seen from Serbia
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from Maldives
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from Italy
seen from France
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from Argentina
seen from United States
seen from Martinique
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
“Afraid you’ll fall in love with me?” Aziraphale finally relinquished his grip on the basin to playfully rap a knuckle against the white marble. “Yes, something like that.”
» GOOD OMENS FANFICTION SERIES (1/?) ↳ big name feelings by @mrghostrat (read here)
✒️ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ʜᴇʀ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 5: ᴛʜᴇ ɢɪʀʟ ᴡʜᴏ ᴠᴀɴɪꜱʜᴇᴅ ✒️
ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ + ʀᴇᴅᴇᴍᴘᴛɪᴏɴ
⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀᴍᴀᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ɪɴꜰɪᴅᴇʟɪᴛʏ
ɢʀɪᴇꜰ, ᴀʙᴀɴᴅᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴇᴛʀᴀʏᴀʟ
ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ ʀᴇꜱᴘᴏɴꜱᴇꜱ
ɪꜱᴏʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴇʟꜰ-ᴇxɪʟᴇ
ᴘᴀɴɪᴄ, ᴅᴇꜱᴘᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋᴅᴏᴡɴ
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ/ᴠᴇʀʙᴀʟ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴄᴏɴꜰʀᴏɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘʀɪᴠᴀᴛᴇ ɪɴᴠᴇꜱᴛɪɢᴀᴛᴏʀꜱ
ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴀʀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴏʟɪᴛᴜᴅᴇ
ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏɴᴇʟɪɴᴇꜱꜱ, ʀᴇɢʀᴇᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴇɢɪɴɴɪɴɢ ʀᴇᴄᴏᴠᴇʀʏ
The wheels of the private jet screeched softly against the tarmac, the engines humming their final lullaby as the aircraft settled into stillness. (Y/n) stood, slender hands tightening around the handle of her suitcase. Her gaze was distant, hollow, as if the skies she flew through were still inside her, thunderclouds brooding beneath her ribs.
She didn’t speak to the pilot.
Didn’t look back.
When the car picked her up and took her home, she moved like a ghost through the house that once held warmth. Every step she took echoed too loud against marble floors, floors they used to dance across with bare feet and drunk laughter. The photographs that hung on the wall, vacations, weddings, celebrations, glared at her like traitors.
Her fingers brushed over one frame.
It was from France.
Lando had kissed her cheek while she laughed mid-bite into a croissant. She looked happy.
She was happy.
And he destroyed it.
With quiet precision, (Y/n) began packing. Drawer by drawer. Hanger by hanger. No hesitations. No second thoughts. She folded her shirts with robotic neatness, zipped each case, unplugged chargers, collected the journals beneath the bed, the ones no one ever knew existed. Including him.
By nightfall, the house was stripped of her. No trace left behind. No scattered earrings on the dresser. No scarf looped over the coat rack. Not even the familiar scent of her lavender oil lingered in the air.
She didn’t leave a note.
She didn’t owe one.
Lando entered the house the next morning expecting silence.
He didn’t expect emptiness.
“(Y/n)?” he called out, setting his keys on the hallway table, voice tight with nerves. “I’m home…”
His words floated into the void.
No soft reply from the kitchen. No clatter of mugs. No humming from upstairs.
He moved through each room like a man possessed, bedroom, bathroom, closet, office, panic rising with every absence. Her makeup was gone. Her clothes. Her laptop. Even the pillow she always hugged was missing.
He stumbled into the living room and sank onto the couch, heartbeat drumming a war beneath his ribs.
“She left,” he whispered to himself.
She really left.
His hand trembled as he picked up his phone. He dialed her original number, then her second one.
Straight to voicemail.
He tried again. Still voicemail.
Desperation clawed at him as he switched to texting. Please. Let’s talk. Please.
The message sent. Blue.
Then green. She had already blocked him again.
Frantic, he tried her mother. “Hi, I—I need to know if (Y/n)’s with you. Please.”
Her mother’s voice was tired. “She’s not.”
“Do you know where she went?”
“She didn’t tell us.”
“Can you—can you let me know if she contacts you?”
There was a long pause.
Then, curtly, “No.”
Click.
He tried her father next. Her brothers. Her sisters. A cousin.
All the same.
No one knew where she was.
Or if they did, they weren’t going to betray her trust.
He dropped the phone to the floor with a hollow thud, then bent forward, sobbing into his hands. The sound that tore from his chest was raw, broken, the kind of grief that cracked through bone and echoed in places he didn’t know could hurt. His shoulders shook uncontrollably, each breath shuddering, each inhale a battle against the emptiness swelling inside him.
He didn’t know what hurt more, the regret of what he had done, the guilt of never stopping it, or the brutal truth that he had lost her. The only person who ever truly saw him. Not the fame. Not the wins. Not the polished smile he wore like armor. She had seen the boy beneath the helmet, the man behind the curtain. And still, she had loved him.
And he destroyed it.
With one choice. One weakness. One mistake he would never stop paying for.
Later that evening, Lando packed a small bag with trembling hands. He didn’t think, didn’t plan. He just moved. Like a man underwater, going through the motions because it was the only way to keep from drowning. A pair of jeans. A hoodie. The cologne she once liked. He threw them into a duffel and called for the jet.
He didn’t tell anyone where he was going.
Didn’t answer Zak’s calls. Ignored Andrea’s texts. Oscar had already said all he needed to.
The car that took him to the airport felt too quiet. Every streetlight they passed cast long shadows that reminded him of her. He kept his forehead pressed against the window, watching the city blur into countryside, the ache in his chest matching the hum of the tires beneath him.
When the jet finally lifted off the runway, Lando sank into the leather seat and stared out at the darkness beyond the glass. The stars were pinpricks in the sky. Silent. Cold. Indifferent. He tried to close his eyes, but all he could see was her face when she saw him with Clara. That moment. Frozen in time. A shard in his soul.
He didn’t touch the drink the stewardess offered.
Didn’t move the entire flight.
By the time they landed, the countryside was cloaked in night. Dew had already begun to form on the grass, silvering the landscape like frost. The air smelled of wet earth and memory.
The house hadn’t changed much, red-bricked and sloped-roofed, the kind of place that smelled like rosemary and childhood. He hadn’t called ahead. He didn’t know what to say.
His mother opened the door before he could knock. She didn’t gasp. She didn’t ask, “What happened?” She simply took one look at his eyes, red, swollen, sunken, and stepped aside.
“Come in.”
He collapsed into her arms like a child.
No bravado. No walls. Just the raw, aching version of himself that no one ever saw. His tears soaked her cardigan, the same one she used to wear on cold mornings when she made hot chocolate and read by the window. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t scold. She held him tightly, arms wrapped around his broken frame, as if trying to hold the pieces together.
She stroked his hair gently, the same rhythm she’d used when he scraped his knee at seven, when he lost his first karting final at twelve, when he came home defeated and too proud to say he needed comfort.
“I ruined everything,” he choked, voice hoarse, breath hitching against her shoulder.
“I know, darling,” she whispered into his curls.
“I didn’t mean to,” he said again, as if saying it enough times might make it true, or at least make it matter.
“I know.”
The hallway light flickered as footsteps echoed softly from the kitchen.
His father was already seated at the table. Arms folded. Jaw tight. He didn’t rise. He didn’t offer a hug or even a hand.
“I’m not proud of you,” Adam Norris said quietly. His voice was steady, but the disappointment ran deep.
“I raised you better than this.”
Lando stayed in his mother’s arms, shame flooding his face, chest caving in.
“I know,” he murmured.
“But I’m still your father,” Adam added after a long pause. “And I know you’re hurting more than you can admit.”
Lando nodded, unable to look him in the eye. Too ashamed. Too hollow. The weight of what he’d done, what he’d lost, pressed harder with every word.
“I never thought she’d actually leave,” Lando admitted quietly, a broken confession to the room. “I thought—she always forgave me. Always came back.”
His mother pulled away just enough to look at him. Her eyes were gentle, but resolute.
“Then maybe this time,” she said, “you pushed someone too far. And they finally chose themselves.”
He bit down a sob.
His mother guided him toward the kitchen table, toward the silence that followed truth. They sat without appetite, without speech. Just the three of them—son, mother, father—surrounded by the echoes of a home that had once felt safer, warmer. A home that now carried the silence of someone who should’ve been there.
Later, at 2 a.m., his younger sister found him sitting in the darkened kitchen, a cold mug of tea untouched before him. He didn’t look up when she entered.
“Lando,” she whispered, voice laced with hurt, “why?”
He opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
No excuse was enough.
So he simply said, “I wish I could go back.”
She sat beside him.
FORKS, WASHINGTON
The plane landed on a rain-kissed runway framed by thick woods and foggy skies. Forks was small, remote, nearly forgotten by time. Tall evergreens loomed like guardians over the winding roads. The town’s heartbeat was slow, steady, and indifferent to the chaos of the world beyond.
(Y/n) chose it because no one would look for her here.
The town welcomed her not with open arms, but with an aloof kind of peace. Nobody asked too many questions. No one stared too long. It was a place where everyone had secrets, and no one wanted to know yours.
She rented a cabin at the edge of the forest, tucked between moss-covered trees and the soft lull of a river that sang in the distance. The home had creaky floorboards, a wood-burning stove, and a wraparound porch. She’d never lived in quiet like this, but it suited her now.
She bought groceries at the tiny general store, where the cashier simply nodded.
She took long walks in the mist, camera slung around her neck, her fingers gloved and chilled. Each photograph she took held silence: a raven on a mailbox, a fog-wrapped tree, the sun cutting through the clouds like a knife.
And in the evenings, she wrote.
The world still heard her voice, just not in the way they thought.
Under her pseudonym, she submitted new articles to the major journals. The Atlantic, Der Spiegel, Le Monde, The Guardian. Her name, well, not her name, was quoted in op-eds, reposted across social media, discussed on panels she refused to attend.
She started writing her next novel, too.
A woman who vanishes after betrayal.
A man who finally understands, too late.
The words poured out of her like a flood, unforgiving, visceral, powerful.
And in Forks, she became the kind of ghost who built her own cathedral.
Meanwhile, across the ocean, Lando began to wither.
Not physically. He was still lean, still fast, still fit. The world still saw a driver at the peak of his game. But those who knew him, truly knew him, could see it in his eyes. The glint, the boyish mischief that once sparkled behind every smirk, was gone. His eyes had dimmed. Hollowed. As if some vital part of him had been scooped out and never returned.
He smiled less. He laughed only when prompted, on camera, during press conferences, for the sake of sponsors. Empty, rehearsed laughter that didn’t reach his eyes.
And whenever someone mentioned (Y/n), or anything that even sounded like her name, he shut down. Like a system overloaded, his expression would blank, jaw tight, breath held. If they noticed, they didn’t push. Most had learned not to.
He trained harder than ever, punishing his body as if exhaustion could drown out guilt. Endless laps. Weight sessions past midnight. Diets stricter than before. He was always moving, always chasing, but never what he really wanted.
He refused to return to the house they once shared. That house was a mausoleum now. Every room haunted. The memory of her curled up on the couch, of her laughter echoing through the kitchen, of lavender lingering on his pillows—it gutted him. So he stayed at his family home, surrounded by familiarity, but not warmth.
He tried to find her.
He hired private investigators, all sworn to discretion. But they came back empty. No leads. No sightings.
He flew to her favorite cities—Paris, Kyoto, Florence. Places she once spoke of like lovers. He wandered through bookstores, cafes, museums, hoping for a glimpse of her face in a passing crowd. He’d stand outside galleries for hours, watching people go in and out, pretending she might walk out, brush past him, say his name again.
Nothing.
Desperation turned him to her written words.
Late at night, alone in his old room, he’d reread her old work. Her essays, her novels, her poetry, even the things she never meant to publish but once read aloud to him in bed, under low lamplight and drowsy affection.
He devoured every sentence, hoping to decode her, to understand where she went or how deeply she hurt. But every word felt like a dagger. They dripped with brilliance. With pain. With a voice he had once been allowed to love and silenced.
He followed her pseudonym’s bylines obsessively, tracking new articles across international outlets. He’d scroll through hundreds of comments, hoping for a hint. A clue. A crack in the mask.
But she had disappeared with precision.
He had never known heartbreak could last this long.
But it did.
And so, at 3 a.m., in the echo of a quiet kitchen lit only by the fridge light, he would sit, unmoving, exhausted, shattered, waiting for a redemption that might never come.
And in Forks, beneath the cedar trees, the woman he broke began to heal.
Without him.
To be continued...🧡
✒️ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ʜᴇʀ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 6: ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ᴡʜᴏ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ Qᴜɪᴇᴛ ✒️
📝 Note from the Author: Fifteen days already? Time flies when you’re bleeding your heart out in prose 😭 Thank you so much for every reblog, message, and like you’ve all left, especially my dear Alarwynnites 🥹 You’ve made this space feel like a home I didn’t know I needed.
I'm sorry I couldn’t post much today, or in the next few days either. Real life has crept in again (university said “plot twist!”), and I’ve got lectures breathing down my neck 😩 I’ll try to schedule a few things tonight for tomorrow, but no promises, okay? Hahahaha forgive me in advance 😭
Thank you for sitting in that silence with me. Thank you for feeling the ache. Goodnight for now 🕯
With love, me 🧡
@pscentral event 09: comfort ↳ comfort fics [supercorp]
Ghost of Gotham storms - Part 7 (finale)
(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6)
Mystical vision on the rooftop
By the time the manor had endured Damian’s curses, Tim’s theories, Cassandra’s quiet revelations, Dick’s haunted nostalgia, and Jason’s unnerving “book miracle,” Halloween was upon them, darker, rainier, and stormier than ever.
On one strange, calm morning, after returning from patrol with everyone already asleep, it came to Bruce like a premonition: gifts left with intent, personal details no intruder should know, each Robin confronted without fear. Too precise to be random. Too intimate to be hostile.
So he went to the manor’s roof. Alone.
Batman: “Enough games.”
That “cold wind” the kids had been feeling ever since Cassandra mentioned it, and Jason confirmed it. That subtle “breeze” at the back of the neck. A shadow detached itself from the night behind him—taller, broader, cloaked not in darkness but in calm.
Superman: “Missed you.”
Bruce’s jaw clenched.
Batman: “You’ve been following my family. Interfering in my city.” Superman (smiling): “Checking in. Leaving presents. Trying to make an impression.”
Bruce’s silence was heavier than any storm. Clark stepped closer, almost shy.
Superman: “You once said I had to be creative. Show I was interested, prove I wasn’t a violent threat… but also that they couldn’t beat me.” Batman: “Did I say—?” Superman: “In that Cat Grant interview.” Batman: “That’s—!” Superman (cutting him off): “And don’t tell me that was Brucie talking. I know your kids protect him more than they do Bruce or Batman. If I’m going to win them over, it has to be for real.”
For once, Batman didn’t have a response ready. Clark shifted his weight, uneasy.
Superman: “Did I screw up? I thought it’d be kind of funny when they found out… that they’d respect me, and—”
His words trailed off.
Batman: “You’re Superman. If anyone doesn’t need to earn their respect as an enemy, it’s you.”
Silence stretched again.
Superman: “They’re going to hate me, aren’t they?”
Bruce finally processed it all. His shoulders slumped, his body eased.
Batman (softly): “They’re going to love you.” Superman: “You don’t look happy.”
Bruce turned, exhausted after a long night and months of uncertainty.
Batman: “They’ll blame me for every fight we have.”
Behind him, Clark’s laugh broke the tension as he landed lightly on the bedroom balcony.
Superman (grinning, floating closer): “Wait! Does that mean we can start dating publicly?” Batman (without looking back): “Stay for breakfast. If that’s public enough for you.”
A moment later, the ghost stirred up another cold breeze—but Bruce didn’t notice, wrapped in Clark’s arms.
In the end, it wasn’t a ghost or a curse. It was something far more dangerous.
A man in love.
If you enjoyed this, you can check out my AO3 profile (I have a Batman Halloween story haha), read my work-in-progress fic DDaLS or simply follow me and give it a like.
Thanks for reading!
Hello! I was the one who put in the Edmund request :)
Your writing is so beautiful and descriptive omg <3
If you could make it a series, I'd be vv grateful! And !Jealous Edmund>>>
Once again, loved your writing <3
Shadows and Starlight: {~The Clash of Swords~}
A/N: First I would really like to apologize for taking so long to get this out! I was moving and had honestly lost motivation for writing and just could not get anything out. I am also a junior in highschool so I have been busy with school. But, I am now on my Christmas break so I will be posting one chapter every single day to make up for the lost time. Since I have missed yesterday, I will be posting the second chapter of this story later today! I love you guys so much and I really appreciate your patience!❤️
Summary: Amid the chaos of war, a bitter rivalry between Edmund Pevensie and a formidable enemy leader begins to unravel into something deeper. As a fragile truce forms, both are torn between duty to their people and the undeniable connection growing between them. With political tensions rising, jealousies flaring, and the threat of battle looming, Edmund and the reader must navigate a delicate balance of loyalty, love, and sacrifice to secure peace—and each other
Characters: Edmund Pevensie
Pairing: Edmund Pevensie x Gn!Reader
Warnings: None
Word Count: 1674
Taglist: @snowtargaryen @hippiedippiekitty
Chapter 1 —
The battlefield stretched out before you like a storm on the horizon—chaotic, dangerous, and all-consuming. The metallic clash of swords, the dull thud of arrows striking shields, and the war cries of soldiers filled the air, creating a symphony of war that pulsed in your veins. But amidst the carnage, amidst the chaos and confusion, there was only one person you were focused on—Edmund Pevensie.
You saw him long before he saw you, cutting through the battlefield with swift precision, his sword moving as an extension of his arm. He was brutal and efficient, taking down every opponent who dared cross his path. The youngest king of Narnia had become your greatest rival, the one opponent you could never truly defeat, and today would be no different—or so you told yourself.
As you watched him, a bitter taste formed in your mouth. Edmund Pevensie—so full of confidence, so sure of himself—fought like he had nothing to lose. But you knew better. You had seen him falter before, had noticed the subtle cracks in his armor during your past encounters. Today, you would exploit them.
Your grip tightened on the hilt of your sword as you wove through the battlefield, dodging stray arrows and blocking attacks from nameless soldiers. Your eyes never left Edmund, and with each step, you felt the weight of your unresolved rivalry bearing down on you. It had been this way for years, an endless dance of blades and blood, but today, it felt different. There was something heavier in the air, something that made your heart pound with more than just adrenaline.
Finally, Edmund’s gaze locked with yours across the battlefield, and you saw the flash of recognition in his eyes. His jaw clenched, and his body tensed as he prepared himself for the inevitable clash. You could practically feel the electricity in the air between you, the tension coiling tighter with each passing second.
Without another thought, you charged toward him, your feet pounding against the muddy ground. Every other battle faded into the background as you closed the distance between you, your focus narrowing to the point where nothing else mattered but the fight that was about to take place.
Edmund met your charge head-on, his sword raised to intercept your strike. The clash of metal rang out like thunder as your blades collided, sending shockwaves through your arms. The force of the impact jarred your bones, but you gritted your teeth and pressed forward.
“Back again?” Edmund’s voice was cold, almost bored, as he parried your next strike with ease. “You never learn, do you?”
His words stung more than you cared to admit, but you refused to let him see the effect they had on you. Instead, you pushed harder, your sword meeting his with a furious intensity. “You’re one to talk, Pevensie,” you shot back, your breath coming in sharp bursts. “How many times do I have to beat you before you finally stay down?”
A grim smile tugged at the corners of Edmund’s lips, though there was no humor in it. “Beat me? That’s funny, considering the last time we met, you were the one on the ground.”
The reminder of your previous defeat ignited a fresh wave of anger within you. The memory of Edmund standing over you, his sword poised to end your life, was one you hadn’t been able to shake. But today, you vowed, things would be different.
You struck again, your sword whistling through the air with deadly intent. Edmund blocked the blow, his strength evenly matched against yours, and for a moment, the two of you were locked in a stalemate. The muscles in your arms strained as you pressed your blade against his, trying to force him back, but Edmund held his ground.
“You’re getting slower,” he remarked, his voice taunting. “Is this the best you’ve got?”
A growl of frustration escaped your lips as you pushed harder, finally managing to break the deadlock. You swung your sword in a wide arc, aiming for his side, but Edmund was too fast. He dodged the strike with practiced ease, and before you could react, he retaliated with a quick, calculated swipe that nearly knocked the sword from your hand.
Stumbling back, you cursed under your breath. Edmund’s fighting style had always been a mix of precision and brutality, and it was becoming clear that today would be no different. He was relentless, his strikes quick and unyielding, and though you were able to match him blow for blow, it was taking everything you had to keep up.
“You’re slipping,” Edmund said, his voice tinged with mockery as he lunged toward you again. “Getting tired?”
“Not yet,” you snarled, blocking his attack and countering with a sharp thrust of your own. Your sword grazed his arm, drawing a thin line of blood, and for the first time in the fight, you saw Edmund falter.
His eyes flickered with surprise as he looked down at the wound, and in that brief moment of distraction, you pressed your advantage. You swung your sword with renewed vigor, driving him back step by step. The tide of the fight had shifted, and for the first time in what felt like years, you could see a path to victory.
But then, just as quickly as it had appeared, your advantage was gone.
With a swift, almost casual motion, Edmund deflected your next strike and spun around, catching you off guard. His sword lashed out, sweeping your legs out from under you with a speed that left you breathless. Before you could even process what had happened, you were on the ground, the cold, wet mud soaking through your clothes.
You gasped for breath, your body aching from the fall. Pain radiated through your ribs, but before you could recover, Edmund was looming over you, his sword pointed directly at your throat.
For a moment, neither of you moved. You lay there, panting, staring up at him in disbelief. This was it. After all these years, after all the battles and near misses, it had finally come to an end. Edmund Pevensie had you at his mercy.
“Go on,” you spat, your voice rough and filled with defiance. “Finish it.”
Edmund’s face was expressionless as he stared down at you, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath. His sword didn’t waver, the cold steel pressing lightly against the delicate skin of your throat. But despite his position of power, despite the fact that he could end this with a single strike, something in his eyes told you he wouldn’t.
“I’m not going to kill you,” he said quietly, the words so unexpected that they seemed to hang in the air between you.
You blinked up at him, stunned into silence. This was a trick. It had to be. Edmund had never shown you mercy before, so why now? “What?” you breathed, your voice barely audible over the din of the battle.
“I said I’m not going to kill you,” Edmund repeated, his voice steady but lacking the usual coldness that colored his words. He sheathed his sword and extended a hand toward you. “Get up.”
You stared at his outstretched hand like it was a viper about to strike. Your mind raced, trying to make sense of what was happening. This was Edmund Pevensie—your sworn enemy. The one person you had spent years fighting against, the one you had sworn to defeat at any cost. And now he was offering you his hand?
“What are you playing at?” you demanded, still lying in the mud, too stunned to move. “Is this some kind of game to you?”
Edmund’s gaze didn’t waver. “No game,” he said firmly. “This doesn’t have to end with one of us dead.”
His words hit you like a punch to the gut. This wasn’t the Edmund you knew. The Edmund you had fought time and time again would never say something like that. But as you searched his eyes, you realized that this Edmund, the one standing before you now, wasn’t the same boy you had fought all those years ago.
You hesitated, the weight of his offer hanging heavily in the air between you. Everything in you screamed to refuse, to push his hand away and continue the fight. But something in his eyes, something raw and unguarded, stopped you. It wasn’t just the offer of peace that he was extending—it was something deeper. Something unspoken.
Slowly, tentatively, you reached up and took his hand. His grip was strong as he pulled you to your feet, and for a brief moment, the world seemed to still. The battle continued to rage around you, but in that moment, it was as if the two of you were the only ones left.
You stood there, face to face, your hand still clasped in his. Your chest heaved with exertion, your body aching from the fight, but all you could focus on was the way Edmund’s gaze had softened, the way his eyes lingered on yours just a moment too long.
“What’s going on?” you asked quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “Why are you doing this?”
Edmund’s jaw tightened, and for a brief moment, you saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “Because I’m tired of this,” he admitted, his voice low but filled with a sincerity that caught you off guard. “This war, this fight... it doesn’t make sense anymore.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could say anything, a voice called out from behind you, cutting through the tension.
“Edmund!”
The sound of Peter’s voice brought you both crashing back to reality. You turned to see him striding toward you, his face set in a grim expression. Behind him, Susan stood with her bow drawn, her sharp eyes flicking between you and Edmund with suspicion.
Edmund quickly released your hand, his expression hardening as Peter approached. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had just shifted between you—something that couldn’t be undone.
Bruises and Lunch
The next day you were left to do what everyone else did. You kept your head down and did your school work. Going through the movements and giving open ended answers to anyone who spoke to you. Though your guides for the school were both out until lunch you sigh gently. When the bell rings for lunch you softly pull out your bento box. You had been waking up earlier than everyone and preparing your lunch before anyone would know. You made your way outside and sat under a tree as you used your backpack as a table. Setting your box down and running a hand through your hair. “Finally some peace and quiet for a little while.” You whisper as you open your box. Your favorite food inside. Carefully use your chopsticks to eat it. Looking up and watching around you as you watch Midoryia and Uraraka return. You smile gently at them but then know your moments of peace are gone and your mask must go back on. “Y/l/n! How are you?” Deku asks and you smile softly. His hair was disheveled on his head and he was breathing hard. By looking at him you could easily guess that he had either ran for a few miles or used his quirk. His uniform was wrinkled and shifted from his movements. Carefully setting his bag down and sitting near you. Deku relaxed a soft bit and sighs gently. “I’m alright.” You take another bite just in hopes that he would eat and not question you further. “Oh. Jiro told me you were avoiding others and keeping your head down.” He states and you stop eating to look up at him. “In truth I am still trying to settle in.” You state gently hating how he was reading into everything. You rub your thumbs together softly activating your quirk and breaking your thumbs and then fixing them. Keep your head down as you chew your lip softly. Why did the stupid broccoli boy have to call you out on everything. Why could he not keep his nose out of your business? Oh! Right! He is All Might’s projedity. You swallow as you speak again. “Doesn’t help that you all still have some down time. I don’t, I get stuck with doing everything you all did years ago.” You state and sigh. “Your days end at 4 and mine end at 1am.” You state and lean back, rubbing your head.
“So you have down time now right?” He asks. His head tilting softly as you nod. “Yeah, Usually do when it is lunch time.” You state and put another piece into your mouth and sigh looking down. “Then what would you do in your free time when in America?” He asks gently. You swallow as you think about it. In your spare time you were either beaten to a pulp or were training in some form of fighting. How could you tell that to anyone? You couldn’t tell anyone that you spent free time studying how to kill someone. You had to keep it a secret that you were truly just a wolf among sheep. You had to hide your teeth and your abilities to keep yourself safe. Now you had to figure out more of your untold story. “Usually I was in my MMA classes or stuff, otherwise I would draw.” You state and rub your head as swallow. He nods and smiles gently.
“Then why don't you show me some?” He asks standing up. You look up at him and notice he actually is quite solid and you could still think of exactly what to do to train it to him as well. You stand up and sigh. “I am not gonna go easy on you.” You look at him in warning and he grins. “I don’t expect you to. Just no quirks, deal?” He says and you nod. Nodding you stand up and move. Taking your school jacket off as he does too. You watch a bit and smile. You let the surroundings melt away. The thought of the fight being all that was on your mind. He was a foot taller than you and definitely heavier than you. You knew you needed to use his weight against him to do that you had to get him to either attack first or flip over him. Taking the time you need as you feel the grass give under your feet as you bolt forward. Rather than hitting him you use your energy to leap over him and land behind him. Taking your hands and grabbing his shoulders. Crouching down quickly as you flip him over you. Causing him to land flat on his stomach. Deku coughs and freezes a bit. Looking up at you as he moves his arms and jerks your feet from under you. You roll into the ground and kick his feet from your ankles. Dirt and grass staining your clothes once his grip was loose you jump up. Deku was back to his feet and you launched from your crotch onto him. The extra height you are able to reach a branch from the tree and you grab it, planting your feet on his chest and shoving him back. He stumbles back and you let go of the branch using your weight to take him down the rest of the way. Once he falls you smile down at him.
“HA!” You gleam and smile. “Got you!” You were sitting on his stomach and your legs were on his shoulders. He was looking up at you fully red. His hands out to his side as he looks at you. “Ga...Ga..Glad I could help.” He states. You grin a bit and nod. “Yeah thanks.” You look down at him realizing what position you are in. Your face flushes and you quickly pull away. Righting yourself and he rights himself as well. Both of you are slowly eating now as you were unsure what to say to him.
This is the cover for the Aphrodite and Angel of Death story, but I may change the title. I just think this is really nice, and thought you guys might like it♥️
@spideyyeet @purpleskiesstorm @moonysoftt @kawaiislimebananastudent @peterspideysstuff
Okay so here’s what’s happening.
First off I wanna apologize for not getting #25DaysOfDamerey published and out to this wonderful site on time. I didn’t expect a ton of stuff to come up in the last few weeks and that’s why I haven’t been posting. Illness and work as well as preparation for my finals (which are all done as of now 😅) I have no other reasons. I’ll try to make up for lost time over this week. Thank You for being so patient with me.
