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pluvialpoet · 1 year

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delicate edges // chapter 2

summary: beneath disdain, there is admiration. beyond betrayal, there is devotion. underneath loathing, there is adoration. even the coldest- most closed-off hearts- are protected by delicate edges of temptation, forgiveness, and absolution. an exiled heart longs for embrace, but desire threatens ruination. will true love become your savior or your greatest sin?

pairing: aemond targaryen x fem!reader

warnings: mentions of wandering hands (noncon touching), and miscommunications (plus, an embarrassing amount of foreshadowing that won't make any sense until later)

word count: 10,302

series masterlist

The tip of an embroidery needle pricks your flesh, and with a discouraged puff, you place the hoop on the chaise beside you. It’s pitiful- both your lack of needlepoint skills, and the design you’ve attempted to craft. What was supposed to be an homage to your house sigil is a mess of tangled thread and stained canvas- an illusion of a pink maiden, indeed. Perhaps if you’d turn it one way, or flip it upside down, or close both eyes and imagine the intended image staring back at you, then a different point of view might paint your work more favorable. After a few rounds of trial and error, you’ve come to accept that it does not.

Frustration urges you to yank and tear and unravel the mess you’ve made, but alas, thread is an expensive luxury that you’d be a fool to waste. Though your patience runs thin, you take a deep breath and attempt to regain your composure.

You’ve never been one for crafting. Dainty displays of femininity only serve to test your tolerance. Talents and skills you’ve failed to master- no matter how many years of practice you’ve endured- best you time and time again, and a twinge of panic stings your pinpricked wound when you realize that you’re running out of time.

“I quite like this color on you,” Helaena Targaryen- the king’s daughter, and Aemond’s sister- compliments your dress from across the room, momentarily distracting you from your plight. “It reminds me of a celastrina ladon.” She adds with a smile, though you’re not quite sure you understand the sentiment behind her words. As if she notices your uncertainty, she plainly praises, “Pretty.”

“Thank you, Helaena.” A gentle smile is passed between the two of you- a gesture of shared gratitude, and perhaps, appreciation for each other’s company. You can’t imagine how lonely she must be. Her only sister abandoned her when she was a girl, and her eldest brother had never really been quite fond of her company. Aemond tries his best to make time for his sister. Out of all of Helaena’s siblings, he is the most devoted to her. With few friends- and even fewer admirers- the princess often spends her days locked away in the comfort of her rooms, threading, dancing, or singing, solitarily. It seems like a forlorn life, but it brings her much joy. It makes you cherish the rare moments of amity she allows you to share with her. You’re grateful for them. Especially since you’re privy to the knowledge that she prefers to be left alone. “Are you looking forward to the evening’s festivities?”

Nimble fingers continue to weave and thread, only halting their movements to ponder upon the proposed question, and after a brief silence- filled with heavy thought and reflection- Helaena reveals, “I am most looking forward to watching the sun set.” She is a woman of few words, though her speech is far from simple. She is thoughtful- precise in her vocabulary, and silent when additions to conversations are unwarranted. There is oft something woven between the lines of her riddles and tongues meant to be deciphered, and when there isn’t, simple banter suffices.

“On that, we can both agree.”

A pleasant lull fills the space of spoken word for merely a moment, before Helaena’s brow furrows. For the first time, she looks up from her embroidery and meets your stare.

“You hold no interest in the tourney, or the ball?” She asks, and your answer is immediate- as if it’s been rehearsed many times or simply reiterated.

“I believe that they falsify honor with brutality.” You express your distastes with a grimace. “Such occasion justifies acts of savagery under the guise of proving strength and skill. I’m not compelled by displays of power nor aggression- though, I suppose there is something to be admired about the art of it all.”

“Art?”

“Yes,” You defend, “When Aemond fights, every move is calculated and precise. He moves as if…“ Pausing for a moment to gather your thoughts, you huff a breath, “As if, protection and defense are steps to a dance he’s been dancing his whole life.” You can’t help but smile whilst justifying the difference. “He is poised and delicate and-“ When Helaena grins, you realize that you’re getting ahead of yourself and your cheeks flush with warmth. “Well, I suppose there is something to be admired about it, is all.”

“And the ball?” She inquires, wondering if your opinions on dancing are as strong as they are against fighting, but before you have the chance to reply, a knock upon the door to Helaena’s chambers stifles the conversation. The interruption is unexpected and intrusive- drawing focus and attention away from your previous exchange and demanding awareness, elsewhere- and thick tension threatens to smother. Helaena’s lips part, allowing a quick gasp to pass, without allowing any more air to enter. Her lungs burn with anticipation. Another soft rap against wood heightens the already heavy suspense, and her eyes meet yours- searching, for either fear that mirrors hers, or, valor she could mimic, instead.

When Aemond enters her chambers, a look of relief washes over her features, and the corner of his lip curls into a gentle smile. It’s obvious, in the way that they gaze at one another, that they care for each other immensely, and you’re grateful that despite whatever loneliness they suffer, they have the other.

“Mother is expecting us,” He announces, fiddling with his hands behind his back whilst he informs his sister that they’ve been called upon. She nods dutifully, setting down her needlework and smoothing down the skirts of her dress as she stands to join him. “And your father is waiting for you,” Aemond adds, his gaze shifting to where you sit. You find yourself wondering if he likes the color of your dress- or if he finds it too blue? Are the sleeves too short? Does he believe that it flatters you? Does he notice at all? It’s not like you’ve worn it for him, specifically, but you value his opinion and hope that he might spare you a compliment like his sister had.

He does not.

“Thank you.” With a sheepish smile, you rise, abandoning both needle and thread as you cross the room to Helaena and loop your arm with hers. He bids you both adieu with a nod and as your footsteps retreat, he catches sight of the embroidery hoop you’ve left behind. Curiosity intrigues him, and before he can stop himself, he wanders over to get a better look.

Unsurprisingly, he can barely make out what you’ve attempted to create. Based on the colors alone, he deducts that it must’ve been a supposed tribute to your house sigil, but it hardly resembles the intended. It’s a charming disaster of chaos- pink, white, and blue tangled, knotted, and intertwined- and he’s captivated by your lack of aptitude when it comes to needlework. It’s a good thing you’ve deserted the cloth. If you had intended to pass it off as a favor, he’s pleased that you’ve saved yourself the embarrassment. He can’t imagine the ridicule you’d suffer if anyone else were to witness your craft. To spare you, he folds the homely handkerchief into his pocket- with the intent of pardoning you from mockery and returning it to you when the time permits, of course.

Why else would he be so mindful of creasing the monstrosity before tucking it safely into the pocket of his doublet?

You quickly lose interest in the tournament. Each match seems trivial and repetitive- in the sense that two men spar against one another until one bests the other. Perhaps, you hold such little regard in each aimless battle because you’ve grown used to watching seasoned knights train with purpose, not just for show. You’re not as easily amused or entertained by the performance and find yourself trying to figure out how much longer the ceaseless act will dwindle on for by trying to gauge where the sun hangs overhead.

Beside you, your father leans over. Ever observant, he takes an interest in your disinterest. Your chin rests in the palm of your hand, boredom apparent and overwhelmingly evident. He stifles a laugh. Surely, you’re not so uninterested in the events taking place before you that you find yourself prone to slumber. When you were a girl, you used to love watching the knights joust. It was your favorite part of celebrating the spring solstice. Now, you’re practically nodding off beside him. If he looks close enough, he can still catch glimpses of his little girl in a woman grown.

“I have a proposal for you,” He clears his throat softly, coaxing your attention away from the mock battle. “Before the next round, choose a winner. If you are correct, I shall award you a halfpenny.”

“Only a halfpenny for my knowledge?” He’s not expecting you to frown, but your lips pucker and pout, visibly unenthused by what he thought made an otherwise tempting offer. “I’d wager my talents are worth at least copper stars.”

“Do you now?” His eyes crinkle with laughter, the sound stifled by the roar of the crowd. “Well then, you must forgive me, darling, for I did not know your talents were so valuable.” Your father ribs softly. It’s nearly impossible not to mirror his joy when it’s so contagious. “Perhaps if your knowledge can predict the outcome of each match, I shall reward you with a gold dragon.”

“Truly?” With wide eyes, you ask.

“Have you ever known me to jest?” A gentle scoff is accompanied by a teasing glint. “Now, perk up,” He warns with a playful grin, and you have no reason to argue.

Between wagers with your father and idle chatter with Helaena, time passes comfortably. Match after match concludes with applause granted to the victor, and at some point, the acclamations start to lose their novelty. You find yourself joining in on the celebrations to avoid being the only one left out, but it’s all forced- every smile, every congratulatory cheer, even most of the sympathetic grimaces offered to those impaled by a lance or bathed in mud and defeat, lack genuine sincerity.

The royal box obscures your view of the sun, but you can still feel the warmth of its rays- even eclipsed by stone and canvas above. It’s an unforgiving heat. Wet and sticky. Each breath is labored, and excess moisture is absorbed by the fabric of your gown, adding phantom weight to the garment. Dampness kisses your hairline, decorating the expanse with pearls of sweat that glisten in the light. Fine hairs start to curl outwards, rebelling against the braids they were forced into earlier this morning and you resist the urge to comb them back into place.

Thunderous applause distracts.

Another champion rides forth, and the splintered pieces of House Mallister’s sigil become trampled by the hooves of an auburn stallion. The rider guides his beast toward the royal box, but the mount does not advance without a fight. He whinnies in protest, letting out a huff of refusal, before taking to his hind legs. Onlookers murmur and gasp as the knight struggles to control the horse. Another irritated puff, another crack of a whip, and then, finally, the animal obeys.

The mystery knight’s helmet is discarded and the Master of Revels introduces Ser Edmund Flowers- a hedge knight from the Reach, said to be the bastard son of Willem Ball. He’s rewarded with far less praise once his identity is revealed, but the celebration never truly ceases. Dark, unkempt hair falls into his eyes and he shakes it away to clear his line of sight as he looks up towards the royal box. He’s young- no more than a year or two older than you are- and it’s a miracle that he’s managed to survive the joust without the same amount of experience most fighting knights possess.

Helaena flinches beside you.

The sudden movement catches your attention, and you spare her a glance as she fidgets with her fingers. Her eyes are wide, her pale skin ghostly and gray, and you can’t help but feel concerned for her. Knowing of her aversion to touch, you fight the urge to reach for her hands and stop them from trembling. Something has spooked her. A look of equal parts fear and anger influences her features, and her stare narrows.

“No, no, no,” She mumbles to herself, and you briefly wonder if she’s made wagers against the victorious knight. Perhaps she’s found herself in debts she can not pay. If she requires coin, she merely has to ask. Whilst others remain in good spirits- cheering and applauding- the princess appears sullen and agitated. The sight of her distress is enough to warrant concern of your own.

“Helaena, what is it?” You ask lightly, mindful not to add to her unease by making sharp, sudden movements, or using a voice that might appear louder, or harsher than intended. She looks to you then, her stare blank and her eyes glossed over in either terror or detachment- it’s difficult to tell. Her answer is decided, but the words evade her, and she struggles to formulate the intended reply. Instead, her lips part, and press, over and over again, like she’s gasping for air.

The sound of her quick breaths finally catches Aemond’s attention, but before he has the chance to spare his sister concern, he’s interrupted.

“Lady Piper,” Ser Edmund addresses the box and you immediately suck in a sharp sigh. He beams with a confidence rewarded by glory- void of the arrogance granted by experience- and offers a peaceful smile. “I’ve prayed to the Seven for protection, but I look to you and your favor for strength.” The proposal, which sounds more like a plea, is met with silent anticipation- from both the gathered masses and yourself.

He is a stranger- a name you’ve never heard of and a face you’ve never seen until today. His status, or lack thereof, is not what causes your chest to tighten. It is not his fault he is a bastard, and you don’t hold him in low esteem because of it. He is boyishly handsome- at least, you assume, with the distance between you and the glare of the sun’s rays, that he is- and it’s enigmatic, trying to decipher what flutters inside of you at the prospect of accepting his advanced.

It is the first time you’ve been called upon with the intent of a potential courtship.

It is the first time you’ve been desired.

It fills you with gratification- to know that you’re wanted, to know that you’re sought after. So strange and so new is the feeling that you don’t know what to make of it. The only time you’ve felt something similar- the only other time you’ve been kissed by the flames of attraction and burning- is when you find yourself in the company of your eldest friend. Whatever flush set alight by the knight asking for your favor is snuffed out by the fondness you feel for the second Targaryen prince.

“I do not take without giving, my lady, and I offer this flower as a token of my gratitude.” Withdrawing something from underneath his breastplate, tucked safely between chainmail and steel- he presents a favor of his own. With purple and green leaves- and roots still attached to a clump of soil- he holds it out to you and you rise to your feet.

Aemond watches you smile sweetly at the gesture, enthralled by the lavishness of the offering, and his lip curls bitterly. The bastard knight has offered you nothing more than fireplum- a weed- likely plucked from lands that don’t belong to him, and never will. Yet, your eyes crinkle with affection at such a simple display of yearning. His nostrils flare.

“Thank you, Ser Flowers.” You bow- simply to convey decency- and his smile grows. The air stills. Heavy, with something other than humidity, each breath fails to satiate the need for more air in your lungs. Whispers travel. Murmurs intensify. With a sudden reluctance, your intestines twist- but your smile never falters. Against better judgment, you spare a glance over your shoulder. You expect to be met with the familiar comforts of violet and sapphire- concealed by leather- but Aemond looks beyond you. Even when you attempt to catch his eye, he refuses to meet your stare. Breath catches in your throat.

You don’t know what you were expecting.

Dejectedly, you untie one of the purple ribbons from your hair and wrap it around his lance- seemingly accepting his favor and offering your own in return. “Best of luck to you.”

The crowd erupts in support. With a thoughtful grin, he boasts your favor and dons his helmet once more. You return to your seat, where Helaena remains fitful, and brush the tips of your fingers over the leaves of your token. Beside you, your father offers his sympathies with a tight press of his lips and you awkwardly return the gesture before trying to sneak another glance at Aemond- whose peripheral is blocked by his patch. Despite this, he can feel the weight of your stare and wills himself to look forward.

Ser Flowers is thrown from his horse the next round, and Aemond makes no attempt to hide his spiteful smirk of glee whilst he watches the defeated bastard limp from the tourney grounds. It’s a sight to be seen- a Flower daubed in mire- and he’s lucky he has at least one eye to see it. The loser spares a pitiful glance towards you, and you offer your sympathies silently- with a gentle nod.

The tourney drags on. A winner is announced, and then a loser, and so on and so forth until only one knight- from House Darklyn- emerges victoriously against all of his competitors. Holding true to tradition, a wreath of flowers is placed atop the head of a plain girl from Tarth. Precious petals are cushioned by hair that resembles straw, and when she smiles, it’s revealed that she’s still missing a few teeth from her youth. She’s a bony child, nearly as tall as the knight that’s crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty, and even with only one eye, Aemond can see clearer than those blessed with two- she is not the most desirable maiden in attendance nor the most striking. She just is. Simple. Forgettable. Ordinary. Yet, onlookers cheer for the homely daughter of the Evanstar, praising and celebrating her as if she were the fairest across the land- an actual sapphire unearthed amid bedrock and clay.

Why is she so easily accepted by the masses and he shunned? Why is she celebrated whilst he is ostracized?

Envy is sour, and his lips purse with distaste as he forces his attention elsewhere. He will not honor the chosen outsider- a child with nothing to give to his people- whilst he remains snubbed. Grateful for the distraction, if nothing else, he uses the celebration as an excuse to quietly slip away, back into the shadows that welcome him when he’s grown tired of parading about the light. Perhaps his only regret is that he’ll miss the sunset, but he doubts that you won’t find a way to recount the sights to him the next time you cross paths. With a vivid attention to detail and a picturesque prose, the story he awaits is likely more mystical than the actual event- like childhood lore, meant to lull, but stirring imagination instead, he reckons he could listen to the same tale echoed forevermore, as long as it’s from your view.

On a dias, sat high above the company of lesser lords and commoners, Aemond sits alone. He is surrounded by his blood- save for the empty seat next to Helaena where his brother, Aegon, is meant to be seated- but he remains solus. The feast is a joyous occasion for gluttons and peasants alike, luxuriating in grub and cups without a care beyond what they’ll shove down their gullets next, and he loses his appetite in the presence of greed. Below they laugh, dance, and indulge, leaving the prince with no choice but to observe the same people that have rejected him partake in merriment. He has always been the spare- second to Aegon, and third, fourth, and so on to the children his future wife might bare- but he still occupies a seat above them, a seat that watches over them as they mingle and gawk whilst he has no choice but to remain dutiful. Forced to portray amiability when all that bubbles in the pit of his stomach is animosity.

The glances spared his way- the ones purposeful and deliberate, not accidental or unintentional- are filled with the same judgments and scrutiny he’s been condemned to since childhood. Though he’s much too far to hear the whispers sat atop his pedestal, he holds no delusions that the gossips have seized their hearsay in favor of silence. They’d be driven to madness, otherwise. Cornered by elation, trapped in a festivity of joy, he remains sullen. He clasps his hands together- tight enough for the color to drain from his fingertips- and with a look of repugnance, he watches over the citizens that have prospered with newfound sustenance- even if only for the evening- by suckling from his family’s teet.

Through small talk and amicable gestures, you’ve managed to avoid the awkward prospect of falling into step with a suitor who would quickly lose interest the moment you spun out of turn, or stepped on their toes- like the last time Aemond’s uncle, Daemon, had asked for your hand. He didn’t speak a word to you, and hardly spared you a glance whilst he lead you through the dance. Instead, he glared at his nephew with a smug smile that quickly vanished when you accidentally lost your footing and landed right on his foot. Aemond laughed at that.

The urge to flee is immense. You long to retire somewhere thinly populated- free from the burdens of socializing and the threat of celebration- but as you look upon the grand dias that seats the Targaryen family and catch Aemond’s eye, your devotion morphs into something much more selfless.

He holds your stare. Despite the exuberant mob of conversation, drunken joviality, and waltzing pairs, he finds you. Somehow, he always does- and, with a talent far less impressive, you manage to find him. Never first, only after you feel his eye upon you. Even from far away, you note the discomfort reflected in his gaze. Invisible to everyone else in attendance, you notice him. Always. You rise, abandoning grub and beverage in favor of more familiar comforts, and across the room, Aemond does the same. The simultaneous movements fail to garner the regard of inebriated guests- drunk on glee and mead- but they share the same intentions. With a smile you’re unable to contain, you weave your way through the crowd. When you finally make your way to his side, he greets you with a thin press of his lips and a nod, and you mean to make conversation with him, but someone clears their throat from behind you, contending for your attention, instead.

“Lord Corbray,” Your smile is forced, yet reserved. With grace and diplomacy, you greet Leowyn Corbray- a stocky man with little respect for chivalry, as he oft forgets himself in the company of women. His dark, stringy hair is sparser than the last time your paths crossed, but it is still slicked back with grease and clumped in patches. The top button is missing from his doublet, the front of the garment soaked through with either sweet wine, mead, or sweat. He appears to be in good spirits, either way. The lines around his eyes crease as he greets you, smile stretching wide to reveal a crooked display of teeth. He is nearly thrice your age, but the years don’t prevent him from reaching for your hand.

“Lady Piper,” He happily accepts your pleasantries by pressing his lips to the back of your palm. It is revolting. It is repulsive and distasteful. Despite how sloppy the gesture is, despite the quick swipe of his tongue against the dorsal of your hand that makes your skin crawl, the worst part about the entire exchange is that his grip tightens around your fingers- effectively, and forcefully, stopping you from retreating from the seemingly innocent assault.

Luckily, unlike the last time you found yourself in his presence, you are not alone.

“Prince Aemond,” Leowyn acknowledges the man beside you only because of the title he dons. If Aemond had been a squire, knight, or even another lord, he wouldn’t have paid him any mind. But alas, propriety mustn’t be forgotten in the presence of royalty.

Next to you, Aemond stiffens. Though he is completely unaware of the strength Lord Corbray uses to keep you in his grasp or the grievous attack of his lips upon your skin, he finds the entire exchange unsettling. He thinks back to your conversation a few days prior- the one where you voiced your distaste for marriage and motherhood- and he believes he understands better than he did then. Watching you interact with a man who is closer in age to your father than he is to you, is confusing. He doubts that you would find yourself in a happy partnership with a man as absent-minded as Leowyn Corbray, and the longer he considers the possibility, his insides begin to ache. Akin to that of an upset stomach from boyhood, he watches you smile and wipe your hand against the skirts of your dress before shivering, and the twisting in his stomach intensifies. Coupled with a tightness in his chest- equivalent to the labored, strained breaths after a taxing day of sword training- he watches as a pair of light brown eyes meet yours, and knows not what to make of such strange, sudden sentiments.

“Not even the stars rival your light tonight, my lady,” Leowyn slurs, whilst attempting to flatter you, no doubt. Perhaps from anyone else, the compliment might’ve brought forth a warmth to your cheeks, but from his tongue- past his lips, in a boisterous tone, with an arrogant grin, as if he were certain such praise would have you falling at his feet- you feel nothing beyond irritation, and even a bit of pity, for the man making a fool of himself. Still, you’re too well-mannered not to accept his kind words- even if you refuse to take them to heart.

“Thank you, my lord.”

Under no delusion that he’s come to simply pay you a compliment, you wait with bated breath for him to reveal his true intention. The silence- which only lasts a few seconds- feels like it stretches on for days. You’ve grown dizzy, plagued with worst-case scenarios and nightmarish figments. Though, when he speaks again, your worries do not remain somewhere far off. They intensify.

“Perhaps, you would bestow me the honor of a dance?” His tongue sweeps across the front of his teeth in a manner that makes the crooked ivories nearly mistakable for a set of fangs. The color in his eyes dissolves, darkening an already menacing stare tenfold. “It would be a privilege to turn with the fairest maiden amongst the seven kingdoms,” Memories haunt. Time has faded bruises, but it has not healed old wounds split open by fear. Though, back then you knew not what to expect. Now, you dread what you know.

“Have you met them all?” It’s a shock that your voice finds you at all. The sly leer falls from his face. Arrogance and brawn are discarded like a mask, revealing a timid, feeble, drunken man underneath the brazen facade of a lord- whose only real power comes from a title handed down to him, not strength or wit, or even charm.

“I beg your pardon?” He sputters, mouth agape and taken aback by the challenge he neither expected nor prepared for.

“All the maidens in the seven kingdoms?” Rage and trepidation influence your speech, demanding answers to questions you wouldn’t even dare to ask had you found yourself alone in his company. “Have you the privilege of meeting them all before deeming that I am the fairest?”

Aemond bites back a snicker. There’s something comical about the exchange, and something even more gratifying about watching you reproach a man as vile as Leowyn Corbray. His chest blossoms with something parallel to pride, but not quite equivalent, and it makes each breath a little easier to breathe when he glances upon the fool’s face and witnesses a look of utter stupefaction. For once, he is not the object of ridicule. Thus, if prompted, he will not refrain from joining in on the mockery he’s only ever witnessed his whole life. Perhaps he is as wicked and twice as heartless as whispers have painted him out to be. Thirsty for nothing short of revenge against any and all who have ever wronged him, he thrives for vengeance. But then, he looks to you- the only person who has never made him feel any less whole, solely because he is missing parts- and such temptations are quelled.

For nearly a second, he gazes at you with fondness.

“Lady Piper, I-“ A proper apology evades the man before you. Perhaps, if he’d offered his condolences more, he might’ve been better acquainted with the words meant to ask for pardon. Alas, his following sentiment disappoints, “I meant not to offend, my lady- only to compliment.”

“I see,” You agree, but your expression betrays you.

“Perhaps my intentions were unclear,” He’s too self-righteous to surrender. If he were a leader in battle, he would lead his men straight to their deaths. His pride will forever be his downfall- an attribute he will never outgrow, a characteristic that will never change.“ But I wish to dance with you, my lady,” If you did not know him, you might believe the sincerity behind the notion, but Leowyn Corbray is a vain man, not a genuine one. “Unless of course, you are already spoken for,” As his eyes flit between you and Aemond, you suck in a sharp breath. The insinuation fills you with hope- hope that the prince’s presence might discourage him, hope that you will not be forced to dance with a foul man, hope that Aemond might take your hand in his and lead you away to the gardens where you first asked him to dance all those years ago- but Aemond physically recoils at the implication. You are not his. The revelation invites your suitor’s advances once more. In the blink of an eye, the color returns to his face, and his eyes brighten with anticipation and excitement. “Very well,” He exclaims cheerfully, directing his attention solely to you. “Lady Piper,” Brandishing the pudgy fingers of his palm, he demands under the guise of a query- as if you have a choice to deny him. “Your hand?”

Suddenly, you feel trapped. When you try to catch Aemond’s eye, he casts his gaze downward, refusing to meet your stare. The reaction causes a dull ache in your chest. All too quickly you understand the prospect that awaits you if you do not intervene. Perhaps, as foolish as it sounds, the child within you still fears the anticipation of dancing with another. Despite the number of times you’ve turned with a partner, each time has only intensified your insecurities and doubts. There’s a reason you’re desperately trying to avoid partnering with Leowyn for the evening, even if only briefly, and your pulse quickens with fear when you realize that you do not have a legitimate reason to turn him away.

“Where did you say you saw my father?” The question draws looks of confusion from both members of your company. It tastes just as mindless, but you present an inquisitive front. Your eyes plead with Aemond, silently hoping that he wouldn’t force you to outright beg for his aid, but he peers straight past your guise- failing to appreciate your quick wit and allowing your call for support to go unanswered.

“I have n-“ Aemond shakes his head, bewildered by the oddities that slip past your tongue. As of late, you’ve stopped making sense, and he’s found himself growing more and more concerned with your strange behavior. You speak in riddles he can not understand, and it perturbs him. He longs to understand, but you make it so difficult. Your face falls and he feels himself growing frustrated. He’s no stranger to disappointment. Having been born a failure- sharing a cradle with an egg that refused to hatch- he knew, even then, that he would continue to be a letdown. He was half the size of Aegon, and twice as fierce- he had heard- but before he could savor the feeling of air in his lungs, he had let his father down. Why else would the king have scorned him for all of these years? He was only his second son, after all. Despite the odds stacked against him, you have yet to make him feel less than- like he’s unworthy simply for being- and as he watches your eyes try to convey what you won’t allow words to, his chest tightens. It’s as though you expect him to understand a completely different language, without revealing the translations- about as effective if he were to speak to you in High Valaryian.

He can’t take it anymore. You are an anomaly he can not make sense of- and it vexes him.

“Forgive me, lord, but I must-“ Looking past his stocky frame, you try to catch a glimpse of your father, or at the very least a glimpse of a familiar face- truthfully, you would’ve settled for one of Helaena’s handmaidens- even though the most familiar face is standing right beside you, and looking at you as though you’re a stranger. Your eyes begin to water, threatening tears, and you try your best to blink them away. It’s a pain you never could’ve fathomed, which is why it stings so deeply.

“Are you refusing me?” Much to your horror, he catches onto your plans to escape. In an instant, he discards cordiality in favor of a menacing ire. “Doing so would surely bring great shame to your house- not to mention your father,” His presence is so daunting that when he takes a step closer, Aemond finds himself stepping forth to shield you. He takes half a step, angling his body to protect you from the wrath of the arrogant prick that threatens you, and stares Leowyn down, halting his approach.

He doesn’t quite like the tone that’s been taken with you.

“Your father is just over there, lady Piper,” His eye never leaves the pathetic excuse of a man before him, though he addresses you. With his back towards you, you’re unaware of the darkness that bleeds into the light of his iris, but Lord Corbray swallows thickly when Aemond narrows his stare. “Perhaps you should allow her a moment to speak with him before pestering her for a dance,” It’s not a suggestion- it’s an order, that Leowyn has no choice but to obey.

He clears his throat, ridding the passage of phlegm and panic, and presses his lips together. The prince is easily a head and a half taller than he is and built of lean muscle and years of strength training. He may be inebriated, but even soaked in booze, Leowyn’s wise enough to know that he’s no match for the marred prince. At least he does not have to cover his monstrosities. “Very well,” He heeds to Aemond’s warning with a weak smile. It does little to convey the ease it’s intended to, and Aemond barely registers the feeling of his fingernails digging into the meat of his palm when his adversary tries to meet your eyes over his shoulder. “I shall return once your affairs are in order.” He promises, though it feels more menacing than a threat.

His boots click once, twice, three times against the polished stone floors, and you abruptly turn to face Aemond. Your heart is pinned to your sleeve- a raw, irregular display of fear, sorrow, and trepidation that flaunts all you attempt to obscure. Each pulse sends a tremor through your body, and your eyes flit nervously around the crowded room in search of ever-present danger. The music has faded away almost completely, eclipsed by the sharp ringing in your ears. Even conversation and laughter have merged into something so dull and muffled they’re almost impossible to make out. Your fingertips tremble as you reach for Aemond, and you seek his comfort blindly as the room starts to spin and vivid colors threaten to dim to black.

He does not notice.

“Aemond,” His name is barely a whisper, and he exhales heavily as you plead, “Please,” You croak, each word more and more difficult to pronounce with the tightening of your throat. ��Please do not make me dance with him,”

“He’s asked for your hand.” The reminder is clipped, and could have easily been mistaken for something harsh or bitter, had you not known the truth of his nature. Still, he refuses to gaze upon you whilst he delivers the cruel truth. He can not bear to watch the color fade from your cheeks. He will not subject himself to the punishments of watching sorrow seep into your smile, or the light dim behind the darkness of your eyes. It’s an agony he refuses to brave. Instead, he cowers away- yielding to surrender for the first time in his life. A blaze burns in his lungs, and he swallows smoke and flame alike, igniting a searing rage deep in his chest. His torments are self-inflicted, yet he continues to ache. Damn, his pride. Damn, his ego. It is what fuels his malice. Though he holds no desire in asking you to dance- refraining from creating a spectacle on both of your behalf- it maddens him to know that someone else will turn with you instead. Some pompous lord will ask to spin you, and then another will follow, and for the rest of the evening he will be forced to watch you partake in a custom you dread- and only he will know of your pain.

Pain. It’s what you remember most about the last time you were forced to dance with Lord Leowyn Corbray. The way his nails dug into your flesh. The way his palms squeezed and manipulated. The purples, blues, and greens that have since faded, but the terror and shame that still remain. Aemond is so much more than an ally amongst men, he is a friend, and you stand before him beseeching him for refuge- but it seems as though he’s drawn his gates and barred the windows to his sanctuary, leaving you stranded and alone for reasons you can not fathom. He values honor and tradition, but he is not wicked. He would not condone the heinous acts committed against you, if he were privy to them. To make him understand, you must divulge, but revealing the truth also means bearing your humiliation.

Would he treat you differently? Would he hold you in less regard if he knew the secrets you’ve kept to maintain a respectable appearance? Would he discard you, thinking you’d been sullied before marr- no. Despite doubts and impending anxiety, you know Aemond’s character. He is not vile. He is not brutal nor merciless. He will understand. As soon as you can find the words to help him, he will understand.

“Y-yes but, his hands…they…” Your demons claw at consonants and vowels, greedily snatching every letter from the cavern of your mouth before it may pass your lips, and you struggle to convey what is of utter importance. Through your panicked haze, you do not notice the furious glint that obscures lilac to violet. Aemond feels a fury. Until this very moment, he had only been blistered by the flames alight within him.

Now, he burns.

“What?” The heaviness in his voice doesn’t register. Lost upon you, the same way the clenching of his fists and the pursing of his lips is, you barely notice how he fails to conceal how deeply your confession has affected him. His temper has been tempted, coaxed from the places he tried to bury it in his youth- and he welcomes darkness to light.

When he looks at you now, he recognizes your fear. It’s as clear as looking upon a reflection of his childhood. For a moment, he feels regret. He had been so blinded by his own self-importance that he could not recognize your affliction. It’s a fleeting feeling, replaced by a rage he has no intention to quell. The tips of his ears flush with his wrath. The skin around his scar splotches pink and red with an influx of internal heat, but he barely registers the discomfort. He waits, with clenched teeth and an attentiveness previously reserved, for you to confide in him- and the truth pierces straight through his armor.

“His hands wander.” The confession warrants carnage and the urge to drain blood. He fails to detect the taste of bile as his rage consumes him. “Once, when I was a girl, I-I was forced to dance with him a-and I-“

“Go to your father.” Aemond orders sternly. The assertiveness of his voice- something more forbidding than you’re used to- causes you to stiffen. Caught off guard by the change in his demeanor, you hiccup softly and begin to protest- fearful to part from the assurance of his presence- but you never get the chance to.

“A-aemond, I-“

“I will be but a moment,” He tells you, void of gentle reassurance and warmth. An iciness not meant for you sends a chill through your blood. Everything stops, suddenly, and you forget your sorrows in favor of concern. You do not recognize the man stood before you, or the glint in his eye- but it does not frighten you. He does not frighten you. If anything, you find yourself unsettled by possibilities crafted from figments of panic and distress, woven together like threads to create a visual of your worst fears. Both reluctant and eager to follow his orders, you find yourself frozen in place. Meeting his eye, you search for something calm within the chaise of lilac- something familiar- and Aemond’s nostrils flare at your hesitation. You spare him one last glance, hoping that it conveys all of the sentiments your tongue fails to- be careful, be safe, do not search for trouble, come back to me- and with an uncertain nod, your feet begin to guide you away.

He remains still with his fists clenched by his sides until he’s sure your father has noticed you. Then, he sets off.

You feel faint.

The room, and the people within it, spin dizzily, and it takes every bit of willpower you have to keep walking toward your father. He’s easy enough to spot, and you’re temporarily riddled with vexation that you weren’t able to find him sooner. He smiles when he sees you- his face rosy from indulging in the evening’s festivities- but his grin falters when he notices the look of utter terror you don.

“What troubles you, darling?” He skips a greeting altogether, “You seem…unwell.”

“I am,” You attempt to convey what you’re feeling, but the words fail you. Instead, it sounds like you’re agreeing with him, and it only heightens his worry.“I-I am-“

“Has something happened?” He tries a simpler question, urging you to divulge what’s gotten you so riled up. “Take a breath, love,” A warm hand finds your shoulder, and he crouches down to meet your line of sight- that somehow searches beyond him for a head of silver. “What has happened?”

“Aemond,” Through your panic, decency evades you, and you find yourself unable to mutter any explanation beyond calling out his name. “Prince Aemond, have you- can you see him?” Questions remain unfinished, true inquiries remain unasked- cut in half and left partial by quick breaths- you find it increasingly difficult to simplify your urgent need to discover his whereabouts. “I-I’ve lost him.” You supply, but your father struggles to make sense of the minimal detail. “We were together, you see, and we parted ways and I haven’t- I must-“

You’re visibly shaken. Your inability to form a coherent sentence, coupled with the fact that the whites of your eyes shine with a fear he’s prayed you’d never feel, fills him with dread. He sets his goblet down. Acidic spirits already savored sour in his gut. He takes a breath, and then another, his tongue swiping across the wine-stained cracks in his lips before he leans in and accuses, “Has the prince caused you such distress?”

If anyone were to overhear the accusation, he would certainly face repercussions for such foul allegations, but when your well-being is at stake, he could care less about the threat of his tongue being slit, or his head being placed atop a spike.

His love for you truly knows no bounds.

“No!” You’re quick to deny the slander against Aemond’s name, horrified at the implication that he could be the cause of such affliction. “No, he…he could never.” Your voice finds you then- in the surety of defending Aemond’s honor, no doubt- and with a breath, you try your best to explain. “I just-“

“Good evening, Lord Piper.”

An angry flush kisses Aemond’s cheeks- a startling contrast against the fairness of his skin that proves difficult to hide- but he bows his head respectfully, greeting your father, properly. Your eyes widen. You’re not sure what you were expecting, but you search for any indication of an altercation- first his brow, and the delicate skin around his scar, then his neck, and any other exposed skin, before finally landing on his knuckles. With a sickening realization, it dawns on you that you’re searching for blood. Your father watches you intently, his eyes never leaving your face until a look of relief overcomes your features. He waits a moment more, ensuring that you’re truly at ease. Then, he returns the prince’s sentiment.

“Good evening, Prince Aemond, and happy solstice to you.” He presses his lips together politely- though his smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Silence follows. Neither you, nor Aemond says anything. Instead, you gaze upon one another, and as your father looks between the two of you, he realizes that an entire conversation is taking place- and he can’t decipher any of the words. Reluctantly, your father spares you one last glance before huffing a sigh. “Well, I believe it is not my company you’ve sought this evening,” He announces before turning towards you once more. There’s a look in his eye,- a look that urges you to seek him, to confide in him when the time permits- and with a gentle nod of understanding, he bids you farewell, entrusting you in Aemond’s care. “Darling,”

As soon as your father departs, you huff a sigh of relief. “Aemond,” His name passes in a breath, and your brows furrow. “What did you say?”

“If you were meant to hear, I would not have sent you away.” He tells you. His jaw is tense, the muscles pronounced and much more prominent when he forces himself to hold his tongue behind an army of clenched teeth, and you notice the flush of his cheeks- a dark red hue that’s obvious against pale skin- and the way his chest heaves. His eye doesn’t meet yours, instead glowering somewhere behind you, and you have to resist the urge to reach out for him- to find the sharp point of his chin with the tips of your fingers and save him from his thoughts. With a heavy exhale, he sighs, “It matters not, just know that you will never have to endure his company again.”

Your gaze narrows. It can not be that easy. With no signs of a physical confrontation- save for the barely there trembling of Aemond’s clenched fists- and no visible blood spilt, you’re left to assume that such a conflict was resolved with words- which seems impossible. You suppose that his stature might’ve been enough to intimidate the lesser lord, but still, you can’t help but wonder what was spoken amongst men- and why it’s seemed to agitate him so. Somewhere, between the vagueness of his reply, the truth remains, and you have to accept that the only two people privy to such knowledge are Aemond and Leowyn. With his word that you’ve been spared, you know it to be so, and a feeling of utter relief eclipses the affliction you felt mere moments prior.

“Thank you.” Pressing your lips together, you express your gratitude with a smile. Aemond attempts to mirror the gesture politely, but the firm, morose line pales in comparison. He catches the eyes of a pair of lords who have taken a sudden interest in watching the two of you. They whisper to one another, leaning in close to share secrets about him, no doubt, and he can only imagine what vile things they must mumble- what wicked sights they must see as outsiders looking in. It must be quite a display, to watch someone as grim and menacing as he is- someone as aloof and unapproachable- speak to someone as fair and kind as you are. He wonders what judgments must pass when he is in your company? What do the outsiders believe to be true? Perhaps that you’ve taken pity on him- as he did, briefly, in his youth. Or, perhaps you’re performing an act of decorum. All his life he’s been subjected to repellent remarks and ugly accusations, but this is the first time he finds himself wondering what people must whisper about you- for choosing to stand by his side, in a room full of people. The revelation causes his tempers to flare. A fleeting rage returns tenfold and he has half a mind to confront the onlookers on your behalf, to make them rue ever speaking illy upon your name, to make them suff-

“Would you fancy a dance?” You ask, completely oblivious to his inner turmoil and the perceived judgments passed onto the pair of you. “Unless, of course, you wish to retire to your chambers, or evade our company altogether-“ There’s a hint of teasing thinly woven within the suggestion, and it’s enough to reel his attention back from the shadows of his mind. A coy, little smirk threatens to turn into a taunting smile, and Aemond finally turns to face you.

“Still haven’t found a knight or squire to teach you technique, have you?” He jests with the hint of a barely-there smile, alluding to the faithful night in the godswood in which your paths crossed.

In truth, you’ve found plenty- but you’ve chosen him. Such a vulnerable revelation feels as though you’ve permitted him to look right through you- beyond blood, bone, and marrow- straight to an arrhythmic heart, and you fear that he sees it- your feelings for what they are, and you for what you truly feel. Before him, you are defenseless. Always. Never exposed nor endangered, but at the mercy of him, entirely. There is no need for armor- nothing to gain from chainmail, steel, nor shield- because you do not need to protect yourself from him. The only weapon he wields is a blade of rejection, sharpened and polished to pierce through the entirety of your being. The notion alone threatens to dampen your lashes and you’re forced to confront a question you’ve refrained from asking aloud; is it better to tell him how you feel, or spare yourself the pain of possible rejection? You do not know the answer.

Aemond, who notices that you appear crestfallen rather than jovial, as he intended, sucks in a sharp breath before agreeing, “Very well,”

He extends his hand to you- long, inviting, pale fingers beaconing you to join him- and you swallow down the last inklings of doubt, before reluctantly taking his hand. Beyond the crowds, near the outskirts of partnered pairs and intoxicated onlookers, there is a clearing. An abandoned corner- so secluded, yet so exposed- has never appeared more enchanting, and you allow Aemond to guide you toward the private opening. The smell of booze is overwhelming, rivaled only by the unmistakable odors of sweat and urine. It’s pungent, but a welcome reminder that cups are filled to their brims, and the surrounding folk are too busy drowning in their own pleasures to pay you any mind.

You are a stranger amongst the shadows, and Aemond steers you.

Once an appropriate distance from the rest of the crowd- a separation far enough to grant privacy, whilst remaining accessible enough to heed to societal standards- Aemond turns to face you. Though traces of agitation, spite, and irritation still linger across his features, there’s a softness that wasn’t there before. As if you’ve been offered a glimpse of a knight free from the protection of his armor- bare from the defenses of his shield- you meet the ambiguous intensity of his eye. A round of applause is muffled by the fervor of his stare, and you can’t help but hold his gaze.

In the reflection of his iris, you see yourself, and you can’t help but wonder if he notices himself in yours?

He takes a step forward, approaching you slowly and positioning his stance. You follow suit, albeit less confident and sure than he is. For as far removed from judgment as you are, your stomach still twists unpleasantly. Though, all churning seems to seize when you feel Aemond’s hand reach out for yours. For a moment, you’re stunned. Even with the knowledge that you’d have to hold him to turn with him, you weren’t prepared for such an intimate affair. So lost within your thoughts are you that at the first sound of strings threaten your feet to move on their own accord.

“Not yet,” He whispers, so softly that you still. Warmth seeps from your palms, and you wonder if he can feel the influx of heat where your hands are joined. If he notices, he makes no mention of it. Instead, he takes the smallest step forward and readjusts your hands for a more comfortable hold. Where you’ve let your palms hover a few centimeters apart, he presses them flush together. Your breath hitches as your lifelines meet and his slender fingers wrap around the back of your hand. For as callused and rough as his hands are- from years of sword training and dragon-riding- he holds you with a gentleness that betrays his ruggedness, and something swirls in the pit of your belly. Hot, aching, urgent. The need to be closer to him is overwhelming- and impossible, considering you’re already so close to him, but it’s not enough. You long for more.

You desire more.

How can you yearn for something you’ve never experienced? How can you want more than you already have? Your legs nearly give out from under you when you realize, and when a silent gasp escapes your lips, Aemond is there to hold you steady. He hasn’t forgotten about your fear of dancing- of being forced to dance with partners you can’t refuse, of enduring their wandering hands, of the scrutiny of a misstep- and he keeps you upright when your limbs threaten to betray you. When his eye meets yours, you feel lightheaded. The sound of a harpsichord echoes around the hall, and before you have a chance to catch your breath, Aemond instructs, “Now.”

At his command, you step forward, unsure of where you’re meant to be headed, but willing to follow him into the abyss as long as he is the one leading. You stumble slightly, your movements timid and doubtful despite years of solitary practice. Without meaning to, you tense and unintentionally tighten your grip around his fingers. He does not wince. He does not fidget, nor does he yelp or demand that you unhand him. He remains unfazed- save for the erratic thudding against his ribcage that is hidden by bone and flesh and concealed by the naked eye. Looking down the long slant of his nose, he watches you fret over each step. Your stare never meets his. Instead, your gaze remains fixed on the ground, watching your feet to ensure that you don’t stumble over them. Aemond uses the distraction as an excuse to watch you. It’s difficult to believe that though you still turn like a frightful child, you’ve grown into something beyond. Brazenly, he stares- at the few freckles that kiss the fullest point of your cheeks, to the slope of your nose and the bow of your lips.

Something ignites within him. He flushes, not with fury or malice, but with a comforting warmth- an ember of unknown origin alight amongst the ashes of stone-cold nothingness- that feels simultaneously foreign and familiar.

It is a feeling that tempts him- a feeling he wishes to never part from; but there is no place for light within darkness. A glimmer is no match for a void. Not enough for it to fester, anyway. Eclipsed by shadows, a single star can not shine, just as a glimpse of tenderness can not absolve a heart and mind plagued by vengeance.

“I was not aware you knew how to dance, my prince,” A light laugh bubbles past your lips when you feel his eye upon you. It’s a feeling so familiar that it’s become unmistakable. In an attempt to alleviate the palpable tension in the air, you jest.

“And why is that?” Prompted by the challenge, you turn to look up at him.

“I’ve never seen you partake in such festivities.”

It is fact. Aemond does not indulge. He has no appetite for celebrations. Hence, he refrains from satiating an otherwise illusory desire to mingle and mix. Where his brother is gluttonous, he is abstemious- so moderate in his rapture that he could not describe pleasure or delight if there was a rope knotted around his neck. Perhaps, his idea of indulgence varies so drastically from the norm that it takes on a different meaning, completely. He seeks satisfaction elsewhere. Cups do not gratify him. Skin does not tempt him. Company does not fulfill him. Though, your company is often welcome, he rarely seeks it, but when he does, he’s rewarded with a sense of ease- a calmness that quells the most fervent of his anxieties, even if only for a few moments- something blissful and content.

His own movements stagger at the realization.

“Forgive me, I-“ You’re quick to apologize, assuming that you’re the one that’s made a misstep and scuffed the leather of his boot with the bottom of your slipper. Your eyes widen with remorse and you loosen your hold on his hand, expecting his fingers to release yours as well, but he tightens his grip, holding you closer as you nearly come to a complete halt.

“Allow me to guide you,” He offers lowly, and with a timid nod, you agree. Hesitantly, he sneaks a glance around the hall to make sure that no one is watching the pair of you, and once he’s certain that you’ve not caught the eyes of any onlookers, he huffs a breath. “Lift your skirts,” The whispered command rids you of breath, and your lips part in a stunned gasp. You’re left breathless, mouth agape and speechless, as a fury of emotions glaze over your eyes. Hurt. Betrayal. Intrigue. Horror. Shock. He watches them devour you.

“I beg your pardon?” Something akin to anger lingers in your tone, and he realizes he’s never seen you seethe before. You’re not so naive to believe that men hold feelings of love and adoration above feelings of temptation and desire. Men like Leowyn Corbray indulge without repentance, and they do not ask for forgiveness. You’re no stranger to the cruelty of men and their advances, but you never thought Aemond capable of such vulgarity. Perhaps, you’re credulous. Blinded by your devotion to him, perhaps you’ve overlooked the traits you’ve grown to despise within other men. How is it that he was so enraged to learn about Leowyn’s advances, but holds no reserve when proposing his own straightforward sin? How could he hold you with such a delicacy whilst demanding such a carnal desire? Who is the man that stands before you? Do you even truly know? Is he a stranger, or is he-

“Just…” The pointed tip of his boot aligns with the tip of your slipper, and you can feel him cautiously nudge your foot with his. When he and Helaena were children, they danced in a similar manner- in which his sister would stand atop his feet and he would guide them both. He held no intention of offending, insulting, or upsetting you. He only wished to guide you. “Allow me to guide you,” Aemond suggests, and suddenly, you understand. You flush with embarrassment, heat burning your cheeks with guilt, as you carefully accept his invitation and allow him to take a few steps. “Better?”

“Much.” You press your lips into an apologetic smile as Aemond continues to guide the both of you through the dance. It’s such a strange sensation. It’s weightless and carefree and blithe- almost what you imagine flying must feel like.

It dawns on you then, as his eye meets yours, a silent vow is made- under his guidance, under his protection, you would never be led astray.

a/n: finally finished an update after being in and out of the hospital for a week! woo! hope you all enjoy!

series taglist: @just-emmaaaa @seasidh @randomdragonfires @misspendragonsworld @bellaisasleep @helaenaluvr @travelingmypassion @youtoldalie @fangirlninja67 @aemondsversion

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#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen x you #hotd #hotd imagine #hotd smut #house of the dragon #house of the dragon imagine #house of the dragon smut #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon fanfiction #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell imagine #ewan mitchell x reader #delicate edges

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inbarfink · 2 years

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I’ve seen some interpretations of the Rocky Horror Picture Show that compare Frank to the Christian Devil and/or the Serpent of Eden. And… it’s not like that doesn’t make sense. Frank is a tempter who stands against the restraint of the explicitly Christian morality of the mainstream culture our protagonists come from. The Criminologist even calls his temptation of Brad and Janet a “forbidden fruit”. But… I just think that’s not the only angle one can take when looking at Frank. Frank is many things both as an in-universe person and a narrative character. But we are first and foremost introduced to him, before we even get a chance to see him, as a Frankenstein Pastiche.

Is it any wonder that he does such a good job of playing God?

Like any good Postmodern Prometheus, Frank creates new life, but this goes beyond just Rocky. It’s Brad and Janet who are kind of the Adam and Eve in this comparison, and while Frank didn’t literally create them with mad science - he did re-make them in his own image.

(And after first turning them to stone - a form of earth - and then back to flesh)

Also, if we're looking at the Frankenstein's Place as a sort of twisted Garden of Eden - a place where Brad and Janet lose their innocence, gain greater knowledge and understanding of themselves, commit a transgression by giving into temptation, and then get cast down to Earth unsure of what to do with what they have learned - then Frank as the Master of the castle, who first welcome Brad and Janet but eventually then targets them with furious punishment, fits much better playing the role of God than a random snake or even the Devil himself.

Yes, it's a weird-reverse-sort-of-God whose creed is exactly the opposite of the Conservative Christian God in whose church Ralph and Betty got married - but this is already a weird-reverse-sort-of-Eden as well. Adam and Eve started off so 'innocent' in that they felt no shame about their nude bodies, and when they lost said innocence is also when they started feeling the need to cover up. Brad and Janet’s 'innocent' state has them dressed very modestly, and their 'corruption' is marked by them... well, they're never fully naked, but certainly gradually get more confortable walking around in their underwears or lingerie.

And following the narrative thread of this weird-reverse-Garden-of-Eden, the real Forbidden Fruit isn’t actually Frank’s dick, it’s Rocky. The Garden of Eden was this wonderland of earthly delights where Adam and Eve could pertake of any fruit they desired.... except for the Tree of Wisdom. That was the one pleasure they were forbidden from. And the Frankenstein’s Place is similarly a paradise of desires - just less of a fruitbowl and more of the Sex, Drugs and Rock n’ Roll variety - but the one thing you can’t do, the one person you’re not allowed to have sex with... is Rocky.

And I think the interesting question here is ‘why is Rocky the one thing that’s off-limits in Frank’s Fantastic FuckCastle?’. Because, well, if we look at it from an Eden Perspective, here’s what the Serpent had to say about the subject of the Fruit of Knowledge:

Eating the Forbidden Fruit isn’t just about succumbing to mortal pleasures about godly morality or whatever, it’s about becoming kinda like God. And maybe that’s the real reason why Frank’s so upset about the idea that Rocky has slept with someone else. It’s less actual romantic jealousy and more... galling at the idea that someone else can tempt his Significant Other to cheat on him. That’s his thing!

And like, espacially since Janet has that line in “Touch-A-Touch-A-Touch-A-Touch Me”

Which I always read as a kind of admission that she’s like... exploiting Rocky’s desire for an emotional connection for own sexual pleasures. She is maybe falling into this very Frank-Brand of hedonistic manipulativeness. Her newfound knowledge of her sexuality is making her more like ‘God’ in a way, and now this God is pissed about that idea.

And this also does places a ‘Serpent’ figure in our Garden of Eden and that’s Riff-Raff. It’s through his manipulation of events that Janet get offered that Forbidden Himbo in the first place. He probably wasn’t really counting on it directly, more like just causing random chaos in the hopes of distracting Frank long enough to prepre for the coup. But still, without Riff-Raff and Magenta’s tormenting of Rocky, he wouldn’t have fallen in Janet’s lap like this.

And I think, this is taking very directly from the Christian interpetation of the Garden of Eden myth, where the Serpent is retconned as Satan. Riff-Raff is, after all, a resentful servant planning to usurp his master out of jealousy and uses the humans as pawns in his scheme to do that. If Frank is playing God, than Riff-Raff is clearly playing Devil here!

And, like the pitchfork is OBVIOUSLY a reference to the American Gothic motif but... there’s no reason why you couldn’t also connect it to a Satanic motif? Especially as, with Frank being a Reverse-God who preaches for sin and pleasure, Riff-Raff is a Devil of... well, I dunno if he necessarily believes in all of that sexual conservatism stuff - but he’s certainly willing to use it as an excuse for his personal beef with Frank! Either way the point remains, the pitchfork ties together the concepts of traditionalism and sexual shame, as symbolized by American Gothic, with the Devil.

#rocky horror picture show #rocky horror show #rocky horror #janet weiss #riff raff #dr. frank n. furter #frank n furter #dr frank n furter

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bluebayousblog · 1 year

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RUMOR HAS IT (pt. 9)

(Drew Starkey one-shot)

This is not a full on story but if you want more l'll be happy to add on upon request

Plot: in which drew and isobel address a false rumor in the most abstract of ways

Setting: isobel & drew deal with temptation on the day of the business cocktail

Disclaimer: Isobel is an OC, 18+

TABLE OF CONTENTS:

PART EIGHT

Isobel slept horribly that night, constantly in a state of limbo between being awake and drifting off into a well needed slumber. Her mind refused to let her fully succumb to her exhaustion with thoughts of Drew filling her head.

He slept in the guest room like he said he would, and the mere knowledge of his existence on the floor below her disrupted her entire being. Before getting back to town she convinced herself that they could get through the break as if nothing had changed between them. It was easy to think that when she wasn’t in the moment—when she was hoping she could keep herself in check.

She was wrong. The damage to anything that could be just friendly with Isobel and Drew was done, it was hard to resist the urge to kiss and touch him when the feeling of it was so fresh on her brain. It was only a day ago that her body had been pinned under his hard one with him roughly molding his soft lips with hers as his hands roamed her body like he was trying to cover every inch of her.

There wasn’t one part of her that felt like she could pretend as if she didn’t want Drew or not feel the need to be around him. It wasn’t coming easily to her, and being in his presence despite their family being there only made it harder to act like he didn’t affect her in every way.

That moment in the kitchen at the end of the night proved to her if she didn’t at least try to control herself, even if every cell in her body was telling her otherwise, she wouldn’t last much longer on this break.

So she left him standing there alone in the middle kitchen.

She couldn’t even tell him goodnight because from that dark look in his eyes he looked to be about a word away from snapping. He let her walk way untouched, and she retired to her room where she got ready for bed just to lie awake.

The hairs on her arms erected at the thought of being able to roll out of her bed, and creep down the steps to him. She wanted him to tell her the thoughts that were running through his mind as he hungrily gazed at her just an hour before. In the heat of his stare she would’ve let him do anything to her, even if it was something as risky as kiss her lips or even him closing the distance between them just to simply touch her.

Still, she had to see it for what this all was. Just being in the heat of the moment together, and not realizing how different the next second be—that she could walk away and avoid crossing the line with him in her parents’ kitchen.

She lied restless in the comfort of her bed for hours thinking of what could have happened if she’d just let go, and when she finally did fall asleep she thought of him in her dreams.

By the time she was roused from her struggled sleep by the sun pouring in through the window, she assumed Drew was gone and helping with preparation for the business cocktail. She hated sleeping in past nine, but she expected no less at the hour she was able to drift off.

When she finally made her way downstairs to the kitchen the house was quiet and most likely empty, but there was breakfast sitting on the island for her. Her parents left a note beside it stating their whereabouts at the company ballroom. As she slowly ate her way through a bowl of fruit she couldn’t help but check Drew’s message thread on her phone and look for a morning message that didn’t exist.

Isobel eventually made her way to the C&S building mid day to drop off some supplies for her mother who was of course running around trying to do last minute tasks for the cocktail.

“Isobel, Thank God!” Lora exasperated, standing in place for probably the first time today so she could pull the filled tote bag out of Isobel’s hands, “The place cards are in here, thank you for bringing them, Angel.”

The breath was knocked out of her as her mother tightly wrapped her arms around her waist in gratitude, “You’re welcome, Mom.” She managed to get out.

Isobel followed her mother while she stopped at each table to place down the cards according to the seating chart she had her reading aloud to speed up the process. They’d been through majority of the tables and she still hadn’t seen Drew around anywhere. She knew it probably was for the best that he was preoccupied, but the greedy part of her just wanted to see a glimpse of him.

She watched Lora sit down the final place card, but before Isobel could ask where everyone was her mother spoke first, “What are you wearing tonight?”

“I have a few options.” She vaguely answered knowing it would drive her insane. Isobel actually adored the white dress her mother insisted she wear to last nights dinner, but when she tried it on she figured it’d be the perfect piece for the cocktail. It was simple yet such a stunning dress and hugged her body in a manner that just made her feel sexy. Choosing the black one for dinner was to save the best option for tonight, and to of course work her mother’s nerves.

“Oh, well I can’t wait to see what you come up with.” Lora forced a smile. It took all of Isobel’s restraint not to laugh at how dramatic she was being about that dress. Seeing her mother’s excitement later on when she see’s it on her body will be worth the current disappointment on her face.

“Isobel!” Drew’s mother Catherine called as she made her way across the room to the pair. She immediately pulled Isobel into her arms, her hugs were a little more breathable than her mom’s but still tight nonetheless. “You better wear that dress tonight before your poor mom has an aneurysm.” She lowly whispered in her ear.

Catherine pinched her on the side as they pulled away to which Isobel offered her a smile, not giving her planned attire away because if she told Catherine then Lora would know as soon as she left for home to get ready. Her and Drew’s mother were extremely close and you couldn’t tell one anything without the other eventually finding out. The two literally gossiped for sport.

Isobel shared a bond with Catherine she held close to heart just as she did with her own parents, and internally she was praying she wouldn’t hate her for what she was doing with her son. Hate was a strong feeling to describe Drew’s mother ever feeling towards her, but when their family had never slightly entertained the idea of them being together it was easy to go to extremes in her head.

“Honey, I have to run and pick up Charles’ suit for tonight, so could you do me a favor and make sure Drew finishes putting everything away in the back?” Catherine was still talking, but Isobel was still focused on finally hearing anyone mention the man that had her hyper-aware of his possible presence for the past hour.

“-and grab that envelope full of tickets off the desk in the back office, I’ll get them from you later.”

Isobel caught her last request before agreeing because firstly she didn’t mind, secondly her mother would actually have an aneurysm if she did otherwise, and thirdly she just really wanted to see Drew.

“I’ll see you guys later on, Love you!” She said over her shoulder as she headed towards the back hall where the storage room was.

When she rounded the corner and glanced down the entryway she didn’t hear any movement or sign of life besides the door being open.

“Drew?” She called out his name as she entered the seemingly empty room that usually stored all the event equipment for the company to utilize whenever the time arose.

A clatter of what sounded like plastic grabbed her attention, but when she looked over towards the direction of the noise there stood the youngest of the Starkey brothers, Chandler groaning as he leaned down to pick up a chair that was obviously not cooperating with what he was trying to do, “Drew left about an half hour ago-“

He eventually looked up from the stack of chairs he had leaning against the wall, and when his eyes landed on her all signs of frustration dropped from his features, “Hey, uh, Isobel what are you doing back here?” He awkwardly chuckled and moved as he shoved his hands in his pockets after he scratched the back of his head, and crossed then uncrossed his arms like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“Your mom sent me back here, need some help?” She asked with a giggle as another chair slid from the stack onto the floor. He groaned again at the loudness of the plastic furniture and nodded his head in defeat before moving aside, “I wasn’t expecting it to be you back here, your mom said Drew was the one in here.”

He rolled his eyes at her words as Isobel somehow figured out a way to balance all the remaining chairs against the wall without any problem, “Of course she did, she begs me to be here but doesn’t even have the decency to get our names right.”

Isobel just laughed at the boy as his eyes snapped back over to her and seemed to twinkle in amusement at her entertaining his attempt at humor.

“Are you disappointed?” He asked with reservation in his tone, all previous delight on his face gone and replaced with coolness.

The question made her sort of still at the vagueness of it, and the vulnerability that slightly laced his tone despite how collected he was trying to be, “What do you mean, disappointed about what?”

He pulled his right hand out of his pocket to scratch the back of his head again and his cheeks were a little red telling her he was getting nervous. Ever since he turned sixteen two years ago this is how most of their conversations went when they got past more than a few sentences. Isobel found his little crush adorable, but Chandler was honestly like a little brother to her—if anything she hung out with him more than Drew when they were fourteen and he was just barely ten.

“That it’s me here and not Drew.”

Yes.

God, that made her feel like a horrible, boy obsessed excuse for a human, but it was just circumstance. Drew was heavy on her mind, and being told the man she could not stop thinking about was just a room away and that not being the case was grounds for disappointment.

Chandler didn’t need to know that, so she lied, “I’m always happy to see you, Chandler.”

She supplied a soft smile as he just looked at her, his eyes dropped to her mouth before shaking his his head in what seemed to be disbelief and chuckling, “Okay.”

“What?” Isobel questioned, anxiety curling into her gut at his unexpected reaction to her answer. Was the smile too much?

Chandler gestured for her to follow him after he crossed something off a list he had pulled up on a company tablet. She abided and silently trailed behind his tall stature, all the men in his family towered over her including him even if he was four years younger.

“I know what’s going on, but since you went out of your way to try to get me to believe that horrible excuse for a lie I won’t verbalize it.” He kept his attention ahead until he finished speaking then looked at her with an amused smiled before shaking his head in the same manner as before.

For some reason that bothered her more than his implication, that no one in their respective families not even Chandler could fathom a relationship between Isobel and Drew. Though, it made her feel a fraction better that his crush on her made him biased by default.

She stopped walking and he immediately sensed it as he halted and turned to face her. She studied his face while they just stood in silence the longer she didn’t speak the more he seemed to look amused by her. She continued to look at him waiting for that feeling of horror or anxiety to take over, but it didn’t come.

“I don’t what you’re talking about.” Isobel pathetically supplied, moving past him to make her way to the back office. She figured if she was going to lie to him again she she should do it with her back facing him.

Chandler followed in suit behind her, standing in the doorway of the office that was designated for all event obligations while Isobel rounded the desk to grab the envelope sitting directly in the center of the flat, wooden surface, “That is exactly what Drew said.”

Her eyes snapped up from the envelope to his that annoyingly held a knowing glint in them. Drew hadn’t said anything about Chandler saying something to him last night, but between the multiple almost broken dishes and the all consuming tension between them he didn’t have the opportunity.

She couldn’t help but revisit every interaction she shared with Drew last night. Sure, they’d shared little glances, but could something as little as holding eye contact be enough for his little brother to catch on? And if so who else was watching?

The anxiety she was waiting for out in the hall was now blanketing over her entire body.

“We should go it’s getting close to the evening time.” She said, letting out an indifferent huff of air.

She slid the envelop in her purse for safekeeping and locked the door to the office behind her just in case any guests wandered back there.

“How are you going to get home?” Chandler asked Isobel when they reached the entry way.

“Drew isn’t coming to get me if that’s what you’re getting at.” She gave him a playful glare, she was never able to just be mean to him even when he annoyed her beyond lengths.

No one being home when she woke up meant she had to taxi over to C&S, so she just planned to wait around until her mother was done perfecting every detail until she was ready to leave which wasn’t ideal but her only option.

“That’s not what I meant, Isobel.” His smile was wide at her defensive reaction. She seemed to be constantly making a fool of herself in front of Drew these past few weeks, and now she was doing the same around his brother. “Would you like a ride home?”

“Only If you don’t mind and promise to keep today to yourself?”

“Anything for Isobel.” Chandler wrapped an around her shoulder and guided her to the entrance of the building before adding, “But I have to say this just proves the point that nice guys finish last.”

•

Once Isobel got home she immediately cleaned and shaved her entire body. Her thoughts prolonged the time she spent under the scorching water with the amount of times she dissociated while lathering her skin with her vanilla wash and as she watched her pink razor glide up legs.

Part of her still wanted to see Drew, to talk to him about Chandler—or just to steal a kiss from his lips. Then there was the sensible side of her that wanted to keep the distance so things couldn’t get anymore complicated. It had been a day and her plan to not share their relationship with their family was spreading her thin.

Doing her best to keep a positive mindset about all of this she put all her energy into her post bathroom rituals. Slipping on her satin robe and lathering her skin with her favorite moisturizer. Maybe tonight called for at least one glass of champagne to calm her nerves.

The Cooper’s estate looked the same in the evening as it did in the early hours of the morning when Drew left without being able to see or bid a goodbye to Isobel. Leaving her without doing so made him feel scattered, like there still something he needed to do.

Drew was the first of his family to be dressed for the business cocktail. Now his mother was sending him over to get something from Isobel since she had to go straight to the event from their home. He’d made sure to text Isobel that he was on the way over, but he’d yet to receive a response.

He punched in the code to the front door and let himself into the main foyer before shutting the door behind him. An intruder would think that the place was empty due to the quietness, but as he got closer to the stairs he could hear a familiar hum of a melody flowing down to his welcoming ears. He’d always been drawn to to sound the of her voice whether she was mindlessly singing a song or simply speaking to him.

The trek up the staircase was made short from him skipping every other step, after not having seen her all day his patience was wearing thin. Her door was cracked when he approached it making way for the sweet smell of vanilla to grace his nose. He would never be able to smell that note in a candle or perfume ever again because he would be taken back to a time where he was becoming infatuated with all that she was—a time where it sort of hit him all at once.

“Isobel.”

She knew Drew probably knocked before the door let out a whine as the hinges were turned, but all she heard was the sound of his deep voice. He said her name just as he always did, always sounding so gentle yet commanding. She didn’t turn to face him though, not in the current state she was in with her dress resting on the expanse of her waist only covering her bottom half.

Her only reaction was placing an arm across her breast before she froze in place keeping her back facing him.

“Shit, I can come back.” He seemed to struggle to say as he cleared his throat.

She got the urge to twist around towards him, but stopped herself, remembering she was half naked and eagerly replied, “No! Just come in and, um, shut the door.” She stumbled over her words.

The decision was instinctive, she didn’t think it over before she said it. Isobel wanted to see him, to be alone with him, to just be with him. A moment after a day apart where it was just Isobel and Drew no matter what it entailed.

Drew didn’t argue with the woman as he pushed the door closed behind him, but his eyes stayed on her exposed back. She could tell him to do anything and he probably would do it without hesitancy. Backs weren’t usually his thing, but right now with her muscles pulled tight while she was presumably shielding her breast had his blood rushing.

“You can come closer, Drew, I need help with my dress anyway.” Fuck. He was going to dissipate into thousands of tiny pieces of nothing if he got anywhere near Isobel, but he still walked over to her and immediately was suffocated by her scent. She smelled like a woman, she was his favorite smell, and no other woman would ever be able replicate how it made him feel.

It was times where he was this close to her admiring her smooth skin, the curve of her hips and back that led to her inviting neck that he treasured her the most. It was the intimate moments like this, the things Isobel wanted to keep just between them that he was able to appreciate her in ways no one else could, “Can I touch you, Isobel?”

Isobel hummed in permission because if she spoke she’s not sure what she would have decided. She knew they were pushing boundaries, but she wanted this.

His arms slid around her waist with a sort of familiarity that made her backside melt into his body as he pulled her into his embrace. The hard feeling of his chest and torso being pressed against her made her body heat in response—it made her brain turn to gush.

Then she felt him lean down to her height so he could tuck his chin into the side of her neck and all logic slipped from her mind.

“I missed you today, Izzy.” He mumbled into her ear.

His deep voice had goosebumps scattering down her arms, she knew he could see it, watching her body react to him. They both looked as his hands flattened on her stomach, rubbing the soft skin before he pushed down against it with his palm ripping a gasp from her throat, “Don’t ignore me, Is.”

“You weren’t, uh-“ she trailed off when she felt him press his groin into her backside. She thickly swallowed as a surge of desire fluttered in her gut. He lowered his right hand to her thigh pinching it, urging her to keep going like his dick wasn’t nestled against her ass. “-I didn’t see you at C&S earlier when I stopped by.”

Drew stayed silent behind her, and not being able to see him in this position made her aware of everything else. The way his rough hands felt grazing her belly, the shallowness of his breaths as his chest rose and fell against her. And now how his fingers tips felt tapping teasingly along the length of her arm that she was using to cover her chest. Her nipples pebbled against it causing her breasts to ache as she unconsciously tightened her hold.

“You were looking for me?” He mumbled with his mouth still brushing her left ear. She let her eyes flutter close at the sound of his voice, at the way the teasing tone could pass for a sensual whisper, “Did you miss me too?”

As Isobel hesitated to answer him he applied more pressure to her abdomen, coincidentally pushing her ass against the swell of his hardening dick. She skipped a breathe while he cleared his throat behind her.

The urge to satisfy his curiosity and caress his ego so he knew he wasn’t the only one missing the other came too easily to her. But she couldn’t always give him exactly what he wanted.

“I was fine actually.”

She was killing him, slowly, softly, torturously, in a way that just made him want her more. With her words still up in the air, it was then he realized how badly he wanted to hear her say that she missed him. It wouldn’t just be a careless reply to his confession, but a sweet endearment he longed to hear from her lips, “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” Was all she gave him back, but she dragged it out in way that made him bite his lip as the sound hit him right in his lower stomach. He was distracted, his mind so occupied with the feel of her body in his arms he’d forgotten exactly who he was dealing with.

Before he knew it she was using her free hand as leverage, slightly leaning forward as she held onto to his forearm so she could grind her round ass against his dick. She’d been able to wind her hips in a single torturous circular motion before he restricted her movements, gripping her hips with both of his hands and loudly kissed his teeth, “Fuck, stop.”

“Why?” He could hear the pout in her voice as he eyed the way the fabric of her dress had gathered slightly above her ass so her panty covered heat was pressed to his suit pants.

“You said you didn’t want this.” As much he liked having her like this, he couldn’t let this go any further without considering the things she’d enforced in his truck just over a day ago. That’s all it took, a day to go against everything they agreed on. The position he had her in was far from platonic, but they could still stop before things got out of control.

“I know.” Her tone was detached and it made him loosen his hold on her a bit, but she stayed where she was as she seemed to think over her next words, “You just make me want to be bad, Drew.”

His name left her mouth like a prayer, like she was calling out to him in mercy. She let the arm holding her breasts drop and his eyes averted elsewhere not wanting to make her uncomfortable thinking she was ready to finish getting dressed. Until her hands covered his bigger ones, threading her fingers between his and guided them upward. He couldn’t help but press himself further into her when the feeling of her breasts filled his palms, squeezing them when he was suddenly hit with another pang of pleasure.

Isobel didn’t recognize her own voice, or believe the things she was saying. But that’s how everything felt with Drew—uncharted and unexpected. She loved the person she became when was baring herself to him. Sure most of their relationship was physical but he’d somehow managed to get her to strip some of her mental restraints, even if it was just a little.

“Bend over.” The quietness in the room and the knowledge that the house was empty besides them two made the order slice through the room, echoing in her ears in repetitive waves.

Isobel slowly obeyed sliding her hands across the bed as his dropped from her breasts, pushing forward until her sensitive nipples grazed the coolness of her comforter. She waited for about a minute or two, just laying there looking ahead with her ass up and thighs against the mattress.

Then blindly she felt him press his covered dick in between the cheeks of her ass until he was nestled between them, but it was when she felt him fold the skirt of her dress up so she was fully exposed to him that she began to pant from her heart racing.

The sound of a growl disrupted the silence and amplified when she wiggled her hips teasingly. He slid his hands up her ass, giving it a soft pinch before continuing on to her lower back, but when she heard the sound of her zipper being pulled up she whined in disappointment, “Drew.”

“What baby?” He replied and Isobel’s mouth dropped open at the endearment before clamping it back shut, that word alone may be her undoing.

The endearment sounded natural on his lips as if he’d been calling her that for as long as she could remember, and her eardrum’s purred in need for him to say it over and over again.

Baby.

Drew slipped his hand under her stomach pulling her up so he could get more of the dress zipped. He heard her audibly sigh when she pulled the front of her dress up, covering herself before turning to face him with the cutest pout on her lips. They could’ve gone so much further but all he wanted from her as he looked down at her was a kiss.

“I don’t want to stop.” Isobel mumbled while wrapping her arms around him and placing her chin on his chest, “You always do this to me.”

Drew chuckled at her words with his eyes still trained on her mouth. Thinking back he had been the one to pump the breaks every time things got intense between them, but he was doing it for both of their sakes.

And while being home around family and seeing the way everyone looked at her with such adoration made him realize just what he had. He had no desire to rush things with her, she didn’t deserve that. Trying to fit in a quick hookup before someone got to the house wasn’t how he pictured being physical in any way with her.

Drew wanted to take his time with Isobel.

“Can I kiss you as an apology?” He smirked and tightened his arms around her as she tried to push away from him with a glare. “No you lost your chance.” She affirmed but the smile slipping onto her lips contradicted her denial.

It was now Drew that was poking out his bottom lip in a pout. It took everything for her not a pounce on him when he asked for a kiss, but now with the exaggerated look of sadness it was more than enough excuse to go back on her word.

Isobel leaned up on her toes and closed the distance between them as she pressed her lips to his. His groan and her moan complemented the other in sweet symmetry. She started to pull away but he moved into her pushing her back with the force of his mouth until she dipped backwards in his arms.

“If you two love birds are done, mom’s waiting for you outside in the car, Drew.” A voice that no doubt belonged to Chandler came from other side of the door.

Both of their eyes snapped open as Drew reached around her body and instinctively zipped the rest of her dress up. Isobel stumbled back, pulling herself out of his hold and straightened out the fabric. She caught his gaze again only to see her lipgloss smeared over his lips, and reached up to harshly wipe it off with her thumb before pushing him towards the door.

“We were just talking, Chandler, mind your business.” Drew countered as he opened the door to reveal his nosey little brother.

Chandler took a step forward and leaned against the door frame with his arms cross against his chest. Clad in a suit he looked like was going to be onboarding at C&S just like his older brother in just a few months, “Who knew that both of you were such horrible liars, but maybe seeing through bullshit just comes with age.”

“Let’s just go, Isobel has to finish getting ready.” Drew ignore him, ushering him out of the doorway by his shoulder into the hall, but Chandler managed to twist out of his grasp before facing Isobel again. “Can I get the envelope, Iz?” He requested with an innocent smile.

Drew’s hand tightened into a fist at the sound of his own brother using that nickname for her. It had never been a problem before, but now his endearments for her meant so much more to him—she meant so much more to him.

He watched in silence while she retrieved and handed over the envelope that he’d almost forgotten about to Chandler who still had that annoying grin on his face.

“Oh and Isobel your dress is wrinkled.”

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PART TEN

139 notes · View notes

adnauseum11 · 8 months

Text

Emotions so Comfortably Mixed

Logan x Reader

A side piece to my fic Northern Attitude, written from reader POV. I enjoyed mixing up the POV from the main work and may do another one. No previous knowledge of the fic or series necessary. Reader female coded but nothing explicit.

advice on how to tag better (properly?) welcome

1.5K words (no smut here but there is in the main fic if ya wanna check it out)

When Logan looks at you like this, with heated intensity behind his sharp blue eyes, you can feel the flush creeping over your cheeks.

He can be hard to read, but every day you feel like you get more adept at it. Right now, you would gladly bet on him being turned on and debating with himself about giving in to temptation. Namely, you and your mouth. He likes it when you pick at him, something your ex hated. You can’t help it, spent most of your life immersed in hockey culture. Chirping at people comes second hand, and nicknames are innate to how you operate with people you care about. Logan inherently seems to grasp these things, understands it comes from affection. You understand now too, having met the people who know him best, that nicknames aren’t something Logan does often. He’s had the same code name for decades, and only tolerates variations on it from certain people. He answers to the annoying one you gave him now without the grumbling that used to accompany it. The terms of the deal unspoken but understood amongst yourselves: reveal to no one the meaning and he will tolerate your continued use of it. You barely realize you’ve said it aloud until his attention fully swings your way.

“mm?”

His big calloused palm comes up to cup the back of your neck, the warmth bleeding into your body. He always seems to have a hand on you when he’s in your orbit. You can’t say that you mind, his energy calm and steady when so often lately you feel unmoored and uncertain. He squeezes your delicate muscles gently to prompt you, and you find yourself getting caught in his gaze again.

Pale blue irises are tracing the contours of your face, looking for something hidden in the slope of your nose or slant of your lips. You don’t know why you called for him, honestly. Probably just drawn by the latent heat in his gaze before your brain could get into gear. You know you’ve been asking a lot of his frayed patience today, and a warm affection for the gruff man surges through you. Now that he’s here...

“Will you kiss me before we leave?”

“Thought I told ya we can’t stay overnight?”

He answers with his own question, reeling you in with that big palm on your neck. The smirk that raises the corner of your mouth meets a matching one on his lips as he kisses you gently. He’s teasing you, but the truth is you both get greedy and engrossed in each other more regularly than is probably appropriate for people in your age bracket. Or his. You can’t say you really give a shit, and normally you’d be confident Logan feels the same but he’s wearing a few different hats on this courtesy run. The consideration being partially for you and partially for Tony Stark, owner of your transportation and invoker of the hard deadline you are now up against.

“Yeah, you did. Just trying to make some nicer memories.”

The admission comes out before you can think it through, a touch more solemn than you had intended. It gets his attention immediately.

When he kisses you this time, your brain whites out, unable to focus on anything beyond the sensations he’s creating. His fingers cup the back of your head, threading into your hair and making goosebumps sweep down your neck. His lips are firm and demanding, taking charge of the moment and catching you off-kilter with his sudden intensity. His tongue sweeps over yours, the heat and familiar taste of him addicting. A whimper slips out before you can get control, his sensory onslaught creating a flare of desire in the pit of your belly that demands some form of release. No thoughts come but your body arches itself into his, melting against the solid tension of his wide chest. Gripping the thick muscle of his neck only urges him on, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip as you break away to suck in an unsteady breath.

He's breathing heavily against your neck, nosing along your jaw bone. Shivers run up your spine, the draw of his breath over your skin making goosebumps rise. You can feel your heart thumping alongside his even through all the layers of clothing, the beat mirrored in the low throb between your legs. You can’t help saying his nickname again, this time with a breathy quality that you know from experience makes him hard. The answering growl is nearly instantaneous, and you feel the edges of his teeth as he lightly bites the juncture of your neck. His big body crowds against you, and you let him push a thigh in between yours with a pleased hum.

“Behave yerself ya menace. Can’t even give an inch without ya taking a mile.”

He grumbles but you can hear the thread of amusement buried in his grump.

“You’re only going to give me an inch?”

The words are out of your mouth before your brain can stop them and Logan huffs a laugh against your shoulder, his palm sliding down your spine to land on your mid-back. You tilt your head, lips brushing over the sensitive shell of his ear before he can answer.

“So, just the tip then babe?”

You purr into his ear, sliding your palm over the back of his neck to tangle your fingers in his hair. He swats your ass lightly, the flare of pain dulling immediately into a pleasurable burn. Before you can put your mouth on his skin, he’s leaning back to get a good look at your flushed face and cupping your chin in the hollow between his thumb and fingers. When your eyes meet, he murmurs something in another language before kissing you several times in quick succession.

“Don’t tempt me. Tony has cameras all over the bird, yer gonna hav’ta wait a few hours before we can play that game darlin’.”

He switches back to English and part of you wonders if he even realizes he was just speaking another language. The corners of his eyes are crinkled in good humour and his eyes trace your lips before returning to your own.

“mm, I’ll do my best, no promises.”

You shoot back with a smirk, tugging on his hair to pull him closer again. His face softens and he obliges, the heat of his lips descending on yours with delicious precision. You suck on his tongue when it swipes between your lips and the groan it elicits from him is filthy. The flare of desire in your belly leaps at his response, sending a thrill of anticipation spiralling through you. You feel him corral you into the wall of your cabin, pressing into your welcoming body. His thigh snugs up against the apex of your thighs, pinning you between him and the wall.

“Think I’m gonna need a promise ya menace.”

His voice is low and grinding and you mindlessly rock against his thigh in response to the shivers it sends down your spine. You can’t help staring as his pupils dilate, inches from your face. He sucks a breath in through his teeth but doesn’t move, slowly catching your chin in his grip again. He’s moving like he’s underwater – slow, with telegraphed movements.

“I dunno if those cameras are live, and I’ll destroy that jet before I let anyone film us. Behave for the next few hours and I’ll make it worth yer while, darlin’.”

He rumbles as he moves, his hands dropping to explore your body. The gentle squeezes and strokes paired with his deep velvet voice make your brain go fuzzy, and you’re suddenly grateful to be caged into his muscular body. His presence is suddenly disorienting, like a magnet beside a compass. You grip his thick bicep as he presses kisses over your jawline, shifting back to assess your reaction to his proposal. You look at him from under your lashes, and the bolt of desire that slams through you when your eyes meet again makes you bite your bottom lip. His Adams apple bobs as he swallows hard but he maintains eye contact, his hands squeezing your hips before sliding upwards again.

“mm fine, you drive a hard bargain, Pidge. I promise to behave myself on the trip back. I should remind you though -.”

You wiggle on his thigh, your own trapped thigh brushing against his bulge as you squeeze his bicep. His hissed curse turns the corners of your lips up in a smirk again.

“Christ. Remind me o’ what, darlin’?”

He’s humouring your babbling, as he does when you get turned on and your brain detaches from the rest of your body. Your addiction to his voice means you’ll keep talking nonsense if it means he’ll respond. So he isn’t expecting you to be coherent then, when you reply.

“You already owe me a favour, now it’s two. Better be good, whatever you’re planning.”

You taunt him, dropping your hand to his chest and letting it slide down his hard abs. The shock on his face elicits a quiet laugh in response from you, and then he’s gripping your wrist before you can cop a proper feel.

“Don’t worry darlin’, we’ll make some memories ya won’t forget. Just gimmie a few hours.”

#wolverine #logan howlett #james logan howlett #logan x reader #marvel fic

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spacemilkies · 1 year

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fractured confections, bittersweet absence (2/?)

pairing: Earth—42!Miles Morales x Spider!Reader wc: 4k+ rating: teen a/n: i plan to make a few changes to part one just to help the flow and clear up some points. but i'm glad everyone has been enjoying it thus far! synopsis: Miguel relies on you to discover a potential anomaly and somehow you become it Or the one where world 42 never had a Spider-Man but then they do

previous part

Driven by curiosity, you find yourself sitting before the glowing screen of your computer, fingers dancing across the keyboard as you run the algorithm in a desperate attempt to locate him once more. The soft hum of the machine fills the room, an orchestral accompaniment to your quest. Yet, despite your efforts, the results remain elusive, leaving you with nothing but a void of anonymity.

Perhaps you are but a novice in the realm of digital sleuthing, struggling to navigate the labyrinthine pathways of cyberspace. LYLA, your ever-present companion and guide, proves to be of little assistance in this particular endeavor. Frustration laces your thoughts as you realize that the nameless void prevents you from unraveling the mystery that haunts your thoughts.

Returning from your heroic escapades, the weight of your recent exploits still fresh upon your shoulders, you find solace in the fact that Miguel was absent during your return. His absence spared you from the confrontation that lingered in the shadows, a confrontation that LYLA had deftly avoided by transporting you through the portal. LYLA, though not entirely willing, had reluctantly complied, mindful of the repercussions that loomed over her artificial consciousness as your accomplice.

In a brief moment of respite, you recall the flurry of questions that bombarded you after your impromptu rescue, LYLA’s relentless assault threatening to unravel the delicate threads of your deed. Faced with LYLA's impatience and the implicit threat of Miguel's simmering anger, you were propelled through the portal, leaving behind the tumultuous inquiries.

Yet, as the truth of the matter settles upon your thoughts, you find a glimmer of relief. Miguel remains blissfully unaware of the short visit.

The room around you seems to hold its breath, the air heavy with unspoken revelations. The flickering glow of the screen casts an ethereal light upon your face, illuminating the myriad thoughts that swirl within your mind. The pulsing rhythm of the computer's hum intertwines with the rhythm of your heartbeat, the synchrony of technology and humanity creating a symphony of anticipation.

The visual feeds of Brooklyn flicker into the spaces of your screen. The search may have yielded no answers, but the hunger for knowledge still burns within you. In the depths of your soul, a yearning to unravel the enigma that shrouds Earth-42, a flickering flame that refuses to be extinguished.

In the midst of chaos, where the clamor of the city merges with the cacophony of everyday life. A masked rescue, while a remarkable feat, remains concealed within the vast sea of unremarkable events. You purposefully keep your abilities subdued, a subtle dance of power restrained. After all, Earth 42, with its multifarious wonders and enigmatic mysteries, remains an disconcerting realm in Miguel's consciousness. For now it is your little secret, a fragment of existence hidden from prying eyes.

But secrets, like Pandora's box, possess a relentless allure that tugs at your resolve. The forbidden knowledge within beckons you, a siren song that echoes in the recesses of your mind. Locked away, safely out of reach, it should have remained untouched—a relic of the past, a fleeting memory of curiosity. Yet, here you stand, time and again, on the precipice of temptation, ready to open the box that holds the answers you seek.

Each time you surrender to the pull, the lid creaks open, revealing glimpses of the cityscape that sprawls before you. It begins with vagueness, fleeting glances that yearn to see beyond the surface. The absence of names and DNA samples renders your search a daunting task, a labyrinthine puzzle without a clear path to follow. The spider venom, a potent trigger for your web of connections, remains absent, leaving you grasping at ethereal threads.

In your quest to track down a twin-braided teen, your efforts yield little but frustration. Minutes turn into hours, slipping through your grasp like sand through an open hand. The lack of results becomes your alibi, the justification for the time spent in this fruitless pursuit. And yet, the yearning persists, an insatiable hunger that gnaws at your soul.

Amidst this stolen respite, Miguel breezes into the office, his presence like a gust of wind that stirs suspicion. With him, any sudden movement is enough to rouse his keen instincts, leaving you treading carefully, maintaining an air of routine as you mutter a greeting. He settles at his desk, a late lunch in hand, but his gaze, like a compass needle, is drawn magnetically to your screens. His voice, laced with a hint of concern, breaks the silence, pulling you back to the present.

"Is there a problem?" he inquires, his eyes scanning the displays, searching for any sign of discord or trouble. From the corner of your vision, LYLA materializes, her digital form assuming the guise of anxiety with uncanny realism. In moments like these, you curse the intricacies of her programming, for her expressions add an air of authenticity to the situation.

"No, just browsing," you reply, your words tinged with dryness, an attempt to dismiss any suspicion. But fate has conspired against you today, for Miguel, granted ample time, succumbs to the tendrils of curiosity. His query pierces the air, shattering the fragile tranquility that enveloped the room.

"Which Earth?" he asks, his attention fixated on the signature code embedded in each Earth feed. It serves as a swift reference point, a means to identify the known spider heroes traversing the multiverse. In this stage of your escapades, LYLA possesses the ability to discern the vast majority of them without direct intervention. Your fingers dance upon the keyboard, a silent symphony of keystrokes, while your voice mumbles an indistinct response.

"42," you finally manage to articulate, your voice infused with uncertainty. Miguel, ever inquisitive, approaches from behind, his hand gently curling around the back of your chair as he leans in, his presence almost palpable. Proximity amplifies the intensity of the moment, as if the secrets hidden within the Earth 42's web of existence are about to unravel.

"The one without a Spider-Man?" he questions, a subtle crease forming upon his brow. You can sense his curiosity, a tempestuous storm brewing within his mind, yearning for answers to questions he has yet to fully articulate. You shift uncomfortably, aware that the truth may soon confront you, testing the delicate balance of trust and the choices you've made.

"Uh, yeah," you mutter, the words escaping like an elusive whisper.

Together, you and Miguel stand side by side, engrossed in the digital dance of indicators that pop up on the map before you. Their appearance lacks any discernible pattern or rhythm, scattered like shards of shattered glass across the screen. Each blip represents a discordant note, a disturbance in the harmonious fabric of the city. The map becomes a tapestry of chaos, a visual testament to the turmoil that seeps through the streets.

In this moment of shared observation, silence stretches between you, pregnant with unspoken thoughts. Miguel's gaze lingers on the map, his expression contemplative, as if he is deciphering the hidden messages embedded within the scattered incidents. Time suspends, creating a brief pause in the symphony of life that surrounds you.

Abruptly, he pulls away, his hands clapping lightly to disperse the crumbs that have collected on his fingertips. The sound reverberates like a fleeting applause, a signal of transition. His own computer springs to life, its mechanical hum blending with the soft hum of algorithms more intricate than your own. His movements are precise, calculated, as he navigates through the sea of data, seeking patterns and connections that elude the untrained eye.

A moment passes, and then he delivers his verdict with an air of finality. "Without a canon event to lead the dialogue, there is no saving how the cards will fall." His words, though enigmatic, resonate with a hint of resignation. The complexity of the situation, the fragmented nature of the incidents, has left you both with an unsettling uncertainty, a realization that the future is veiled in an unpredictable haze.

His final comment hangs in the air, an unspoken assurance that even if he is not able to decipher the enigma that shrouds Earth 42, he will not relent in his pursuit of answers. The weight of the unknown bears down upon your shoulders, intertwining with a lingering sense of responsibility.

As you observe the vibrant chaos of the map before you, a flicker of determination ignites within your being. In this tangled web of uncertainty, you know that your choices and actions will shape the course of events, determining the fate of this realm that remains without its Spider-Man.

“Yeah, we know,” slips past your lips as a whisper, but you know it wasn’t missed.

Miguel's final comment hangs in the air. It resonates with a solemn truth, a truth that reverberates through your very core. The world you once called home, the world that fell victim to Miguel's unintended actions, now lies in ruins, a haunting reminder of the consequences that come with interfering in the fragile tapestry of reality. The warning lingers, an ethereal specter of caution that reminds you of the delicate balance that must be maintained.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

In a way, the conversation came with some advantages. Like a father trying to smooth over a fight with sweets before dinner, Miguel takes it upon himself to assign you more frequent missions. A smooth way to bury the memories that have been unearthed, to seek redemption for the irreversible damage caused. Yet, even as you jump from one world to the next, traversing the vast expanse of the multiverse, your thoughts always return to that fateful event that altered the trajectory of your existence.

For a fleeting moment, you managed to accept the truth—that you were an outsider, detached from the intricate web of connections and destinies that bind the inhabitants of each world. The triggers that once tied you to the web of timelines remained dormant, dormant like the embers of a forgotten flame. It should have been enough to sever the ties that bound you to the remnants of that world, to shield you from the pain of loss and the burden of responsibility.

But a challenging thought takes root within your mind, sprouting like an enigmatic seed in a barren garden. What if, as the foreign spider hero, you are not bound by the chains of a canon event? What if your purpose transcends the usual narratives of heroism, and instead, you become a mere visitor, a wandering soul lending aid without being entangled in the intricate affairs of those you encounter? The idea tugs at the edges of your consciousness, beckoning you towards the open portal that stands before you, a gateway to untold possibilities.

All the facts lineup, logic aligns, but they fail to hold enough weight to anchor you in place. The allure of the unknown, the desire to forge your own path, calls to you with an irresistible melody. It whispers promises of freedom and liberation, of a life unfettered by the burdens that haunt your every step. Uncertainty lingers in the air, mingling with the scent of possibility, as you stand before the open portal, caught between the remnants of a past life and the infinite horizons of the multiverse.

In this pivotal moment, the choice is yours to make. Will you heed the warning, clinging to the cautionary tales of ruination, or will you surrender to the pull of the unknown, venturing forth into uncharted realms where the lines between hero and visitor blur into obscurity? The decision hangs delicately, poised upon the precipice of your soul, as you gaze into the swirling portal, awaiting the path that will shape your destiny.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

As the surprise assignment lands in your lap, whisking you away to Earth-138, a realm where the enigmatic and unpredictable Hobie Brown donned the mantle of the resident spider-man.. The very fabric of this world seems tinged with a touch of chaos, an energy that pulses through the streets and alleys. Here, Hobie rarely seeks assistance, but the occasional nudge can coax him into accepting a hand, though he often reminds you that his aid is not a necessity but rather a choice born from the depths of his own heart.

The dialogue between you and Hobie dances upon the air, their words charged with a playful banter that betrays an underlying camaraderie.

"You know I don't actually need your help, right?" Hobie's voice lingers with a hint of amusement, his words intertwining with the gentle rhythm of the surroundings.

"Yes, Hobie," you reply, your voice infused with a knowing tone, a silent acknowledgement of his independent spirit.

"Meaning that this is a gesture out of the goodness of my heart." Hobie's words cascade forth, painting a vivid picture of his convictions.

"Naturally, Hobie," you affirm, your response adorned with a dry undertone of appreciation for his individuality.

"See, I hear you agreeing, but I don't feel the agreeance," he playfully remarks, attuned to your distracted state.

In a moment of keen perception, Hobie notices the subtle shift in your attention, an indication that your thoughts wander towards other matters. A sly grin tugs at the corners of his lips, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous spark.

It takes you a mere second to crumble, clinging to the one soul who would feast upon the chaos rather than whistleblow it from the highest building. Hobie is unsurprisingly a great listener in the presence of anarchy.

Curling an arm around you shoulder, he drags you in. “See now you’re speaking my language, little spider. I knew you weren’t a goody-two shoes.”

Sensing an opportunity to indulge in some delinquency, he suggests the need for a decoy, an ingenious solution to ensure your escapade remains undetected.

You hesitate momentarily, knowing all too well that removing your watch would only invite Miguel's scrutiny.

But Hobie's mind, sharp as a blade, spins its web of ingenuity. "What if you had two watches?" he proposes, his voice laced with a sense of triumph. "Same signal, new watch transmits without alerting the code."

His intellect shines through, painting him as a mastermind of subterfuge. The corners of his lips curl into a knowing grin as he revels in the art of deception. "You're downright diabolical," you remark, marveling at his cleverness.

"I know," he confesses, reveling in the playful artistry of his scheme.

A spark of delight flickers in Hobie's eyes as he basks in your recognition. His grin widens, a testament to his satisfaction. He’s all to willing to play host spider as he draws you into a local pub, already scheming the intricacies of the proposed plan.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

Within the confines of the headquarters, the air hums with anticipation, a symphony of bustling activity. The scent of metallic tang lingers, a reminder of the intricate machinery that powers the operation. As spider heroes from various dimensions flock in and out, their presence a testament to the ever-growing ranks. The demand for dimensional watches, those essential gateways to traverse realms, remains insatiable, fueling the constant flow of activity.

Amidst the whirlwind of preparations, you find solace in the familiarity of your room, a sanctuary within the bustling hive. Here, the walls are adorned with sketches and blueprints, the remnants of countless tinkering sessions. Your nimble fingers dance across the tools, coaxing and adjusting, as you delve into the realm of technology. The soft glow of monitors bathes the room in a mesmerizing light, casting elongated shadows across the cluttered surfaces.

Feeds from Earth-42 flicker and float in mid-air, a hypnotic tableau of visual snippets. The chaos that unfolds across the dimensions, a swirling vortex of battles and adversaries, feels overwhelming. Criminals materialize, wreak havoc, and disappear into the ever-shifting tapestry of realities, making it challenging to pinpoint any one nemesis.

As you tinker, your mind meanders through the labyrinthine corridors of your thoughts. The intricate nature of the technology in your hands mirrors the complexity of the challenges that lie ahead. It's a delicate dance of understanding, a balancing act between harnessing the power within and navigating the treacherous terrain of heroic duties. The weight of responsibility settles upon your shoulders, and you find solace in the familiar touch of the tools, the familiarity of your craft.

In this quiet haven, away from the clamor and chaos, you seek refuge in your ability to navigate the technological realm without the constant presence of LYLA, your ever-watchful guardian. Here, in this private enclave, you are the conductor of your own symphony, weaving webs of innovation and possibility.

As you carefully piece together the final component of the mimicry watch. The metallic fragments interlock, each click resonating with significance. The weight of the watch rests in your hands, a tangible embodiment of the choices that now lie before you. Its presence is a constant reminder of the burden of contemplation that you carry, a weight that settles upon your soul.

In this pivotal moment, you find yourself standing at the precipice of destiny, poised on the edge of a decision that will ripple across the fabric of existence. The immensity of the multiverse stretches out before you, an infinite expanse of possibilities and diverging paths. Every step forward holds the potential to alter your own canon, to weave a narrative thread that will forever change the tapestry of your life.

The weight of responsibility settles upon your shoulders, pressing down upon your being. The burden of choice weighs heavy, for there is no going back once you cross this threshold. You stand on the threshold of a new reality, aware that the consequences of your actions will reverberate far beyond the confines of your own existence.

In this vast sea of infinite universes, where realms intertwine and narratives intertwine, the concept of immersion is malleable, ever-shifting. Spider heroes, in their relentless pursuit of justice, have shattered the boundaries of what is considered canonical time and time again. The rules of engagement blur, and you find solace in the knowledge that you are not alone in the realm of breaking immersion.

Yet, even as you draw strength from the precedent set by those who came before, you cannot ignore the stark reality that this journey is different. It surpasses the confines of mere disruption and event bending. You are a new entity, a force of change that transcends the boundaries of what has come before. The weight of this realization is both exhilarating and daunting, a symphony of conflicting emotions that reverberates within your very core.

The weight of the watch serves as a constant reminder that the time for hesitation has passed. It is now time to step forward, to embrace the unknown, and to redefine the very essence of your existence as a spider hero.

With a resolute determination, you press the sleek, fabricated decoy device against the watch encircling your wrist. The two devices make contact, their surfaces touching in a moment of connection. As the transmission begins, a surge of energy courses through the air, sparking a current of anticipation that electrifies your very being.

The link between the devices is established almost instantly, a symphony of technological marvel unfolding before your eyes. The small blinking light embedded within the watch's mechanism illuminates the darkness, flickering once before radiating a brilliant emerald glow. In that fleeting moment, the weight of your decision lingers, suspended in time and space.

Every fiber of your being quivers with a sense of suspense, each passing second feeling like an eternity. You brace yourself, prepared for the imminent arrival of Miguel, his footsteps echoing through the corridors of your sanctuary. The overlay you meticulously coded pulsates with hidden power, cloaking the presence of the transmitters when activated simultaneously.

However, even with your calculated precautions, a lingering doubt remains. The possibility exists that, with the right kind of investigation, your cleverly constructed concealment could be unveiled.

Yet, as the moments stretch into eternity, a profound silence settles upon your surroundings. No thunderous footsteps break the tranquility, no alarms wail their warning. Not even LYLA, the ever-vigilant guardian of your domain, stirs from her digital slumber. The tension that had coiled within you, constricting your every breath, dissipates like a phantom fog.

A deep, relieved sigh escapes your lips, carrying with it the weight of an ache that had settled within your soul. A wave of accomplishment washes over you, mingling with the lingering sense of vulnerability. In this delicate balance, you find solace, knowing that, for now, you have successfully navigated the treacherous waters of deception and secrecy.

With the watch and its decoy device in perfect harmony, their hidden purpose concealed from prying eyes, you bask in the glow of your accomplishment.

The cloak of pseudo-freedom envelopes you, its tantalizing allure sweeping you up into a whirlwind of exhilaration. In the sanctuary of your normal nighttime respite, the vast expanse of untamed possibility stretches out before you, beckoning with its siren song. With a flicker of anticipation, you activate the portal, its ethereal glow casting a luminescent veil across the room.

Stepping through the threshold of the interdimensional gateway, you emerge into a world transformed, your senses acutely attuned to the vibrant pulse of Earth-138. Brooklyn, a tapestry of urban splendor, unfolds before your eyes.

As you gracefully swing through the labyrinthine streets, a sense of familiarity settles upon you, the symphony of your web-slinging movements blending seamlessly with the rhythm of this alternate reality. The night air embraces you, caressing your skin with a cool, refreshing kiss. The cityscape sprawls beneath you, an intricate mosaic of flickering lights and shadows.

With an instinct honed by countless encounters, your eyes scan the surroundings, seeking out signs of disturbance and discord. It doesn't take long for your keen senses to detect the telltale echoes of trouble. A group of figures materializes in your periphery, their intentions ominous and palpable. Like broken shards of shattered glass, they descend upon the unsuspecting vehicles, a symphony of chaos and destruction.

Your heart quickens its pace, a primal surge of adrenaline flooding your veins. The instincts of the spider hero awaken within you, compelling you to intervene, to restore order amidst the turmoil. The screeching of metal against glass reverberates through the night.

In a seamless motion, you descend upon the scene. Like a shadow materializing from the depths of night, you strike with precision and grace, ensnaring two figures against the side of the car.

By the time the rest are alerted of your presence, you have the third swinging from the street light.

And the fourth—

A dissonant note pierces through the air, and your shoulders sag with a sense of disbelief. The fourth figure, their retreating silhouette etched against the flickering city lights, abandons their compatriots without a second glance.

“There is always the one.”

With a resolute sigh, you raise your watch to your face. Your fingertips tap against the cool glass surface and you send an anonymous tip to the local police department.

Will the police heed the call, or will their absence leave the captured criminals to languish in the bonds of their own misdeeds until the morning light? You would let fate swing that pendulum.

The following encounters come too easily.

A returned purse.

A corner store robbery put to rest before it stops.

A few miscreant activities in between.

And most recently, a pair of individuals trying to blow up a police car.

Twin voices spew complaints as they fight against the bonds plastering them against the hood of the car. There would be no need to send off a top for this own.

Your attention, however, lingers on the webbing. In your escapades, you had left quite a bit of it lingering around the city. People would definitely talk if the evidence remained, and you were ready to give the gig up just yet.

In most universes, the city typically cleans it up but you know you have solvent for it.

You decide to bring some next time.

Yes, next time.

This was totally going to be a thing.

#earth 42 miles morales #earth 42 miles x reader #earth 42 miles morales x reader #spiderman fanfiction #spiderman across the spiderverse #42 miles morales #miles morales x reader #prowler miles

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magnetic-regent-magneto · 3 months

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|| ⸻ RULES . ||

|| ⸻ ABOUT THIS BLOG : .

WRITER: Fen. 22+ She/Her

VERSE: Canon Divergent, Comic Based Magneto, NO MCU,

A STUDY in Survival, the burden of memory, the seductive allure of power, the rage of the oppressed, the cost of vengeance, the blurred line between freedom and war, building a world, being of war, the burden of leadership, the temptation of extremism, the enduring hope for a better tomorrow, the weight of the past, the fight for a future, the enduring question: can peace be forged from the ashes of hatred?

STEADY: Selective activity. No worries if you don't hear back right away, I haven't forgotten!

|| ⸻ ROLEPLAY : .

TRIGGERS: MINORS NOT WELCOME, Mature Themes, Darker Content Warning (Historical Context, Mental Health, Gore, Violence, ...)

DISCLAIMER: I strive for historical accuracy, but I'm not an expert. Do your own research for in-depth knowledge. I am not your source.

WARNINGS: Please let me know your triggers in advance, especially concerning the Holocaust (a significant part of Magneto's history), character death, violence, or sexual content. I can adjust my writing style to respect your comfort level.

CURATE your Experience: You are responsible for managing your own online environment.

ZERO TOLERANCE: This blog prohibits hate speech, including sexism, racism, homophobia, transphobia, and other forms of intolerance.

SHIPPING: Relationships might develop organically through RP, but I don't actively pursue shipping.

RESPECTFUL Boundaries: Constant pressure regarding specific ships (like Cherik) won't be tolerated. While some interactions might be considered "shippy," this doesn't imply a permanent ship preference.

HARASSMENT is Unacceptable: Harassing my RP partners will result in blocking and reporting. The same goes for anonymous hate messages – they'll be ignored.

OPEN COMM: Despite the character I portray, I'm approachable. Don't hesitate to speak up if you have any concerns about our RP.

PARTNERS: Mutuals Only. Selective. Selective OC friendly. Chemistry Based. No Duplicates. I have Mains. Shyness is okay! Memes are a great way to let me know you are interested when we are not mutuals yet!

OPEN PROMPTS: Don't hesitate to throw out ideas and prompts! We can develop them into full-fledged threads, keep them short, even without extensive plotting beforehand.

LAYOUT: I use icons, headers, and some color coding for aesthetics. If this layout is difficult to read on your device, or if you prefer larger text, please let me know!

#MAGNETIC:RULES #--FEAR BREEDS RAGE || RP #|| pinned

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tarisilmarwen · 1 year

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Rebels Rewatch: "Twilight of the Apprentice"

The shadow of Malachor looms in the very highly-anticipated Season 2 finale.

Right, so, technically I've already liveblogged this before and you can go here for some of my more, ah, realtime reactions.

(Spoiler alert: There was a LOT of screaming.)

So for this and other episodes that I've already reacted to before I'm mostly going to be focusing more on commentary and meta observations and also my favorite bits and moments, music and animation, that kind of stuff.

Let's dive in!

Ooh right off the bat we have the more serious version of the "Shenanigans" cue.

I know this exchange here between Ahsoka and Rex is a callback to when they first met. So a heart stab for TCW fans.

One thing I notice about Malachor right away is how dead it looks, even from space. Just a featureless plain gray marble.

We get down to the surface and it's even eerier. In the middle of a giant crater there's this wide, unnaturally glasslike smooth plain, only broken up by weird towering stone monoliths.

Malachor's whole aesthetic leans very heavily into the idea and theme of descending into the Underworld, into a place of darkness and shadows where the light can't reach. Somewhere underground, somewhere full of devils and demons lurking in wait, with many hidden traps and temptations to stumble over.

Like the one Ezra triggers by touching the monolith lol.

This really isn't a survivable fall but whatever.

The Sith Temple is actually kind of beautiful in a stark, harsh, Gothic kind of way.

This whole environment is really excellently creepy and ethereal. The ceiling above recalls a night sky, the holes like pinprick stars casting beams of light down. The palate is almost colorless, mostly grays and blacks with some splashes of red and white. The lighting is muted and dim, heavy contrast with the shadows. The music relies on dissonant chords. The sound effects are full of watery rumbles, voices whisper quietly that apparently only Ezra can hear.

Oh and there's the scorched ground and statues of people frozen in distress, like the casts at Pompeii.

"To defeat your enemy, you have to understand them." A sentiment echoed and repeated later by both Maul and Thrawn, and inspired by the writings of Sun Tzu in his Art of War. You have to figure your enemy out, learn how they operate and what motivates them, in order to beat them. "Knowledge" is another word they keep using this episode, our heroes need to seek knowledge about the Sith in order to figure out how to defeat them.

I'm still not quite sure what knowledge they were actually able to gain during this trip. Certainly the Force did basically slap the truth of Vader's identity in Ahsoka's face, to get her to confront it and break through her denial. There's maybe a lesson to be learned about not seeking quick, easy solutions to one's problems, which wouldn't fully sink in until "Twin Suns". (Ezra's obsession with finding "the key to destroy the Sith" can be traced straight back to the Malachor plot thread.) There's definitely a cautionary tale and warning about the nature of the Dark Side, that Ezra completely ignores due to his guilt and shame and self-blame.

On the surface level, technically, the mission does accomplish what it set out to do. All the Inquisitors we know about wind up dead, Vader no longer has any interest in harassing them, they keep the base safe. But boy the cost of it all.

It's probably really fitting that the finale takes place here on Malachor, a dead world with nothing left but stone remains and a creepy Eldritch Sith Temple housing a superweapon that must have killed everyone and everything on the surface, in the vein of The Deplorable Word or a nuclear bomb metaphor. The victory is hollow and meaningless, because there is no one left alive to appreciate it. Likewise our heroes' "victory" is pyrrhic and empty, they kill the Inquisitors but take more and heavier losses in return.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. We haven't even met Eighth yet.

Hi Eighth!

He's not really developed or explored at all and is really just a generic episode-specific antagonist and ancillary to Seventh and Fifth, but he serves his narrative purpose in splitting the party.

Kanan's worried shout for Ezra after he falls. <3

Ezra looking very nervous here, don't blame him.

HI MAUL!

Oh man, the pre-finale trailers spoiled Maul's appearance and fandom was bonkers about it. (The pre-finale anticipation and hype was crazy man, so much over-analyzing and hypothesizing. There was a Bingo Card we could fill out with our theories. This one was mine.) Not a small amount of people were speculating about the possibility of Maul corrupting and/or abducting Ezra at Malachor.

I was one of them. Obviously. Still a smidge bummed it didn't come to pass, just imagine how devastating that would have been on top of everything else.

Anyway, Maul pretends to be frail and weak and old and harmless like some kind of sick parody of the scene in ESB when Yoda's introduced to Luke.

The appropriate reaction to creepy old men lurking in the shadows lol.

Maul plays on Ezra's compassion at first, and then tempts him with what they came for, "knowledge". Ezra keeps a guard up, but cautiously allows Maul to lead him. I think he's figuring he's going to play this by ear like he did back in "Brothers of the Broken Horn", so he's not giving out his name or really trusting Maul yet. That would come later.

Lol, Maul has met Jabba, he knows full well Ezra's playing him.

There's some excellent tense music for the chase with Eighth Brother but I'm not going to really talk about those segments much since, frankly, all the interesting stuff is happening in the Maul and Ezra scenes.

They're in the roots of the Temple now, very Mines of Moria-esque vibe down here with the columns.

Maul still trying to break Ezra's guard down, playing himself up as an enemy of the Inquisitors and the Sith (even though for all intents and purposes Maul still is a Sith) and I love how awkward things get when Ezra asks him if he was a Jedi, he's all like, "ERRRRRRMMMM."

Talking about his Tragic Backstory though unlocks Ezra's empathy and Ezra lets slip his own grievances with the Empire that Maul immediately tries to manipulate to his advantage, sensing Ezra's anger about it.

Boy if I had a nickel for every time my favorite shows explored the "creepy older villain forcibly trying to make a younger hero their apprentice" plotline...

(I would actually have three nickels now because the Big Hero 6 cartoon also decided to do that plot YOU GUYS GOTTA FIGURE OUT SOMETIME THAT THIS PREMISE IS BASICALLY CATNIP FOR ME.)

Anyway, at this point I think Maul's mostly just using Ezra as a means to an end, he's not planning to kidnap him yet, just needs him for the doors. It's really interesting that whereas the Jedi Temple on Lothal emphasized the individual journey and separated the master and padawan, the Sith Temple forces them into kind of a codependent symbiosis--if one betrays the other like Sith are wont to do, the prize is lost and both of them die--making them have to use teamwork and a certain level of trust.

Chopper stealing Eighth's TIE to use against him is pretty awesome, admittedly.

Maul gives Ezra an abridged lesson in Sith/Dark Side philosophy: Channel your passions--your fear, anger, hate, any strong emotions etc.--through the Force for a lot of quick easy power. Ezra expresses misgivings but attempts it and this time does not immediately pass out, though he's clearly tired by the end of it.

Oh man the sound design here.

Also love that annoyed look Maul gives when Ezra complains about their progress. XD

"Yeah I'm killing you after this, I don't have to deal with this shit."

Watching the expressions on Maul's face is a trip, you can see the subtle little flashes of conniving and triumph.

Aaaaaand every time Maul puts his hands on Ezra I still feel an immediate uncomfortable protective rage. You leave him alone you cockroach. >:(

Enjoy the last vestiges of Ezra's innocence folks, this episode is what shatters that to pieces.

Always loved this sequence, it feels very evocative of the Cave of Wonders segment of Aladdin and also several scenes in Raiders of the Lost Ark.

SO much symbolism with the precipices and pits here.

Love this music cue too.

I already noted in a different post way back when that something subtle I love is how Maul's Force Grip catch around Ezra is clearly much rougher than how Kanan has caught him. Ezra's tiny panicked glances down are great too.

So riiiiiiiiiight about here is when I think Maul decided he was going to keep Ezra, you can see in his expression the mean satisfaction when he grabs the holocron, like he's gotten what he wanted. Ezra gets a prolonged moment of regretting all of his life's decisions before Maul finally decides to haul him up.

Look I know fandom makes fun of the helicopter sabers but I never minded them so this is my only comment about them.

Gah, Ezra's innocent little uncertain expressions here always hurt me.

You know, given the added context of TCW Seaason 7, along with the fact that they had already clearly integrated the unfinished arcs into the background continuity while writing Rebels, AHSOKA YOU SHOULD HAVE REALLY WARNED THEM ABOUT MAUL.

Cool shot is cool.

I haven't talked about the music much because it doesn't really stand out until the climax but it's appropriately menacing and dramatic and ominous, as it should be.

Sam Whitwer's vocal progression through the episode is also amazing, along with the slow shedding of his hood it's like Maul is revitalizing himself, reinvigorated, reclaiming his strength and purpose.

He found something (Ezra) to hang his legacy on and seized it. Or tried to.

Ezra sounds just a bit desperate to convince Kanan, this is likely a product of the straining tensions between them. Maul, meanwhile, takes full advantage of Ahsoka and Kanan's uncertainty to suggest using the holocron to activate the obelisk, not telling them of course that it will turn on the Sith superweapon. Which he's counting on to kill Vader and the Inquisitors.

Ezra's theme in cello bass here, as Kanan decides to trust Ezra.

Almost forgot about Seventh's ID-9 Seekers, didn't we?

Love Kanan's protective bitchiness towards Maul this whole episode. The conflict between him and Ezra is just a little bit contrived, Kanan's been harder on Ezra recently yes, but it also feels a smidge rushed. Then again Ezra's been fixating on trying to solve the fundamental problem of the Inquisitors possibly as a way to assuage his grief over losing his parents, like Anakin he thinks if he can maybe just get enough power he can prevent it from happening again, so he's letting his impulsiveness reign in the quest to find "the key to destroying the Sith" and it's making him have a repeat of "Vision of Hope" where he trusts the wrong person.

Ezra's bright little, "Trust me." here hurts so much because Kanan does trust Ezra, that's the only reason why he decided they would stay and then it all goes HORRIBLY WRONG *SOBS*.

This is a nice sentiment and all Ahsoka, and it shows how much faith you have in Ezra's goodness and Kanan's ability as a teacher BUT ALSO YOU SHOULD HAVE WARNED THEM.

Ezra's out of sight for like a minute and Maul's already picking at his insecurities and need for validation and trying to get him to murderize Seventh.

The momentary pride we feel that Ezra can't bring himself to strike in anger and hate vanishes when Maul tests the veeeeeery limits of the Y7 rating.

Ooof.

I hate this man I hate this man I hate this man I hate him so much. He snarls at Ezra for hesitating, berates his merciful Jedi instincts, and then picks up with that soft manipulative fake concerned tone again. He always uses this tone when he's trying to manipulate Ezra, we'll be watching for it next season, trust me.

Hhggnnl Maul glancing up and seeing the shadow passing over the gaps in the ceiling, he knows Vader's on his way. And he's definitely already made the decision that he's taking Ezra.

Love this brief triumphant cue here, for a moment it looks like they've won.

The matching "Oh crap" expressions on Kanan and Ahsoka's faces when Maul says, "You mean... my apprentice?" they are just a hair too late to prevent disaster.

Yeah so this moment pretty much traumatized fandom. For months.

DUEL OF THE FATES BABY!

And a very unhinged Maul getting a little too excited about using the Sith superweapon to kill everyone.

The presence in the holocron is likely a trace of the Sith Lord who created the superweapon, Darth Tanis.

Sound design appreciation moment, just LISTEN to it.

"The power will be mine! Ezra will be mine!" Very hinged. Much sane. If you had waited maybe five minutes, Maul, and resisted the urge to murder everyone you could have actually had what you wanted! But such is the nature of the Dark Side, the quick and easy way offers fast solutions but hollow ones, in the grasping for what you want it slips through your fingers.

ALL MAUL HAD TO DO WAS NOT TRY TO MURDER KANAN AND AHSOKA AND EZRA PROBABLY WOULD HAVE GONE WITH HIM. At the very least Kanan might have tentatively let Maul hang around. This is the tragedy of Maul's life, he is the king of self-sabotage.

[Insert ramble about the symbolism of Kanan taking up a Temple Guardian mask and how that relates to his role as Ezra's protector.]

I don't remember I think there was maybe one or two people who complained that Kanan shouldn't be able to beat Maul here, but for the most part fandom was agreed that this was awesome.

:(((

Please do note: Maul just kind of... assumed Ezra would use the Sith superweapon when he learned what it was. Ezra's too pure for that, alas.

WELL THAT'S NOT ABSOLUTELY TERRIFYING.

Ezra sassing Vader like Kanan sassed the Grand Inquisitor back in "Call To Action" lol.

And there goes Ezra's blaster-saber. :(

I've been a very good girl conserving my limited photos so now you get a lot of Ezra's terrified face.

The Ahsoka-Vader confrontation is pretty much perfect, even for someone who never really watched TCW and doesn't really have the same level of investment as a long time fan would have. Even without the context the emotions and drama come across well.

Ezra veeeeeeerrrrrrrry slowly and carefully trying to scoot away from Vader always makes me giggle.

Vader threatening to torture the information out of Ezra if Ahsoka won't give up any remaining Jedi she knows about. :(((

:((((((((

Still love how TCW recontextualized Ahsoka's angry, "I am no Jedi!" by reframing it as, "I can't be a Jedi anymore, you took that away from me, you killed the Order I loved and wanted to return to!"

I think I heard someone trying to describe Vader here as, "Picture an upright locomotive with a lightsaber." and that's apt, Vader is so heavy and powerful with every movement and swing. This is Vader in his prime, unleashed, against an opponent he won't hold back on and it is glorious.

Chopper guiding Kanan by the hand. :(((

Ezra's horrified realization. :(((((

Small note: Ezra's been nursing his right wrist this whole time, possibly sprained or burned a bit when Vader destroyed his saber. Also a nice parallel to ESB and Luke.

Ahsoka does her best but you can tell she's tiring here.

Some gorgeous animation as the Temple begins to seal back up.

How annoyed do you think Vader must have been to have a blind half-trained ex-Padawan and a scrawny 16-year-old kid managing to fight his Force Pull on the holocron?

Ahsoka swoops in for a Big Damn Heroes moment and breaks open his mask. You're welcome for the nightmares, kids.

Hello so many parallels to Luke and Return of the Jedi.

:(((((

Very effective bringing the orchestra full to the fore with almost no other sound or dialogue here. This whole sequence is brutally powerful.

Kanan and Hera's heartbreaking reunion. The sorrow on Rex's face, feeding into Ezra's clear guilt. Maul surviving to menace us another day. Vader limping off, out of the wreckage of the Temple. Tracking the convor as it flies towards the vague form of Ahsoka descending further into the Temple. The cut to the Ghost with everyone's silent worry and sorry. And closing on Ezra's murderous Kubrick Stare as he gets the holocron to open.

This finale is on people's favorite episode lists for a reason, lol. It's so dramatic and game-changing and tightly-written, leaves us perfectly fuming in anticipation for more.

You know how shows promise that, "Nothing will be the same anymore." in taglines to trick you into watching for the Next Big Twist? Rebels actually delivers on that promise.

It's an amazing ride.

Overall Season Thoughts:

Season Two is stronger than Season One in a lot of aspects. The animation is even prettier with the added budget, the stories remain well-balanced and woven together even with the added breathing room of twenty-two episodes to Season One's fifteen. The show takes advantage of that extra room to build up the finale, especially in the last few episodes, to very good effect. The expanded scope means we're facing bigger and greater threats, and also widening our cast, and yet none of the guest stars overshadow or overpower our mains, who are given plenty of chances to develop and shine.

Aside from one minor misstep in "Blood Sisters", this season is solid through and through.

Onwards to Season Three!

#star wars #star wars rebels #ezra bridger #space dad and his precious pumpkin child #rebels rewatch #liveblog #spoilers #cute boys in peril

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