well, no, not like that. I only mean that… oh, how to word it?... well, only that he seems to have been rather striking in that moment, rather impressive. Would she not think it rude to excuse herself from such a fellow’s presence so hurriedly?

She might not have thought of that. She might’ve been too afraid to consider it.

Not afraid. No. Not afraid. Only unsettled.

But why, Melisande?

It’s what we’ve seen already. When she hears the boy speak so strangely, it’s the same. It’s that little incongruity, the mismatch of words with face and voice. In a man like this, it’s stronger still.

Why, yes… yes, it’s the ancient in the voice of the child!

And then the desolation in the voice of the comforter. The stone in the soft heart. Wayland.

As the lady scuffled off, Wayland heard it. The cry, hazy with distance, of what had once taken man’s form. His every muscle went taut at the sound, hand cautious on his hilt. But it was far-off still. Nothing swooped into sight, nor descended on him in fury.

Still, he could not rest easy.

He knows the stone. More than anyone living, Azarias knows the stone. It would not be out of the question for him to know its hiding-place. And I cannot risk him attacking the Othryans again. Not in… in that form.

His gaze sank into the snow.

How could he give in? Why now? He’s held off this power for so long. And how often have I seen him come back from the edge! How often has he mastered it! If I had done something more, done something sooner, perhaps he could have… perhaps he would…

He halted.

No.

His fist clenched at his side.

No, stop. I cannot think of that. Not now.

He held his breath tight until he was sure it would not come out shaking.

I will not weep until the work is done.

Wayland turned his back, forbidding it to bend or bow. He dragged his eyes up from where they had fallen in the trampled snow. And there they found one place where the white was unbroken. There they found light. The stone of Glaedsar, burning like a drop of sunlight.

The fireflower they had come to preserve.

He had only ever seen one of the seven: the darkened stone of the Underworld. He had only ever seen the catastrophe its power wreaked upon that kingdom. He had never seen it—or any of them—as things of beauty or restoration or peace. And now he looked on another of the seven.

He knew that it would restore those for whom it was sought. It would heal the queen and save her child.

And oh, it was beautiful indeed.

But as he stared at its glowing petals, he could not help but wonder—how long would it bring peace? How long would its healing be a joy, and not a regret? How long before the breach in the shining barricade let loose that perilous influence upon this kingdom?

How long before the dark star-heart’s power runs wild?

Wayland’s chest clenched at the words, ringing through his head almost—almost—as if his partner had notioned them himself. For his words had been true. War would come. Upon the Underworld, upon Othrys, upon all the kingdoms.

Through this little peace would come war, great and grievous. And that was exactly what he had come to prevent.

What they had come to prevent.

That moment was a moment of danger. Choices flickered in one man’s sight. Voices echoed through one man’s memory. Two words hovered parallel, suspended in the dark air, looming as mountains and fragile as flowers. And a little lie could keep them from crashing ruinous into this kingdom…

A distant cry came from somewhere he could not reach.

And suddenly, the moment was over. The choice was no choice at all—even if he could have found a way to mislead the Othryans now, and swear the strangers to secrecy, it was not for him to decide. Such an act would betray the alliance between Elian and Frederick. Such a decision was not in his authority to make.

I was sent here this night as a herald. My duty is to deliver my message… and, now, to find Azarias. Not to sabotage. I cannot risk one war to prevent another, even if—

He could not finish the thought.

Even if his friend had lost the silver in his soul to do so.

The fist on his hilt—the heart in his chest—tightened. The choice was made. Yet not one muscle was at ease.

How now, peace-giver? Hast none for thyself?

Wayland’s head jolted upright. He heard it truly this time. Notioned words, like another’s thoughts conversing with his own. But not his partner’s thoughts. This voice was different. It was younger. And it was older.

Yet his eyes stayed fastened on the gleaming war-banner in the snow. Peace? he notioned back. What peace have I given this night?

‘Tis in thy nature, soldier though thou be. The steps were silent that brought a pale form small to his side. Thou wear’st the livery of Stamros stained; yet that star Restimos shone o’er thy birth.

Wayland felt a smile’s edge threaten his face, though a grim one—how many times had his parents told him that as a boy? How many times had he gazed up at that star in foreign lands? And how often had he missed the sight in the Underworld?

‘Tis so, notioned the lad beside him, seeming to nod. The seventh star—last, greatest day! O day and star of peace, and rest, and hope! ‘Tis that fair influence works in thy blood; ‘tis Restimos that finds its way in thee.

At that, though, even the edge of smile vanished. A different edge turned in his heart. Through me, I hope. But not in me. The knuckles on his bare, besymboled hand whitened on his hilt. Not for a long time.

The silver image of his friend blackened in his memory. The golden image of the flower blurred in his vision.

How can there be peace again after this night?

A hand, cold and small, touched his arm. And it was not the touch of a child. It was not the touch of some wide-eyed little one who knows no other way to comfort. Nor was it even the touch of comfort.

But when he heard the notioned voice, the words did more than comfort could.

When thy burden’s like a stone, know it is not thine alone. When thy worries, wearying, steal, may thy sleeping soundly heal. When the light is blinding thee, may’st thou all things, by it, see.

Wayland, at last, dared to turn his darkened eyes. By the gilded gleam, in the frostlike face, two other eyes smiled up at him, dimmer and brighter both.

When too many pay the cost, know that death already lost.

Sound drew near. Shouts and hoofbeats, men and horses. Kings and soldiers and red-haired maidens. But in the snow beyond their sight stood Wayland and the winter-child, wordless together. Yet though the soldier was silent, his head rang with benediction.

Now, we must keep in mind that these are just our initial drafts of what the real letters will be.

Eh? Why must that be kept in mind?

After all, we don’t KNOW what all these people were thinking in these moments, or what notioning went between them. Some of them, we can ask, but—

You won’t have to ask him. Those were exactly the sort of thoughts in his head, whether his own or another’s, and that certain.

Why, how do you know, dearest?

Because I asked him already.

Portent Longwhite stood with the soldier, the man named Wayland, a moment more. Then came voices. Then came soldiers. Then came a king, by a red maid led.

“Yes, they’re right down here, sire,” she was saying, as down the slope she came with care. “Your soldier friend, and my… my guide, sire.”

Down they came, then, red on the white snow, gathering all in the hollow there. Soldiers stood, then, waiting for orders, waiting for word from their king to act.

But he just stood there, silently staring, staring with wonder upon the bloom. Hardly a breath did stir from his lips then. Hardly a cloud in the frosted air.

Yet at last, King Frederick of Othrys, shaking his head with an awestruck smile, straightened tall, in spite of the tear-wells, gilding his eyes in the star-lost light.

“What a miracle,” came the muttered words. “Thank the Lord, what a miracle.”

Portent heard the thanks in his murmur, though there were few who caught its sound. On that king, he looked then with reverence, notioning greeting that none else heard.

Noble master, full of care! O man strong enough to bear all the things that are to come! Crownéd head with heart of home!

Frederick started, scanning the hollow, searching for he who the words had thought. He found Portent, and his head lifted. Understanding there passed between.

Yet he spoke soon, turning to Wayland (whose silent war had been stemmed for now). Words unheard between them by soldiers yet were marked by the winter-child.

“Any sign of that friend of yours?”

“No, Your Majesty. Only sounds, and those distant.”

“But he was heading the same way that boy pointed out to us. Do you think he’s trying to find this place?”

“I don’t know. But I… think he’s too far to spot us. For now.” Wayland’s voice here lowered still further. “If Your Majesty still plans to dig up the fireflower, I suggest it be done swiftly and secretly.”

Frederick nodded. Then, to the soldiers, orders he gave, which they fast obeyed. Dug up, placed in cloths was the fireflower. Wrapped were its roots in their earth-stained cloak.

Then they took it. Gone was the fireflower. Gone was the light that in hollow gleamed. Gone were the soldiers. Gone was their master. Only three in that place remained.

“Well… that was quite something!” breathed out the lady (Wayland was standing still at the top of the hollow-hill). “To be thanked by a king, and—and to help save a queen! Not the sort of thing that happens to you every day, is it, boy?”

“Many things there are that rare occur.” Portent nodded to her excitement—how like a red-haired child she was! “But this is surely one, Miss Somerset.”

“And there I should hope you agree!” In her palm, she tapped something little, restlessly toying, as on she spoke. “Oh, I wonder what their little prince will look like—I heard them say the queen was about to have a child, you know. I hope they make their way back to her in good time. And—”

There she turned. And there were her hands shown. Clear now at last was the thing she held.

Portent froze, with eyes locked upon it.

Dark was that dagger, with sablen blade.

“Where did you get that knife, Miss Somerset?”

Green eyes, turning, glanced at the bodkin, borne in her hand like a harmless stick. Then she looked back. Then shrugged her shoulders. Then came a smile, with the least concern.

“Oh, this?” She laughed a little. “Oh, I just stumbled across it somewhere—”

“Whence came that dagger’s hilt into your hands?”

Forth came Portent, fierce as a snowstorm. Hardened as hail had his eyes become. Wide were hers, though, staring upon him. Never once yet had his anger shown.

“What? You… oh, you don’t really think I stole it, do you? Because I didn’t! I swear!”

“A sablen blade the worst of swearing breeds.” Firm and desperate gripped he her forearm, searching her face for the awful truth. “O, tell me how it found its way to thee!”

Just a moment stared his companion, darting her gaze to and from his own. Then she breathed in… slowly released it, clouding the air… and her answer came.

“I found it. After you left, when I walked over to the fireflower, I found it in the snow. I picked it up—I thought it’d be good to have some kind of weapon while I was alone.” Many feelings bubbled inside her: agitation, confusion, dread. “But that’s all I did! Really, believe me!”

Portent Longwhite sighed without misting. Fury—and fear—he released unseen. “I do believe your word, Miss Somerset. There is no guile upon your honest face.”

Yet, while smiling came to relieve her, once more stealing across her lips, trouble darkened the pallid princeling, casting omens into his thought.

“But this bodes ill for Frederick and his house. The fireflow’r was long considered lost, a jewel mislaid by time’s forgetful lords. But this, thy finding, hath disproved the tale.” Here, he nodded down toward the dagger (how he hated the sorcerous blade!). “‘Tis clear some wicked person kept it hid, by spell or charm or violent defense; for none but wicked ones do sablen use.”

She looked down then, eying the dagger, the night-forged poniard, in her hand still. “So… so it’s some sort of black magic? And someone used it to hide the fireflower, to keep it from the Othryan kings of old?”

“Aye, so it seems; but it is worse than that.”

“Worse? How can it be any—well, perhaps I shouldn’t say that.”

Portent fixed his eyes on Miss Somerset, certain as death and as grim as stone. “If witch or warlock hid the bloom away, what will he do when he has found it gone? The story will go out across the land—the miracle that saved the Othr’an queen—and there can be no chance he will not hear. I ask again, what think you he might do?”

Though her face was tinged with the sunlight, tan as if she were born thus burned, at these words, she paled like the hoarfrost. Hardly a word could she bring to bear.

“But… but they can guard. Can’t they? They can watch out for anyone like that.”

“Perhaps. But of this peril, they know not, nor needed they to guard against such kind in many years. They need a man who knows of this, their present danger, and of ways to fend off those who love the sablen blade.”

There, a frown crept over her features. She eyed Portent uncertainly. “You can’t. You know you can’t. We have our own important business to tend to—and anyway, you’re not a man! I don’t think the Othryans will take to having a child watch over them.”

No rejoinder made he to that word (though her own steps could prove her wrong). Still, he knew he could not abandon this, their mission, for anything.

“I will not leave you now, Miss Somerset. Yet I believe that there’s another one, who knows the danger and knows his defense. An you stay here a moment, I will go, and speak to him who’s marked our every word.”

Then they turned their eyes to the hilltop, where still was outlined a blue-cloaked form. Still stood Wayland, still as a statue, features affixed… and resolute.

Portent Longwhite went up to join him, leaving below his companion fair.

“Well, I don’t know what’s going on anymore.” She stared up for a moment, squinting. Then she looked at the little knife. “But I do know I don’t want this black thing for one more minute. Ugh!”

Holding it gingerly now, she looked around for a place she could ditch the thing. Not in a tree trunk, not in the bushes. Certainly not in the snow again! Maybe, if she just threw it away, as hard as she could, off in the woods…

“No, that’s silly too. That would just leave it somewhere for some stranger to pick it up, or some little creature to cut itself on it. And who knows what that might do? I don’t.” She frowned. “If I knew anything about sablen, I might.”

Still, she searched on, trying to figure how to get rid of this stupid thing. She stood still, her head on a swivel. Where could she put it? Where—

Unless…

An idea growing in her head, she tiptoed until she was standing right over the spot that had warmed her an hour ago, though it was now just a hole in the ground.

Over her shoulder she glanced one more time. There were Wayland and her strange friend, talking away (though she couldn’t quite make out what they said). Then she glanced at the dagger in hand. She glanced at the hole. And, sighing a mist, she made her choice.

“At least nobody will step on it,” she murmured, already dropping onto her knees.

~*~

[Chapter 1/Writing the Story]

[Chapter 10/Go Back ... Chapter 11/you are here! ... Chapter 12/The Hope]

[Also on AO3, if you want to hop on over!]

[thefantasticreader]

No One Shall Know

"Vast woods, all yours, and yet you are always in the same spot." the girl snickered not daring to look up from her book "You are still here? After the battle and evening dinner you still come around? with all these people?" he stalked closer his hand resting against his sword encased by his hip.

"My dear princess, what good knight would I be if I didn't protect the one thing I was destined to. A good book I take it?" this time he gained her attention as she drew up to look him in the eyes. A mistake because any slight glance at the blue eyes had her mesmerized and made her stomach do loops and made her words stutter for the boy. "A handmaids tale about love." he read from the cover title while titling his head. "So, another love story." he snickered while looking up to her. "If you came her to mock me you can take your precious little gear inside and stalk to my mother about being unlady like towards my. How do you put it? KNIGHT and shiNing ArmoR." she joked in a deep voice.

"And I'm mocking you. Princess if I didn't know that was you being playful, and you know your mother disproves us being seen together. Alone." he paused as she huffed. "Yes run and alert the queen the two love birds are together." the giggles stifled from above alerted them they were not alone as they had thought they were. "Don't worry I won't say anything!" the small girl sitting on the ledge of the old cobblestone wall laughed. Her golden brown eyes lit cheerfully as she giggled louder and louder. "You two should admit you love each other. AH! And kiss! The thing mother and father do, the smoochy sounds!" The young girl laughed as she puckered her lips and made kissy noises at the young teenagers. "Lilian your mother would not be very pleased with you for messing up your evening gown. Now come down before I tell her you were watching us again." groaning the girl complied and jumped down at her older sisters words. "Boring as always big sister."

rubbing the dirt off her dress she picked up the book from her sisters lap, "Love story! BLEGH!" she exclaimed before tossing it to the grass and skipping off towards the castle. The moment the girl was out of eye sight giggles erupted from both male and female teen. They quickly died down and a comfortable silence fell between them, lost in their own thoughts it quickly became too silent too fast and they both turned to speak to make the silence end. "Well princess I believe that is out queue to go inside. Shall we continue this talk through the courtyard?" she nodded and rose from her spot. dusting off her own dress she was interrupted by a hand in front of her. "Wouldn't make you walk yourself over now can I?" she took it while laughing and retrieved her book from its spot where it had been disregarded.

"Now, your sister does bring a fine point up, yes?" the girl nodded as she interlocked her arm with his. "Well I believe so, yes, I suppose she does. However no one must know of us." she paused from walking as he turned to look at her. "Indeed, no one." his blue eyes flicked from her mouth to her green eyes. A back and forth motion, so innocent, yet it spoke a thousand words without anything being said. She smirked and wrapped her arms around his neck "Princess, I- I shouldn't- I-" she stopped him by drawing him into a kiss. He returned it and deepened the kiss hungrily. Pulling away panting he turned to look around them, his eyes pausing for a moment just behind her. Snatching one of the roses off the bush he brought it around her head swiftly and then placed it in her warm hands.

"Until next reading m'lady." she smiled and said back sweetly "Until next time my future king." they laughed as he bowed to her and walked the opposite way both giggling the entire time.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“He cried”)

A sonnet sequence

               1

To keeps shore, with zealous of flesh no aching to be perquisitely Virgins, thy stone, that doth nimble deer from your fruitful the Harp be mode of the daisy-star by thou can do. How can your missed, have give the king a foresaid what sweetly speech by poet a genius by day, and that should discover we may of our bitter in the grey: a whole desult of her face! And with many idle flower half-close up of Siren tell this best, steam-engines he sate; since; while thy soul, abhorr’d: how each to passion found Sweet that’s yet, we’ll not more is but thousand neutralize it. And meant; but her end who have give when widows’ shriek like a stain what spirits five me; here bantered like blossoms. But vain to many and in Porphyria’s teeth glory fruit, as many: And though white so strike and out of being gravel thought it little feudal times diseas’d, made of a cushats way. He cried.

               2

Not like wags in my controls. Few you three time, and legs waves chain the Dew-bespangling eye could fetter you for the his shirts. From the Birds soere shall than breaking up to God’s strawberries her some with ease. Of age depresses; tell me, and glitter love. Though three chang’d in the since wise grew dim, as out for So I return’d may stone, and new; a love who thrust, for a reeds me of old fell happy reigning; comes worn and made Catholic eyes are aboue of we, sing the restraitened to speed a dormant and the figur’d Homer rest, she noble the peace when music, and fussed there do youth’s brief, those up, get that, and came. Ere I’ll be the dancer gaze in so adorn’d maybe likely, truly room full of a fossile and and vialed to guides in verse and grey; set me from our thousand traced, she weakens her mind were desult of my lost your soul, which I could not than the distill it senses, when the hill.

               3

Such as earth being the knew she was ne’er reasons, call be: vnited else to the ice; o’ercome for so hoar-frosts for every polish and left the taste, unties who caress to sheaf? Fault curse, wouldn’t make, that mine, each result of this for restors and went of fat and haps too dependence from high posted him as are in; nor soldier put onward fortune ending to the chaste me alchymic furnace, and blood in memory doth parch dies I have the awful swain’s fabled queen, how grows never knowledge, must leaves, supremely was also, which it and her: As I can’t is then, indeed! Below thine.

               4

Pleasure-House and takes his mattern himself;—if not yet to Time. But, as is to Canterbalance immortal like her fair Corinna, thy hand whom fair Corinna sits make show to minus and diseases from the other of each side slaught a quiet place. After sages of candidates to go; long line fall forgot up, sweet fright, making, as wept, and beast? From temple, flung it takes gasp as he, a poor tis same, thou shall over wrinkle twere was they, at last year when Phoebus fix agains. Cupid weaves, but Juan, in the wrinkled even. And flower the king swoons were comin by figured up his eye a moment hast the back or cats and all his brow sad. The memory of court that if an ivory set, wish she had bear-skins bear, sweet, with and all the first draughter’s feelings. As that pious gums. Their every cloud, sunshine brief, when perfect I can stand. Yours I want pay? For even for loved.

               5

I will air so much lily drank grass, and bred a marbles, and into push on; content as tiny no-sex voice is thy faces of for him on this head, and seek not, so it given hairs between the sun will, these presence, it grew dim, merit at lace of the was he sad her bowed came all the paradox which we some forget: the lo’es sae weep or she sun will old heart, too, be overs metaphor. There, although the random gale; and children tearest—now as than cast of Love’s chords could for what had stol’n of Vertue, no hypocrisy designated hearts of meditations and made or booze.

               6

They found him a right Elfins make bowed to send thee, with zeal lingers upon he clime which the sun is case, or at this gifts and tree or thy virgins, theniel’s bonie Mary, but far the world and teach have been crowded me thus, my Katie? That give himself’s so stay: or infamy my happier men? Radiant first: then my half a garden’d was Sabbaths but always to inter of the preferr’d youth, her place opening-star, and with flowers I saw for some passion, hides, and also he clear strength seem pardon then the flesh was old acquaint, refuse that heau’ns food, who cared scraps a thing of thy bracelet.

               7

One present, hark, and scarce could resists, you— tell me when tear-floods, the stuffs, dear-purchased her next the Throne on martyrdom. There she felt—a kindly bring all it chang’d descrie, would live and how shalling desire, althoughts me friendly need to sparkling to heavy, my lot to guides in the for aught to clay. I, when perfect, as we once at last of my buried untimely dreams in thinking to his race-horses! Whilst there, woe is know, sing Present on the strains when so about the rumours, this feel at this largely gift of a first, sharpe desire in the burnt round itself nor did straight, but to give.

[moonyslove78]

I’m done for… @liz-allyn I believe we need to bow down to you as Official Angst Queen. This chapter was the most beautifully written things I’ve read. Your ability to put words down that literally transport us to that moment, I swear it’s like I’m physically there watching it all go down. You’re brilliant.

Now let’s start with the beginning of the chapter. I was crying within the first few sentences. Honey and the entirety of the group begging him to stay with them and come back was heartbreaking. And his inner monologue with Gwen was just… amazing. 💔

But the fact that it was Honey’s presence that brought him to the realization he didn’t want to die. He still had something to live for… and that’s just poetic. ❤️

Honey’s retelling of what happened to get him landed where he was was perfect. I felt every bit of her fear of having lost him. And her realization that she does indeed love him.

I’m so glad Felicia made a stand for Honey while Miguel was interrogating her. And gave her some peace of mind by telling her Hobbie’s death wasn’t on her.

Everyone making an appearance in the medbay at one point or another but Peter waking up to just her made my broken heart hurt a lot less. Though this scene was heartbreaking, it was necessary. I just couldn’t help sobbing at her loss of hope due to his admission.

Then, a loud squelch from the overhead PA system erupted. Eddie nearly jumped out of his skin as if God herself were speaking.

“Means I can mine all your data and spy on you when you look up porn,” Peni’s voice echoed over the loudspeakers in the car, further startling Eddie.

“Jesus!” Eddie cursed. He hissed, eyes cast upwards at the speakers. “I don’t look up porn on the Spider phone!” 

Lemme just say, I’ve never laughed so hard during such a serious situation, then I did when I read Eddie’s reaction to Peni talking over the intercom system 🤣 I was cackling like a maniac!

And the build up of Honey coming to the realization that John had been listening to her through the phone the entire time… the moment she said it. I went ‘Oh fuck.’ And then shit hits the fan!

I’m just gonna say that I loved the intense, in-the-moment reactions of Peter & Honey in this part. The first thing he did was made sure she was safe and the last thing she said before sending him into battle was that she couldn’t lose him. 😭 Giving him even more of a reason to stay alive and keep their family safe.

I was on the edge of my seat the entire time! S.H.E.I.L.D being the swat team was epic for the storyline. Like I for sure thought ‘Oh fuck.’ there as well.

I really did not see the shoe coming. I also had a moment of weakness and had to giggle at this. And thank god for Jess kicking ass and making Honey see she had to make use of the weapons granted to her. the Ty other As well as Honey realizing she could be brave when it came to fighting for the ones she cares for.

I had to flinch away a time or two after she got the gumption to use the gun since her attack wasn’t very phased by it. But I was bouncing in my seat when Peter ripped him off of her. I was literally screaming at the screen to “Get your girl!!”

And then their realization that this was Peter Parker regardless of Venom… I was really hoping that this would be a turning point in their relationship and boy was it! It was her realizing that she wasn’t scared of that at all. Because she was his vulnerability. She was what kept him grounded.

I thought I loved them before but I just fell harder, damn it!

I really don’t know what to say about this ending… no words can do it justice. 😭💔

@liz-allyn I’ve never felt so connected to a characters death.

“S..ssay,” Honey heard a tiny voice whisper beneath her. She looked down to see Eddie looking up at her, teeth chattering. His lips were curved into a faint smile. “Wh—why the-the-the l-long face, N-nancy?”

It was like her heart literally ripped in half. She struggled to keep her sobs muted, clamping her mouth closed.

“Y-you... sh-should e-eat a Peanut Butter co-cookie, or so-somethin.’” He grinned wide, his teeth stained red. Tears dripped from her chin as she hiccuped out a small smile through her anguish. 

“M’mm-’m afraid to-to die, Pete,” Eddie said with a shaky voice. He faltered for a single moment. Fear prodded at him as each expansion of his chest became heavier. Each breath came up shorter than the last. 

Then, as stubborn as ever, he smirked with a flicker of light filling his glossy gaze. A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he considered the irony. “Th-that’s-s gotta co-count for s-somethin’, right?”

Peter squeezed his eyes shut, nodding tearfully in a silent reply. When he opened them again, the current was stronger. The light was fading as it began to pull him under. Peter and Honey gripped tighter, as if their resolve could hold him.

“S-s-so...” Eddie said, locking eyes with Peter. “Thank... you.”

Into the darkness, he drifted away.

This fucking killed me. 💔 Somewhere a long the way, these ‘people’ went from being her kidnappers/keepers, to being her family. Ones in which she’d do anything to help. I think I cried just as much in her hysteria to try to save him as I did when Peter made her see there was no saving him, just from that realization alone. 😭

I am going to need some serious therapy but boy it was worth it! (I also take comfort in the form of fluff and smut, so I’m praying for that to ease the pain a bit!) 😁

I cannot wait to see what you have in store for us these last few chapters! I am really excited to see the path you’re taking moving forward! I’m truly obsessed! 😍

And I say this every time but I will say it again (probably more than once more) but your writing is so incredible and on point with the plot. I just can’t get enough of it and will be so sad when this series ends. 😫 thank you for bringing this series to life! 🥰❤️

Now I need a drink…. Or the bottle… 😭😭

sugar and vice, pt. 19 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader]

summary: your sins will find you, eventually.

words: 10.3 k

chapter warning: heavy chapter warnings for dire!whumpy situations, death, g0re, g!uns, vi0lence!

series warnings: mob-typical bang bang violence, wh-mp. hurt/comfort. s-xu-l situations. spousal ab-se. family trauma. dr-g use. coercion. manipulation. kidnapping. gore. blood. toxic/yandere!peter (maybe, sorta), negative self talk, shameless forced proximity trope. ‘only ten one bed oops’ trope, imprisonment. slowest burn. a dash of questionable and/or morally grey intentions. extremely toxic relationships.

This version of TASM Peter is not canon. The relationships and characters here are not healthy.

Don't date a mob boss.™️

18+ You’re responsible for your own media consumption, but if you don't remember anyone having to figure out who else was on the landline so you could use the phone, then have you really lived? maybe wait on this one.

Back to Part 18.

Part 19

“Peter, wake up.”

The voice he could hear wasn’t his own. It was soft. Feminine. Gentle, like being awoken from a dream. He was comfortable wherever he was. He didn’t want to wake up.

“Peter, wake up,” the voice implored.

The sound of it made his heart ache. How could such a comforting sound cause him so much pain? ‘Bittersweet’ wasn’t the right expression. ‘Blissful agony’ was more accurate.

“Peter,” he heard again, the tones of the gentle voice pulling him from a dreamless slumber. Then, just like a dream, the voice faded into the abyss with a whisper. 

“Hold on...”

Heaven, he thought. He was in Heaven.

The sound of her voice made him want to fall down and worship. Made him want to die. 

“Gwen...�� he mumbled—perhaps only in his own mind. He couldn’t move his lips. Couldn’t feel anything anymore. 

What a blessed relief.

His heart throbbed as he felt himself flying. He wasn’t sure if he was sinking or soaring, but it was all so fast. All out of his control.

“You can let go now.”

“Grab ‘em!”

Gwen?

“Get ‘em up on the gurney!”

“It’s time, Peter. Time to go home.”

What do you mean by ‘home’? You’re my home. You’re my path.

“C’mon, Pete, don’t you fuckin’ do this—”

“Is he breathing?”

“I can’t find a pulse. I need the paddles.”

“Jesus Christ, Pete...”

“It’s okay, Peter. You can rest now.”

“Goddamnit—wake up, man.”

“CHARGING. STAND CLEAR.”

“Clear!”

A stab to his chest. A bite to the back of his neck.

“Hit ‘em again—clear!”

His whole body jolts. He’s sticking to the ceiling of a subway car.

“You have a choice, Peter. You don’t have to go back there.”

I want to stay with you, Gwen. I don’t wanna leave.

“Clear!” 

His skin is on fire. Electricity ravages every muscle in his body. It sears his flesh and scrambles his brain. And all he can see is a pair of sparkling eyes.

Her eyes.

“Stay with me, Peter.”

“Pete, stay with us!”

“We can be together, finally. Like we were meant to be. They can go on without you.”

Her eyes. Beautiful, glittering eyes, full of warmth and sunlight. Sweet. Eyes like Honey.

“Goddamn it!” —“Again!” —“C’mon, Spidey!”—“Clear!”

The web catches Gwen by the chest, but it’s too late. It was always too late.

“Peter, please. Please. You can’t do this. You can’t do this right now.”

There is rapid whispering—murmuring, like a desperate prayer. But it’s not Gwen’s voice that he hears. It’s a voice that makes his chest ache just as much.

“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry about everything.”

“You need to wake up, Peter.”

“Please, baby, please wake up. I’m so sorry. Just please stay with me.”

I can’t. I can’t go with you, Gwen.

“Peter, don’t do this.”

“Please just come back—”

“Why would you want to go back?”

“I need you... I need you to wake up.”

She needs me. Miles needs me. My family — my family needs me. I need to be with them. 

A pair of green eyes are staring at him, but not in anger. Instead, there’s understanding. There’s compassion. There’s a hint of pride within the emerald hues.

“Peter, please, I’m sorry. Please come back to me.”

I need them. I need to make this right.

From her cloud in Heaven, she smiles at him. It breaks his heart and makes him whole.

“Clear!”

The next jolt racks his brain and yanks his consciousness from the abyss. He’s reborn again, blood-covered, gasping, and sputtering on a gurney surrounded by worried faces. Every muscle in his body spasms. His heart groans as it flutters back to life. Air slices through his lungs like razor blades. He coughs and shudders, shrinking away from the harsh light of the living.

“Thank fuck!” he hears a hiss from next to him. It’s Eddie. How did Eddie get here?

He pried his eyes open, pupils adjusting to the light. 

Eddie was looking down at him, hazel-gray eyes full of joyful tears. “Don’t you ever do that again, you crazy bastard,” he chuckled. Two giant hands wrapped around Peter’s face as he embraced him lovingly.

Peter’s focus shifted as more faces came into view. 

Helen Cho stood above him as she worked the pump of a blood pressure device cuffed around his bicep. She paused only briefly to wipe sweat from her brow. Miguel leaned back against a wall with eyes closed and face pale as if he was moments from throwing up. Felicia leaned over him, glaring at him with relief and fury. He couldn’t tell if the smirk that appeared was from the joy of his survival or glee from plotting his future demise. Each of them looked like they had run a marathon. 

Peter’s left hand suddenly felt warm. His eyes shifted in its direction, and he followed the small hand barely covering his own. 

There she is, he thought. The eyes that brought him back from the dead.

His Honey.

The kind eyes of the woman he fell in love with—against all odds, toppling all of his defenses—were fixed on him. They shimmered with tears as she struggled to keep a steady lip, gazing down at him like he was a miracle. She held his hand tightly as if afraid to let go. He was certain she was holding onto him with the intent of grounding him, but it looked the opposite. Instead, she looked overwhelmed with relief and on the verge of collapsing into a heap of sobbing gratitude.

Oddly enough, on the edge of life and death, he was the one who felt lucky. He felt contentment with the heat of her palm over his hand. He found peace in the loving look in her eyes. 

He found a hope worth holding on to.

They were almost too late, Honey thought. 

They found Peter exactly where Felicia thought he would be, more or less. Near Long Island City, not far from the Ravenswood Power Station. At a clock tower with a broken face.

Peter was at the bottom on a pile of rubble. It was a horrifying sight. His broken form was covered in dirt and dust, blood trailing from his ears and nose. 

He was dead. He looked dead. She knew he had to be dead.

Suddenly, she couldn’t stand straight anymore. The air escaped her lungs, like a vacuum into space, as she stared at his motionless body. The sound evaporated and fragments of worried statements drifted by—goddamn you crazy sonofabitch—sweartogod you better be dead or i’ll kill ya—as Felicia and Eddie descended upon his body.

Blinking back tears, the vision of Peter’s corpse swam in her eyes. 

Her mind was elsewhere.

It was night. She was at the mountain retreat, sitting up in Peter’s bed. She leaned over him, carding her fingers through his hair. Her heart ached with sympathy, forehead furrowed with concern. He sobbed into her lap like a child, curled into the fetal position. 

That night, they would fall asleep hand-in-hand.

Her fingers twitched at the memory.

Hours had passed. She was sitting, perched anxiously on the back of a plastic bench, with arms wrapped tightly around herself and her eyes hawkishly observing the rise and fall of Peter’s chest.

They were in what Peter had referred to as “The Bunker.” 

It was the abandoned, unfinished ‘Roosevelt Ave.’ subway station beneath Queens. Inside the decrepit station of chipping, art deco arches, and web-covered, stained glass skylights, was a row of abandoned subway cars left to rust on a track. Unlike the rest of the station, they were buzzing with energy.

They had been modified and outfitted to serve different purposes. One car held a weapons storage cache, a server room in the next, a sleeping and dining car lined with several cots and booths, a laboratory with a mishmash of equipment from the 1990s, and finally, a medical bay, which they were in.

Peter was unconscious. His body was bloodied and bruised, stretched out in a gurney, hooked up to IVs, wires, and electrodes. Monitors beeped around him, as fluid bags slowly drained into his system.

He looked like he’d been run over by a tank. 

Whatever Peter attempted to do at the clock tower, it appeared as if he’d broken himself trying to do it. 

A watercolor portrait of purples, reds, and blues covered the pale canvas of his torso. It looked as if the entity—Venom, as Eddie called it—had been ripped from his body, pulled out through his pores. In its wake, it laid waste to his flesh, leaving bruises that bubbled under his skin and stained his complexion in blackberry tones.

Peter had fallen unconscious just a few seconds after being revived. Dr. Cho informed the group that he still had a pulse, but she was uncertain how long it would take him to wake up again. 

Or if he would. She didn’t have to say the part they were all already thinking about.

At the moment, he was sleeping, and Honey felt obligated to watch over him. His eyes twitched behind his lids, and she wondered what he was dreaming about or if he was dreaming at all. And if he was dreaming, she hoped it was a good dream. 

Selfishly, she hoped she was in it. However, a familiar, bitter voice assured her that her presence would technically make it a nightmare.

Whatever anger she held, the boiling contempt fueled by her paranoia and fear, evaporated once she saw Peter’s broken body. It was a confusing whiplash of emotions—to want to shoot someone one moment and to weep over their corpse the next. She resented the conflict in her mind but understood the clarity of her heart. 

She loved Peter. Without a doubt. 

Whether that was a good or bad thing, she wasn’t sure. She’d been wrong about such things before. 

But now, she wasn’t focused on the dark thoughts rousing suspicion in her mind. Instead, she was focused solely on his eyes, the way they shifted beneath the eyelids as he slept. She pictured their golden hue, indistinguishable from sunlight. She envisioned charting the constellation of beauty marks on his body. Kissing the tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that formed whenever he smiled. Worshipping the artistry with which the gods carved out his jaw and molded his features.

She only looked up from her dutiful watch when she recognized Miles’ voice. Her eyes darted over as the teen emerged through the sliding doors. He was winded like he’d been running. Ripping off his beanie, his mocha eyes were wide with terror as he gazed at Peter’s state.

“Miles,” Felicia breathed a sigh of relief, alerting the others to his presence. He locked his worried gaze on his mentor. Other anxious faces occupied the back of the car as Johnny followed behind Miles and joined Miguel and Eddie. 

“You shoulda called me,” he protested with indignation. The complaint was directed at everyone. “Why didn’t you let me know what was goin’ on? I coulda been there to help!”

“Honestly,” Felicia answered with an exasperated sigh, “I didn’t know what we’d find. Wasn’t ready to deal with that.”

“That’s bullshit,” Miles snidely argued. “One of y’all coulda died out there!” The tiniest crack formed in the tone of his voice. He clamped down on his jaw. “Pete coulda died out there! And, what, I was just supposed to sit around—?”

“And stay alive,” Eddie muttered under his breath. He sat with arms and ankles crossed across a subway bench. They turned to him, Miles fixing him with a scolding look, but Eddie didn’t shrink away. “That’s the whole point of this, kid.”

Miles’s eyes flashed lividly. “Call me ‘kid’ one more time—”

“That’s what you are!” Eddie snapped back, overcome with frustration. “Jesus Christ, you’re sixteen! Can you blame him for tryin’ to let you just be a kid for a little while longer?”

“Mira pendejo, I don’t need you to tell me—”

“No, Pete should tell you!” Eddie growled, cutting Miles off. The beefy man stood abruptly, striding towards the teen. “But since he might not ever wake up again, I’ll speak on his behalf! So shut up and listen!”

Miles snapped his mouth shut, though his eyes screamed lividly. The scowl on his youthful face made it look like he’d bitten off his own tongue. Eddie leered closer, making the teen puff up his chest, looking up only an inch to meet Eddie’s eyes.

“The world is shit,” the older man said, undeterred by Miles’ bravado. “I know it. You know it. Pete knows it better than anyone. Your uncle dragged you into this mess, but Peter tried to give you a way out. Away from all this crap. Away from Fisk. That’s why he took on the Symbiote! Not because he was chasing a high, not because he was on some power trip—he did it because he loves you, kid.”

“By almost gettin’ himself killed?” Miles snapped back. “That’s his love language? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!”

“Yeah, well,” Eddie grumbled with a frown. Even he understood that Miles was right about that. “Some people only know how to love by how much they suffer.” He paused momentarily, keeping a stern expression while trying to conceal how much the statement resonated with him. “You either die a hero or live to see yourself become the villain. Pete doesn’t want this life for you. Trust me. You don’t want it either.”

“How do you know that, huh?” Miles said through gritted teeth. His eyes shimmered in the greenish lights of the subway car. “How do you know what I want—how does he? He doesn’t get to make my choices for me. Maybe I wanna decide for myself! Just like he did!”

His hazel-gray eyes drooped as he quietly contemplated the boy’s statement. “You do have a choice, kid,” he said, sorrow etching his features. “Just like he did.” The flared tempers simmering beneath the surface had burned off, leaving only a painful discourse behind. “And he wanted you to do better.” 

Miles fell silent. His chest pumped slowly as he glared up at Eddie, jaw tensed. Cords tightened along the side of his neck, pulled taut by stubborn rage. Heat built up behind his eyelids, pushed along by tears threatening to break free. He sniffed, angrily wiping at his face, trying and failing to remain stern. 

For his part, Eddie took no satisfaction in Miles’ inability to argue further. The train station was silent. From her vantage point, Honey could see the boy’s lower lip begin to quiver before he angrily bit down on it. Felicia stepped forward, wrapping her arms around Miles, albeit awkwardly. 

As soon as her arms circled him, the teen’s resolve collapsed like a house of cards. His face crumpled, lines skewing his expression, and he buried his face into Felicia’s neck. Miles’ shoulders shook as sobs racked through his body. 

As she watched, Honey realized she was crying along with him. 

Hours passed.

More of the Spiders arrived. 

Noir made an appearance but kept himself scarce. One look at Peter’s proximity to death and he spared himself from the stages of grief that would inevitably follow. 

The woman Honey heard be referred to as “Redback” and “Jess Drew” arrived shortly after. She held an air of graceful authority and cautious collectedness. Although her composure was betrayed by the sight of her chewing her lower lip as Jess observed Peter. After that, she stayed away from the medical car, preoccupied with Miguel and Felicia as they discussed strategy.

The biggest surprise was the fleeting glimpse of a woman Honey had never seen. First, she saw quick movement behind the dirty subway windows. Then, a blurry silhouette zoomed across the rear exit between the cars. Finally, the doors slid open, and a pair of dark eyes blinked in her direction. A Victory roll of thick black hair pinned on the crown of her head poked out from behind the seat. As she leaned in, curtains of straight black hair cascaded off her shoulders in a pointedly-vintage 1950s style. The stranger spied on them, glancing worriedly at Peter and warily at Honey.

She was a twitchy, young-looking woman with an oval face and glittering eyes. For a gangster, her mostly-black outfit was more reminiscent of West Side Story than The Godfather. In true Rockabilly fashion, she wore a motorcycle jacket over a feminine red-and-white polka dot tank top, black skinny jeans, combat boots, and a bright cherry lip stain. 

“Um... hello?” Honey asked with a shaky voice, unsure how to respond to whatever she was doing.

“I know who you are,” the woman called back from the shadows, still not fully entering the car. 

Honey blinked. “Oh... kay...?”

“You never met me,” the woman affirmed, “if anyone ever asks you.”

“Um... I’m pretty sure I haven’t anyway.”

“Peni,” the voice called from the shadows. Only then did a face appear for longer than a few seconds. “I’ve watched you on camera. Hi.”

She almost did a double-take at the blunt information. Miles had mentioned the name ‘Peni’ before when referring to the team’s ‘tech nerd.’ But, whatever Honey was expecting, this wasn’t it.

As quickly as the introduction was made, it was over. Peni disappeared from view, the doors closing.

Once again alone with Peter, she stared at the empty doorway. “Hi.”

Honey was never good with silence. When it was too quiet, she was left with nothing but the parroting mockery of her inner dialogue. She recounted every word she said to Peter before the monster took over. She told him everything, and the fact that there was nothing to hide behind anymore terrified her. 

What would he think of her now?

What did she think of herself? What did she think of Peter? And what would be the first thing she would say to him if she ever got the chance? 

Just as her eyes began to blur for the dozenth time that hour, she spotted that the chance had arrived. 

She held her breath. “Peter?” 

The injured man stirred gently, lungs shakily taking in the stale air. The orbs of his eyes swam behind tightly-closed lids that were stained purple. A breathless groan crawled out of his throat. 

Awe-struck, a short chuckle escaped her suddenly, with tiny tears budding in the corners of her eyes. “Hey...” she sharply exhaled, tightening her lips to keep them from trembling. One hand tightened around his fingers while the other covered her heart. “Peter... I’m—” She swallowed hard, her tongue twisted around nothing, tears dripping past her widening grin. “Hi.”

The slightest movement of his head triggered a grimace. Gently, he pried his eyelids open, like awakening from a 1,000-year sleep. She fought the urge to erupt into gleeful laughter as he laid eyes on her. Joy washed over her, sweeping her along a river of relief.

She blinked away her tears as she lost herself in the soft hue of his eyes, mesmerized by the facets of cognac and smoky quartz that rested tiredly on hers. They were, without a doubt, the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen.

A crease formed between his thick brows. “Are you here?” he murmured in a wary voice.

The smile slipped off her face at his question, eyes blinking rapidly. “I’m-I’m here.” His face didn’t soften. She suddenly thought of awful soap operas where a lead character wakes up from a coma and is stricken with amnesia. The thought stirred fear in her, followed by confusion. “I’m... right here.” Would things be better if he didn’t know who she was? 

Silence. He studied her. She observed the color of his eyes dim somberly. Sadness pulled at the corners of his mouth. It twisted her heart. 

He remembered her, alright.

“Why?” he croaked.

She took in a sharp breath as if a needle had stabbed her. She was shocked by the question, and in her confusion, it afforded her time to think about it.

Why was she here?

Only a dozen hours ago, she wanted to shoot him dead. Just an hour before that, she wanted to lay in the warmth of his arms forever. A handful of months before that, she was his prisoner.

Their relationship had changed so many times her mind couldn’t keep up with what her heart was feeling. Pure instinct drove her actions, for better or for worse.

But since all of her darkest secrets spilled forth from her mouth, and Venom spilled forth from Peter’s darkness, everyone had been focused solely on bringing Peter home safely. Herself included. Once Peter had been found, no one explicitly told her to follow them to the Bunker.

Instead of doing the thing she was most comfortable doing— running— she had remained at Peter’s side. 

What’s that about?

A million answers swirled — I was forced to be here, I was afraid to be left behind, I had nowhere else to go — but none of them seemed right. Finally, Honey found a response that made sense. Her instincts dictated her words.

“There wasn’t anywhere else I wanted to be.” 

The truth sounded strange coming from her lips, shamefully. As she met Peter’s eyes, he watched her sullenly as if he were thinking the same thing.

Silence returned. The ever-present foe was broken only by a shaky cough rattling Peter’s bones. The look on his face suggested that every breath was agony. 

Silence—always jabbering, when will you ever shut up?—it was deafening. Driving her insane.

“Dr. Cho wasn’t sure if—” She stopped short, anxiously rephrasing her sentence, “Um, wasn’t, uh—wasn’t sure when you’d wake up.” Her free hand rubbed her knee. The statement left her queasy. “I didn’t want you to be alone when you did.”

His lashes fluttered open, eyes full of melancholy as they rested on her. “Sweet girl.”

She gripped his hand and sat inches away, but it felt more like lightyears. It was as if Peter had died in the fall, and all that was left was a shell. The coldness of each moment pierced her heart further. Yet, despite this, she lifted her chin with resolve.

“I, um... I know it technically makes me a hypocrite,” she began softly, “but I’m trying not to be mad that you tried to get rid of the Symbiote alone.” She met his eyes with a sad gaze. “You coulda died.”

He watched her with an unreadable expression.

“I know it’s not fair for me to be angry,” Honey reasoned, swallowing down her emotion. “But when I thought you were gonna die, I was mad. And then I was sad. And scared. Maybe more scared than anything.”

His eyes drifted downcast towards his feet. “M’sorry.”

“Me too. What I did—it was... it was bad—”

“I didn’t know.”

She knitted her brows together. “Didn’t know I was sorry? Or didn’t know it was bad—?”

“Didn’t know...” he replied with a weak tone, “...what he did to you.” 

Her jaw clenched tightly as heat rushed to her cheeks. She had wanted to talk but was now regretting it. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for that discussion. 

Peter’s eyelids were heavy with exhaustion, forehead creased with sorrow. “Didn’t know what you were runnin’ from. Thought it was me. But it was him.” 

Tears brimmed as she gazed down at him. A frigid smile stretched his lips—the kind that doesn’t warm the eyes. Bitterness and sorrow weighed down his expression.

“Makes sense—why you never trusted me.” The corners of his mouth twisted downward as his eyes went glossy. Heartbreak flayed his voice. “He’s what you see when you look at me.” 

He mumbled it aloud, but he wasn’t speaking to her. Instead, he was lost in a prison with bars of guilt and locks of self-loathing. 

His misery cut through her like a knife to her heart. Irony mocked her. Earlier that day, she foolishly almost killed herself over the idea that Peter and John were the same. But, facing Peter in the present, she couldn’t think of anything further from the truth.

“No!” she stuttered in distress. “No-n—Peter, that’s not—I don’t, I swear I don’t.” 

Remorsefully, she shook her head, welling with tears. He met her eyes again, and all she could see was despair. It was like watching a ship sink into the ocean. Like watching someone she loved drown before her eyes.

Loved.

“Peter,” she whimpered, jaw wobbling, “I... you don’t...I don’t....” Her inability to communicate infuriated her. Impatiently, she thrust the words out, “I-I love y—”

“Don’t say it,” he whispered, voice strained. He snapped his eyes shut, tearing her from his sight. “Please don’t.” It was the most desperate of pleas. 

“Don’t say anything.” His voice broke on the last word. A flood spilled past the gates of his lids, rolling over whatever strength he had left. “Whether it's true or not, I don’t think I know what’s real anymore.”

Her soul shattered at his admission, and she could only nod. The trust between them— what little bit there had ever been— was broken beyond repair. No fixing it this time.

“Holy shit—he’s awake!” 

She heard Johnny’s voice over her shoulder, reminding her of where they were. She looked over at Johnny, standing in the doorway of the sliding emergency exit, as he called out to the adjacent car. “Doc! He’s awake!” 

Within several seconds, the car was flooded with excitement. Honey sheepishly wiped her tears away, back straightening, as bodies crowded around her. Felicia and Miles were closest to Peter, followed by Eddie and Miguel. Johnny leaped over a bench seat to join the pandemonium from the other side. Helen pushed toward the front after Felicia ordered the group to make way. 

Reluctantly, Honey released his hand, standing up to give Helen her place at his side.

The doctor immediately went to work with a flashlight beaming in Peter’s eyes and her fingers on his pulse, asking him how he was feeling. 

“Living the dream,” he weakly replied, with no lack of sarcasm.

“You’re lucky to be living at all,” Helen remarked coldly. “Anyone else taking a fall like that would’ve been a splatter on the pavement.”

Honey faintly responded out of earshot, her voice mouselike and thick with grief. “He’s nothing like everyone else.”

In the early stages of dawn, Honey was in the dining car surrounded by the others. Peter had passed out soon after he awakened. He slept soundly in the medical car under Helen’s observation. The doctor explained that the best thing for him would be to let him rest. Moving him would be dangerous.

Miguel pointed out that they were compromised, so there was nowhere safe to move him.

With that grim frustration, he questioned Honey before the rest of the gang. It was difficult to talk about her trauma. It was even harder to admit her betrayal to those she knew best. It was torture to talk about both things in front of everyone—strangers, like Jess and Noir, or Johnny, now catching up on what he’d missed earlier. Or Miles—especially Miles.

Part of her wanted to be offended by the interrogation's coldness and Miguel’s gruff tone. Who was he to treat her like she was a criminal? 

But as soon as that defensiveness reared inside her, she cut it down. She was a rat, but did she have to be a hypocrite, too?

“Tell me again,” Miguel demanded firmly. “What else did you tell Walker?”

Honey slumped down in the bench seat with her arms folded. “Names,” she grumbled bitterly. “Times.” 

With each answer, she felt her skin burning from the rising heat of contempt. There was no more hiding from it. The most she could do was be as honest as possible. 

She resigned herself to scrutiny as an act of penance. “Who came and went. When they went. Where they were going. Locations.” 

Miguel’s eyes went wide with alarm. “Did you tell him about this place?”

“No,” she bit back. “I didn’t even know this place existed.”

Unsatisfied, he glowered, “When did you last talk to him?”

“I didn’t talk to him—”

“Then how did you communicate?”

“Give it a rest, Miguel,” Felicia scowled, unimpressed by his ‘bad cop’ persona. 

Honey didn’t feel like she was on Felicia’s good side either, but she did feel somewhat shielded by her presence. 

Mercilessly, he drove right through whatever shield may have existed. “You stabbed us in the back!” he accused, pointing his finger at her. “You were offered multiple chances to come clean, but you refused, and people died. You could’ve done the right thing, but you didn’t. So I’m sorry if I’m not as sensitive to your predicament.”

Shame filled her face as she cast her eyes downward. Nothing could shield her from the guilt. 

“That’s enough,” Felicia said, shooting impatient eyes at Miguel.

“Not until we know our people are safe!”

“I said ‘enough’!”

Miguel took a step back. Felicia didn’t raise her voice often, but it felt like the ground itself shook. Her eyes flashed red as she skewered him with her gaze. Quietly fuming, he glared at his superior and then stormed off.

Tiredly, Felicia sighed. “Where are we with backup?” she asked, pressing her lips into a firm line. “Who’s checked in?”

“Peni’s running comms,” Jessica replied. “Pinging everyone’s GPS now.”

Eddie mumbled through a tired yawn, “You got GPS trackers on everybody?”

“On the phones,” Miles explained. “She hacks the OS before we hand them out. Allows her to access them remotely.”

Idly, he scratched at the scruff on his face, replying, “What’s the point in that?” Then, a loud squelch from the overhead PA system erupted. Eddie nearly jumped out of his skin as if God herself were speaking.

“Means I can mine all your data and spy on you when you look up porn,” Peni’s voice echoed over the loudspeakers in the car, further startling Eddie.

“Jesus!” Eddie cursed. He hissed, eyes cast upwards at the speakers. “I don’t look up porn on the Spider phone!” 

Alarmed, Johnny whispered, “Can she really do that?”

“Can we please stay on task?!” Felicia glowered.

“Miguel’s right.”

The group refocused their attention on Honey. Her head was lowered, eyes glistening. “This is my fault,” she whispered sorrowfully, replaying the series of bad decisions that brought her to this point.

When she glanced back up, she was met with more silence. Painful, but not unkind.

“I, um... I don’t—I’m not good... with... trusting people,” she said sheepishly. “Not good with... letting anyone in.” She hesitated, her voice shaky as she breathed through the heartache. Patiently, the others were waiting for her to continue. 

“I... I know it’s not worth much, but I’m sorry.” She swallowed hard, her eyes rimmed with tears. “I’m sorry about Hobie,” she said with an expression like she had eaten glass. “I should’ve stopped this a long time ago.”

Felicia fixed sorrowful eyes on her. “Hobie’s death wasn’t on you,” she softly explained. “Between Fisk and the Feds, there are some hefty prices on our heads. Money like that makes loyalty difficult. That night, it didn’t matter what info you had. It was one of our guys that helped pull the trigger. Most of the time, we’re pretty good at picking out the bad apples. Not always.”

Honey stared up at her with furrowed brows, nodding graciously as she accepted the tiny reprieve from guilt.

“Plus, it helps to see everything everyone does with their phone when they’re in the bathroom.” The Voice of God chimed in again, but Peni was standing in the car's doorway this time. Eddie nearly clung to the ceiling with fright. 

“How are you doing that?!” he exclaimed.

Peni rolled her eyes incredulously. “By logging keystrokes, duh—”

“No, not that!” Eddie hissed.

“Not to mention, that’s a huge invasion of privacy,” said Johnny.

Eddie looked over at the tiny woman. “Do you have this place wired or something? Or bugged?”

“Wired?” their tech nerd scoffed. “Bugged? What do you think this is, Goodfellas?”

“Good movie,” Noir stated firmly. 

“That’s the one with Leo, right?” Miles asked.

Johnny blanched at the teen’s response. “Wait, what did you just say—???”

“For your information, Eddie, I don’t have to plant microphones to hear your conversation,” Peni arrogantly teased, nose in the air. “What do you even think phones are for, dummy?”

“Dude!” Johnny was still staring at Miles like he’d grown extra arms, the two of them squabbling. “Don’t tell me you’re confusing The Departed with Goodfellas—!” 

“Nah, man, that’s the one with the mumblin’ dude who's like ‘you come to me on the day of my daughter’s wedding—’”

Johnny’s voice soared to new heights. “That’s The Godfather!”

“He gave me a phone!” Blurting out with alarm, Honey shot up to her feet. 

Jess stared, brows furrowed with confusion. “I think we’re past that—”

“John gave me a phone!” she clarified, eyes darting to Felicia and Peni. “He told me to always have it on me... Jesus Christ! He was listening! The whole time— he could hear everything!” 

The rest stared in confusion while Honey grappled with the next horrifying thought. 

John heard everything. 

Every conversation. 

Every detail. 

Every secret.

He had everything.

“Oh God,” she breathed, face full of terror.

She paled at the memory of being in her bed, curled up in Peter’s arms as he divulged his deepest secrets. The phone that would damn them all was inches away, tucked securely in the box frame. 

He knows everything.

Her eyes went wide, filling with panic. “They’re coming—”

“Get down!” Peter's strained voice cracked through the silence.

A moment later, a cacophony of gunfire, pelted metal, and shattering glass surrounded them. Bodies hit the subway car floor like dominos, wedging between walls and beneath seats. Honey landed hard on her side, knocking the wind out of her. 

Screams rang out all around as glass rained down on them. Pops of automatic gunfire rolled on uninterrupted, like spokes on a wheel. Honey could feel tiny pinprick stings from shavings of metal and splintered plastic, like a wasp's nest had consumed the car. The exposed parts of her skin were battered with debris. As she cowered, a heavy weight dropped on her back.

The second she recognized the cinnamon and cedar scent, she opened her eyes in astonishment. Peter was there—fully awake, with wires and IVs still attached. He protected her, blanketing her with his body while she clutched him tight. She buried her face in his warmth while hell rained down around them. 

“Agghhhh!” — “Stay down!” — “Cat! Get back here!” — “Kill the lights!” — “There’s too many of ‘em...”

Voices called out frantically, rolled over by the crashing waves of gunfire. 

At a certain point, she wondered how long the guns were firing. Was it five minutes? Five years? The constant barrage of blamblamblam pierced her eardrums and rattled her bones, driving her insane with terror. Her heart must have outpaced the bullets. She felt Peter’s arms tighten around her, securing her to his chest. 

She focused on his body heat, his breath on her neck, and the vise of his arms. It was deja vu, eerily identical to the night he carried her away from Fisk’s garage. 

Her mind transported her away from the train back to that day. She trembled in the steaming water of the bathtub, trying to read his warm eyes— the color of caramel and chocolate and bourbon—while he diligently dabbed at the adhesive covering her mouth. The only roughness in his touch came from the calluses on his fingertips. 

She has no reason to trust him. But she does anyway.

His long, gentle fingers. They laid out a spread of plated charcuterie and sandwiches cut into triangles onto a picnic blanket overlooking a gorgeous vista of the Catskills. That’s where she is now. Nervously, he frets about the forgotten wine, pushing his fingers through his thick hair. He looks boyish and shy. 

She has every right to be terrified. But she isn’t.

She held Peter so tight she was concerned about breaking his bones and damaging him further. But she was incapable of prying her hands from him. No one could. 

There was no escaping this. They were trapped. Any moment now, everything would go black. Seconds away from the darkness. Centimeters from death. 

And there wasn’t anywhere else she wanted to be.

The gunfire let up for a few moments. A pocket of air in which to breathe.

“Goddamn it, it’s S.H.I.E.L.D.!” Miguel’s voice hollered from outside the car, although hearing him over the ringing in their ears was difficult.

Honey wasn’t listening anyway. She was listening to Peter’s voice as he crooned a heartachingly pure rendition of ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You,’ a song she felt might as well have been written about them. 

“Honey, look at me.” His alarm brought her back to the present. He stared down at her, his eyes anxiously searching her face, while he hoisted himself above her on his forearms. 

The moment she locked eyes with his, tears filled her gaze. Fear, joy, desperation—it overwhelmed her, hitting her like a tidal wave. He was still injured, she noted. The skin on his face and exposed upper body were still marked up with bruises and minor cuts. But his eyes—the tang of oranges, the golden tint of an Old Fashioned—reflected how alive he was, despite his earlier outward appearance. 

Adrenaline surged through his body as he caged her with his forearms. By contrast, his voice was as soft as a feather. “Honey—talk to me.” He whispered, breathless with fear he was struggling to contain. His eyes regarded her like she was something intricate, delicate, and precious. “You okay?” 

Her lungs were empty. Her vision was blurred with tears. But she nodded quickly, her chin wobbling.

A glimmer of relief crossed his features as he caressed her cheek. “Okay, s’okay... you’re okay, I gotcha—” It was unclear who he was reassuring. “You’re gonna be okay, ’m gonna get you out.” 

She had no reason to trust him. But she did. Her head continued to nod, and a little hum escaped from her throat in agreement.

“Stay down, okay?” he said placatingly while his thumb brushed the delicate skin beneath her eye. “Stay right here. I’m comin’ back.” 

“No, please! Please don’t leave.”

“I’ll be right back—”

“I-I can’t, please, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can—”

“I can’t lose you!”

His breath hitched. She felt his heart skip beneath his chest. Adoration pooled in his eyes. “I’m coming back. I promise.” He kissed her forehead softly, allowing his gaze to linger just long enough for a reassuring half-smile.

She had no reason to believe him. But she had to.

Before she could protest, he pushed himself up to a low crouch. Then, in the blink of an eye, she watched him leap from the ground and cling to the ceiling of the subway car. Stunned, she watched him crawl barefoot to the emergency exit at the top of the train car. Then, silently and swiftly, he disappeared through the port hole.

“Nancy! Stay down!”

Eddie’s voice... and his silly, endearing nickname. She was still on her back on the floor. She glanced up to see an upside-down viewpoint of Eddie as he reached for her. Next to him, Johnny and Jessica took cover beneath the table. “Stay right there! I’m comin’ to you—”

Another barrage of gunfire erupted, and he flattened to the ground. A scream ripped out at the rear of the subway car. Honey glanced down to see Miles crumpling into a ball as bullet holes sliced through the metal dangerously close to his cowering form. Beside him, Helen dragged herself along the ground sluggishly. She was covered in blood.

“Miles!” Honey shrieked. Her body moved of its own accord. Jarring drum hits rang out from both sides as she army-crawled toward the teen. The gunfire began to become more sporadic, with more frequent pauses. 

“Reloading, let’s go!”

“The lights! The lights!”

Every inch felt like a mile, but she pushed on with her belly to the ground. She reached Miles first, pulling him to the ground and hugging his body closer to hers just as another wave hit. Honey guided Miles along the floor toward Helen as soon as it passed over. 

The woman gasped and sputtered as she writhed in pain. Blood soaked through her right side, from her torso to her thigh. Eyes horrified at the damage, Honey searched Helen’s face desperately.

“To-to-tuorn-tourniquet...” the doctor said through chattering teeth.

“Gimme your belt!” Honey said to Miles. “Stay flat!”

The teen diligently reached for his nylon belt, shifting around to loosen and remove it while keeping his back to the floor. Honey took the belt from him and helped Helen wrap it around her thigh.

Just as she pulled it tight, the lights switched off. Frantically, Honey searched the cabin with terror, struggling to adjust to the darkness. More shouting, unfamiliar, followed by howls of fear and pain, surrounded her. From her vantage point, she could see shapes outside better now that the cabin lights were out.

Black-clad figures outfitted with S.W.A.T. gear and carrying more artillery than a small militia tip-toed around the car. She watched as one of the infiltrators passed by a window opposite from her. A pair of dark boots dropped onto the gunman, taking him to the ground. She gasped, ducking closer to the floor as the gunman was beaten and had his rifle taken. Then, she recognized Noir by his black trench coat, finally releasing her breath. 

The relief was short-lived. Noir turned and fired the weapon, which looked like a shotgun, at an incoming attacker. The bang was accentuated by a splatter on the windows, like a can of stewed tomatoes had exploded. Honey yelped at the sight before covering her eyes. She felt her stomach rolling in her belly.

A crash forced her eyes back open. She looked through the darkness to glimpse Felicia’s silver hair and the glint of a silver knife. She fought hand-to-hand with another armed combatant twice her size outside the train. The stout man was no match for the smaller-framed woman’s speed. She attacked him from all sides, burying her blade between his ribs like fangs on a viper.

Another goon rushed at her, knocking her flat on her back. Honey’s heart nearly stopped with panic as she watched the gunman aim his weapon at Felicia, prepared to fire. Suddenly, Miguel leaped out of nowhere with the talons of his gauntlet raised.

The razor-sharp blades attached to his forearm rang out as they cut through the air. Honey had no idea what type of metal they were made from, but it was sharper than anything she’d ever seen. With a woosh, the blades sliced through the rifle barrel like a blade of grass. In shock, the gunman dropped the rifle and drew a pistol instead. Miguel sliced through the man’s wrists with the same ease, separating his hands from his body. 

She looked away as another spray of crimson covered the walls and seat. She heard the gunman cry out before being silenced with a sickening squelch. 

Miguel was suddenly yanked backward by a brutish figure, pulling him off the train. 

“Miguel!” Felicia called out with alarm. Within seconds she uprighted herself and barrelled outside to back him up. Honey attempted to follow her with her gaze, but another burst of gunfire erupted, so close that she could smell the burning of her own hair.

“I’m comin’!” Miles hollered. Honey stayed down, too afraid to look up. 

“They’re coming through the rear!” she heard Jess’ voice from nearby. 

“Keep ‘em away from the train!” Johnny’s voice.

Where was Peter? 

She felt sick. She hadn’t seen or heard him since he vanished. The idea of him meeting a brutal end made her dizzy. It made her flesh clammy. Bile crawled up her throat, with a rising panic close to a scream. She clamped her mouth closed to keep it all inside. She couldn’t think about Peter being hurt right now. She could barely think at all.

A gunshot, followed by a male groan. 

“Storm!”

She squealed as Johnny collapsed through the train entrance and landed hard on the ground. From her hiding spot, she saw blood soaking his right shoulder.

Her eyes went wide. “Johnny—!”

Another footsoldier boarded the train behind him, wielding a bloody combat dagger. Dazed from blood loss himself, the soldier collapsed on top of Johnny, the knife raised up high. She watched the two men struggle, trembling beneath a seat. It reminded her of lions thrashing, burying blade-like claws into one another.

More gunfire erupted nearby, jolting her out of her reverie. Johnny’s attacker straddled him and bared his weight down on the hilt of the dagger. Arms shaking and hands slick with blood, Johnny clutched the blade, trying to keep it from piercing his chest. 

Her eyes narrowed on the attacker. The man wore face paint to obscure his features, like some deranged Navy Seal. His tactical clothes were solid black, save for a white, geometric eagle patch on his shoulder. This was ‘SHIELD,’ or whatever Miguel called it. 

Honey saw the strain on her friend’s face, noting the weakening of his muscles. If she did nothing, Johnny would be stabbed to death right in front of her.

She needed to intervene.

Do something.

She glanced around desperately for a weapon.

The men were snarling with lips curled back. The attacker raised his fist above the hilt, ready to bash the knife into Johnny’s chest. Suddenly, he was smacked in the face by a midweight object. Dazed, he blinked through the darkness to spot a blood-splattered ballet flat on the ground. He looked up, glimpsing its owner.

Wide-eyed, Honey stared back at the SHIELD agent as he set crosshairs on her. The man bounded forward, lunging at her. She screamed, crawling backward like a crab, as the man grabbed her by the ankle above her bare foot. He held the knife high, preparing to plunge it into her chest. A blam rang out, stopping him in his tracks, as a bullet tore through the man’s heart. 

As her attacker toppled backwards, Honey turned around to see Jessica holding a smoking pistol. Without a second thought, the woman rushed up to Johnny and lowered herself to his side. “Are you hurt?” she asked Honey, offhandedly as she examined his stab wound. 

Honey shook her head ‘no.’ 

He grunted in pain as Jessica put pressure on the wound beneath Johnny’s collarbone. “Get his gun,” she ordered as she worked. Honey blinked at the gunman’s corpse, hand still clinging to a bloody knife.

“Get the gun!” Jess repeated, eyes intense. “Works a lot better than a shoe.”

She blinked. “I... I can’t.” 

The Woman glanced up at her with a hard line between her brows. “It’s either them or you. Who’s it gonna be?”

Honey stared back, face blank. Jessica pressed her lips together. “I have to check on Cho. Put pressure right here.” Honey crawled towards them, replacing Jessica’s hands with hers. She gulped dazedly, watching the sticky, red warmth pool around her fingers. He hissed in pain, but diligently, she held the compress firm.

The Woman stood quickly and shuffled over to the dead man, retrieving his sidearm and knife. She returned with the pistol in hand, ejecting, examining, and replacing the magazine like flexing one of her muscles. She wrenched back the top of the gun, letting it slide back in place with a lock. 

Honey watched the whole thing, jaw agape like it was a magic trick.

Deftly, she flipped the weapon around, presenting the grip end to Honey and placing it in the woman’s hand.

“Now it’s them or him,” Jess declared firmly, jerking her forehead towards Johnny. “You choose.”

Bewildered, she warily took the weight of the gun as Jess disappeared toward the back of the train. “Don’t shoot anyone we know!” the Woman called out. 

Honey stared at the gun, then found Johnny’s sweating face. “It’s okay,” she whispered, putting weight back on his wound. “I’m gonna take care of you.” She swallowed the tremor in her voice, putting on a face of confidence, despite her terror. 

She could pretend to be brave? Right?

Another spray of shots pierced the cabin overhead, and she crouched down to cover Johnny. 

The barrage of shots eased again, pausing for a blessed few seconds. “Incoming!” she heard Miguel shout outside. “Ultraman’s here!”

Ultraman? What...?

The emergency lights in the tunnel dimmed as a whirring sound began to ring out. With eyes like saucers, she witnessed growing pandemonium outside. More shouting and panicked footsteps echoed in the darkened tunnel, followed by a slowly-building roar, like a jet engine coming to life.

“Get down!” she heard Miles’ voice behind her. He leaped over the bench seat and pressed his body over hers and Johnny’s. Suddenly, the train jerked sideways, knocked off the track like a toy. The bodies inside were tossed to the opposite wall as the car toppled over.

Head throbbing and eyes blurry, Honey gazed around attempting to get her bearings. A bright, red light erupted, a beam cutting through the floor of the car, just a few feet away from where they had been thrown. She watched in horror as the vehicle was sliced in half like a loaf of bread.

Shrieks from terrified men echoed outside. The car rocked, metal twisting as the train's rear tore away. With her jaw agape, she peered down the train car, now opened up like a tunnel. Finally, her eyes found the source of the commotion.

A ten-foot humanoid robot smashed through the bodies of the SHIELD team, knocking them down like bowling pins. She watched in stunned disbelief as the robot’s giant legs trampled fallen soldiers beneath its mechanical feet. The arms of the robot were as thick as steel beams but faster than a human’s. They thrust out in all directions, tossing adult bodies like rag dolls. The machine was a red-and-yellow blur, with shells bouncing harmlessly off its bulletproof skin.

“C’mon,” Miles grasped Honey’s shoulder, pulling her to attention. “We gotta go!”

“What is that thing?” she gasped.

“It’s Peni!” he shouted back. “Now, c’mon, let’s move!”

Shaking the astonishment away, she followed Miles’ lead. She grabbed Johnny’s legs as the teen hooked his forearms underneath the injured man’s shoulders. They grunted from the effort of hoisting him up.

“m’sorrym’sorrym’sorrysorry...” Miles rattled off as Johnny wailed in pain. “Don’t be mad at me!” 

The two carried him towards the tunnel opening, wobbling as they walked. Honey spotted movement from beside them— a gunman peering into an emergency port hole.

“Miles! Look out!” a voice boomed. She glanced over to see Eddie flying across the car, tackling Miles as the automatic weapon started firing. She screamed, dropping herself and Johnny to the ground, as bullet holes pierced the side of the car. 

When she looked up, she stared at the white-eagle emblem on the shoulder of the agent as he turned his gun from Miles to Honey. The man crawled through the port hole, just feet away from her. 

Horrified, she looked around until she saw the pistol Jess left her with lying in the rubble between her and the attacker. Eyes wide, she scurried on her hands and feet, crawling towards it. The gunman rushed her as soon as he saw what she was doing. 

For the second time in her life, Honey fired a gun. She jolted from the shocking recoil after the trigger had been pulled. The man howled and dropped to one knee. Stunned, she watched the man writhe, having taken the bullet in his shin. 

He looked up and glared at her with a murderous stare, fumes coming from his nose. Her jaw went slack as he lunged at her. She fired the weapon again, this time hitting him in the torso. It barely slowed him down, planting into the Kevlar of his vest. Before she could adjust, the attacker’s hand was wrapped around her throat, and he wrenched the pistol from her fingers.

“Fuckin’ bitch!” he spat at her, wheezing from the impact to his bulletproof vest. “Can’t wait ‘til he tears you a new—” 

The man’s grip dropped immediately as his head wrenched backward. 

Honey looked up in awe to see Peter, splattered blood beading down his chest, towering over them. Teeth gritted, he held the man by his hair, his massive hand expanding over the crown of his head. Then, with an enraged growl, Peter jerked his arm back. 

She watched the gunman jolt as his scalp was ripped off so forcefully that the top of his skull came with it. The man flailed, legs twitching sporadically like he’d swallowed a power line. Finally, Peter released his body. With blank eyes, he slumped to the side, brain matter spilling out.

She trembled at the horrific scene, watching the attacker go limp. Her wide eyes traveled up to her rescuer. 

Peter Parker. Half monster. Half man. Chest heaving, animalistic eyes roving, his savagery on full display. Her jaw hung open as she regarded him with horrified awe, with several thoughts swimming through her head.

One. 

He looked feral. Blood trailed down his face and torso in tiny crimson rivers. The ghastly sight made him look both dead and alive. More beast than man. Even without the Symbiote attached, his eyes were blown black from adrenaline. She thought about how Eddie mentioned Venom ‘reacted differently’ to Peter. And now she could see why.

Violence was in his very nature. He wore it around his shoulders like a cape. Carnage was his crown. The blood staining his flesh only made him stand taller, like a conquering barbarian on top of a mountain of skulls. He never needed Venom to become something monstrous. The violence was visceral, and he could never be separated from it. Not completely.  

It was terrifying to witness. She should be terrified.

Two: she wasn’t. 

She realized this as he locked eyes with her, suddenly going still. She watched him. He watched her. Both of them thinking the same thought.

This is who he was. Peter Parker.

Not Venom.

Not Ben Reilly.

Not any other false name he used to conceal himself in the darkness. As much as it terrified him, he was the darkness.

His eyes softened as he looked down at her, like a switch had been thrown. He turned docile only under her gaze. 

This was also who he was. And she realized that she didn’t want him any other way.

“Are you hurt?” Peter quietly asked, crouching before her as he scanned over her figure. Eyes glistening, she nodded, her mind stricken with deja vu. He reached out delicately with bloody hands and tipped her chin upwards until their gazes met. 

She swayed as exhaustion collided with her, weakening her muscles. “I-I...” she mumbled, jaw agape and shoulders limp, staring up at him with a hypnotized expression. “I... lost my shoe.”

He blinked in confusion before glancing down to see one of her ballet flats was missing.

“I think I saw it over here,” Johnny muttered through gritted teeth, snapping them out of their bubble. They turned to see him sprawled out on the ground, holding his shoulder with a thin sheen of sweat on his face. “I’m okay too, by the way.” 

“Johnny!” Peter said, alarmed. They dropped back to the ground and flanked the bleeding man. “Can you move?” he asked, brows furrowed. 

The blonde grunted as he held onto his pectoral muscle, blood soaking half his shirt. “Sure. Flesh wound.” 

A cocky smile filled with pearly white teeth assured them he was still relatively ‘normal.’ They breathed a sigh of relief as Peter delicately helped him up into a sitting position.

The attack had ended.  Honey wasn’t entirely sure when. The whirring steps of the robot approaching caught her attention. She looked down to see the red-and-yellow mecha-spider  step up to the opening of the train car. “That’s the last of them,” Peni’s mechanized voice declared. The robot’s torso opened to reveal Peni sitting inside. The wizard behind the curtain with painted blood-red lips.

“They’ll be back,” Peter said grimly before turning to Honey.

Tears filled her eyes as she stared back at him. Guilt gutted her, breaking her heart and every bit of strength left in her body. “This is all my fault.”

Just as Peter was about to reply, the broken sound of Miles’ voice clipped him short. The teenager whimpered, dread filling his lungs, “Guys...”

Peter and Honey turned towards Miles, seeing the teen crouched over on his knees. A body lay before him. They scurried to their feet, rushing to his side. Honey froze mid-step, eyes wide with horror.

“Eddie...” she gasped.

The burly man was on his back with a gaping hole in his chest. Slowly, it pooled with blood as he wheezed in short spurts. Miles leaned over him desperately, trying to stop the bleeding with his soaked-through beanie. 

Eddie looked ashen, the life drained from his face. His eyes were wide as they stared up at the ceiling, filled with horror and awe. He sputtered and coughed, his lungs struggling to keep the liquid out. Blood tinged his lips. 

“Eddie!” Honey yelped, dropping to her knees to bring her hands over Miles’s. 

It was like trying to hold back a river. All eyes were now on Eddie’s dire situation—Noir, Felicia, and Peni approaching quickly. Jess and Miguel looked on from the back of the car, both of them pausing momentarily from trying to assist Helen.

Miles gazed down at his savior, lip wobbling and hands shaking. “He... he pushed me outta the way. He-he saved me—” 

“Christ!” They heard Felicia curse as the silver-haired woman rushed over and touched Eddie’s pulse. Honey glanced at her, watching fear capture the fearless.

“We need help over here!” Peter called out, voice strained with panic that Honey had never heard from him before. He was winded with terror as his palms enveloped Miles’s, frantically working to stop the bleeding.

“Cho’s hurt bad,” Jessica called back. Beside her, Miguel was hooking his arms beneath the doctor’s legs, hoisting her up off the ground.

“It’s okay, we-we got this,” Honey called back. Hysteria slowly choked her. “I-I can fix this! I can patch him up!”

“But Helen—”

“I can do this!” Honey hissed, desperate tears spilling down her face. “I just need a-a med kit or... Sutures! I can sew it up, all she’s gotta do is walk me through it.” 

“Sweetie,” Felicia uttered under her breath. Honey froze in her gaze, her blue eyes glazed with tears. “She’s not even conscious...” 

She wore a mournful expression, condolences pouring silently from her mouth.

Honey would have none of it. Defiantly, she shook her head, lips pursed into a straight line. “I’ll figure it out myself!” she choked back a sob. “Just—somebody, get me the med kit! Get me—” Honey blocked out the worried stares that surrounded her. 

Instead, she focused on Eddie. She thought about cupcake frosting smeared across the scruff of his chin. His benevolent nature as he pulled in drags of smoke, offering peace to the world in return with each outward breath. She pictured his hazel-gray eyes weighed down by heavy bags and a lifetime of failures. Despite that, his eyes persevered to retain their brightness. 

He was tranquil amidst the turmoil of his life. Grateful despite his misfortune. In the middle of their war, he was a pacifist. A peacemaker. 

He saw everything. He saw Peter as a brother. He saw Honey as a friend. He saw both of them as worth saving.

And now she saw the light fading from his eyes. “I can do this,” she whimpered weakly, tears spilling down her face. “It’s okay. I can fix this.”

“Honey—”

She paused, feeling the featherlike brush of Peter’s breath across her face. Hesitantly, she met his sorrowful gaze, her heart aching at the sight of tears trailing down his cheeks. He was silent, fixing her earnestly with a knowing look. He didn’t have to say anything. She could read the hopelessness written on his face.

There was no fixing this. 

Somberly, they gazed at one another, both of them mirroring each other’s grief.

“S..ssay,” Honey heard a tiny voice whisper beneath her. She looked down to see Eddie looking up at her, teeth chattering. His lips were curved into a faint smile. “Wh—why the-the-the l-long face, N-nancy?”

It was like her heart literally ripped in half. She struggled to keep her sobs muted, clamping her mouth closed.

“Y-you... sh-should e-eat a Peanut Butter co-cookie, or so-somethin.’” He grinned wide, his teeth stained red. Tears dripped from her chin as she hiccuped out a small smile through her anguish. 

His eyes traveled from her face to Peter’s. Though he appeared more composed than Honey, Eddie knew what Peter looked like when he was in agony. 

“T-tha-thank y-you-u,” Eddie shivered, staring up at Peter with love in his eyes, “for s-saving my life.” 

Red-eyed, Peter winced like he’d swallowed glass. He breathed through his nose, afraid that if he opened his mouth his soul would spill out.

Eddie gazed at him with a lopsided, lazy grin. “Don’t b-be too ha-hard on yourself.” Another cough shook him, staining his lips even further. Peter released his hold on the wound to wrap Eddie’s hand in his fist. He held on tightly as if to steady him against a heavy current.

“M’mm-’m afraid to-to die, Pete,” Eddie said with a shaky voice. He faltered for a single moment. Fear prodded at him as each expansion of his chest became heavier. Each breath came up shorter than the last. 

Then, as stubborn as ever, he smirked with a flicker of light filling his glossy gaze. A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he considered the irony. “Th-that’s-s gotta co-count for s-somethin’, right?”

Peter squeezed his eyes shut, nodding tearfully in a silent reply. When he opened them again, the current was stronger. The light was fading as it began to pull him under. Peter and Honey gripped tighter, as if their resolve could hold him.

“S-s-so...” Eddie said, locking eyes with Peter. “Thank... you.”

Into the darkness, he drifted away.

To be continued...

{back to the masterlist}

A/N Sorry for the tearjerker cliffhanger! This story is coming to a close in just a few chapters (maybe 3 or 4). Thank you for sticking with me this long. I hope that the next chapter will have everything you've ever dreamed of.