#Maelstrom Command

[mtg-cards-hourly]

Maelstrom Nexus

Artist: Steven Belledin TCG Player Link Scryfall Link EDHREC Link

[brontios-helm]

Destiny 2: Commander And Company

[masterofthez]

After many recent disassembling, rebuilds, and upgrades, these are my current decks with commander and deck boxes

[retrocgads]

USA 1990

[morgana-ren]

i love angst, and i love your writing, but please, PLEASE, i beg you, could you write some hope of tav ever returning now that the imbecile, has realised the error of his ways 🥺😭 (either way, thank you so much, for all your astarion writtings, it has made me feel things, the angst is real and my masochistic heart loves it🥲)

First part of the story HERE

Common complaint I got on that one! So I fixed it just for y'all. This ending is much less sad and much more sappy, so here is the comfort you need after all that angst!

"Darling, will you smile for me? Just once more. Please--"

He feels her cheeks in his palms, the soft skin against his battle-hardened callouses. Desperation cradles his unbeating heart, and for a moment, the emotion is far too much. A searing flame after centuries of frost. A bonfire in a blizzard. It hurts-- it burns--

"My love, I just need you to--"

"Anything my lord, anything at all for you. Simply command me and I will do anything you ask."

"No, I can't-- I-- I won't do it. I won't. I won't!"

"My lord?"

Her head cocks, turning slowly to look upon him, but her eyes-- they are empty; beetle-black and hollow. Her smile is uncanny as a painted doll, her movements disjointed and inhuman. Her teeth are stained crimson with blood, dripping, dripping, ever dripping down, never swallowed, only pooling.

She is light as a feather as she slips away from him, her skin marbling into a sickly gray before ash spreads across her body as a disease, smearing her form into nothingness. Only her face is left untouched, pretty as porcelain, unflinching and unfalling save a small crack that splinters down from her forehead down to her eyes, revealing inky black abyss beneath.

"My lord-- Oh, my tender, vicious lord. I can feel your anguish-- your hunger. Devour me to be whole once more--"

Her blood smells of rot and she--

She is too far gone to save. Too far gone to ever be saved.

"I won't!"

Whirlwind. Pain. Confusion and dread and seeping anguish. A maelstrom of rage and all-consuming despair swelling from within his soul—

—his soul?

The world around him falls away, a wicked tornado thrashing him about, his mind howling in the eternal winds--

And suddenly he is in a chair.

Not a throne. A chair— and a rather uncomfortable one at that.

"What in the hells—"

His vision spins, nausea curling his gut into a wicked tide of sickness barely restrained by his teeth. He tastes stale blood crawling up his throat, threatening to overturn onto the faded rug beneath him.

"Did you see what you wished for, little spawn?"

The voice takes him by surprise. It is not hers, but another, less familiar voice. The wailing animal in his head retreats to a dull roar as his memory creeps back. A brightly colored tent assaults his vision, piecemeal rugs and odd, foreign trinkets abound on makeshift shelves, and before him sits a strange old woman, hood pulled heavy over her straggling gray hair.

"I-- What was that?"

He sees her cracked, aging lips upturn, gnarled hands placed protectively over a strange orb on the table touching his knees. "I have shown you your future, vampling. Was it to your liking?" Panic rises within his stomach again, and though he does not breathe, he clutches his chest. The smell of incense clogs his nostrils and again, the wave of sick threatens to spill forth. Wretched taste of metallic, aged blood sits heavy on his tongue, all sensation too much-- all of it too much.

"No-- No, that cannot be it!"

"This is your path, Pale Elf. The road you walk. The power you seek is well within your grasp, but as I told you before, it will cost you everything."

He vehemently shakes his head, denying it. Denying it before her and all the Gods.

"You told me upon entry that no price was too great for your reward. Do you still agree with this sentiment?"

"No! Not-- not her. Not her. Not that! I couldn't--"

"You can and you shall, sure as the moon follows the sun. You will have everything you ever wanted, but cost of this ritual is plain before you. You cared not for the many souls left to your mercy that are crushed beneath your tyrannical fist in your ascension, but what of the sole one that resides in your heart?"

Her. The light of his life. The air he breathes. The sun on his frigid flesh, the warmth that melts his icy heart.

"No," He hisses, trying to stand, but ultimately unable to muster the strength. "I won't! There-- There must be another way. Show me!"

"There is no other way," She says, solemnly. "It is inevitable."

He swallows down the information like a boulder lodged in his gullet. Her words echo endlessly in his mind, bouncing off the walls and lodging shards of ice directly in his soul.

"What if I-- What if I don't ascend? Tell me, what if I don't?"

She smiles again, teeth flashing through her thin lips. "That is another path, little elf." "I need to know. I-- I need certainty. I won't do this to her, but I--" He pauses, grappling with everything in his mind, desperately flitting about to absorb it all. "If I am going to forgo this, I need to be certain. I need to know that I can protect her, that she will be safe--"

But the woman simply shakes her head.

"Everyone must choose. For some, the path is dark, but for you, you see more than most will ever have the comfort of knowing. I can offer you nothing more. Should you initiate the Rite, you know this will come to pass. I can tell you nothing more if you choose to not. The future is yet unwritten, and the quill resides in your hands." "Then why can I not have both!" He slams a fist on the table, clawing at the soft wood. For the first time in ages, tears prick at his pale lashes and frustration wells a knot in his throat. "Why--" "Because one path is wholly your own, while the other is a tangled web, such is the nature of deals with the Hells. You will get everything you ever wanted and lose everything that made it worth having."

His head slumps, defeated and miserable. Silvery tears slide down the curves of his cheeks, even as he attempts to bite them back. He thought he would find comfort in knowing the future, but all it has given him is utter horror.

"Despair not," She continues. "Yes, you will wither under the sun, an eternally cursed dweller of the night, but all is not lost, is it? The one you love, will she stray from your side?" "I wanted her to have better than that," He sniffles, needling his lip with a fang. "I cannot brave the sun, but her-- She deserves better than that-- better than me."

"And what of what she feels?"

His brows furrow, and he peers up at the woman from tear-beaded lashes.

"You are a night walker; it is in your nature to be selfish. But love is not selfish, little vampling. You must fight your nature, your inherent self-loathing, or your love will always find the fire. What of what she desires?"

"She loves me," He says with absolute certainty. "And I--" "Do you love her?"

"Yes," He hisses, almost insulted that she would ask. "More than anything. I'm here, aren't I?"

"Then the rest matters naught. If you love her, you will allow her the agency to choose-- something you deny her as an ascendent. You must grow past your own follies. To love is to be vulnerable, and you must allow both yourself and her this freedom."

They are hard words to swallow, and yet, he feels the truth resound in them. She would not leave his side, even as he tried to force her to understand. Even as an instrument of his manipulation and schemes came to light, she stood steadfast with him, hand entwined in his, ready to face the fire together.

"I-- I need to know she will be safe."

Again, the woman shakes her head. "You cannot. You must fight fate if you wish to overturn it. You face dire odds, though throwing the dice in your favor now will doom you later should this outcome be the confirmation of your fears."

He sighs, face crinkling as he sniffs once more, summoning the willpower to swallow down the agony of his choice. He finds the strength in his legs to push himself upward from the chair, weak and shaking as a newborn fawn as he does so. "I will do whatever I need to. Anything."

"Then you may yet see this through."

He can hear the fanfare of the circus outside, the bawdy bards strumming away on their lutes and banging on drums, the elated screams of the children and their parents. Facing the light now seems impossible, but he must find his way home to her-- he has to be with her now now now--

"The coin first, boy."

He snaps out of his delirium only long enough to fish his hands into one of his pockets, bringing out a coin. Aged and neglected, the sinister engraving of a skull peers up at him from his palm, ruby eyes gleaming in the light as he tosses it into the woman's knobbily-jointed hands.

"Best of luck to you, night-child," She tucks it away. "We may yet meet again." "No offense, but I hope not."

"Me too, Little Star."

He pays little mind to the bustling streets and bursting taverns of Baldur's Gate, his feet carrying him back to camp as swiftly as his body will allow. It takes him until sundown even as he damn near jobs, ripping through the tree line and into the ruins with the intensity of a man starved.

"Astarion!" Karlach greets him, trying to wave him over. "I've got a bet with Gale about--" "Where is she?" Astarion immediately cuts her off, looking around frantically.

"Who?" Karlach raises a brow.

"Who else?" Wyll crosses his arms, looking intrigued at Astarion's intensity.

"Oh! In her tent, I think. Why? Gotcha a special something' in town for her, eh?" Karlach tries to rib at him, but he pushes past her without a second glance.

"Bet it's a fancy new dress he needs to tear off of her immediately," Karlach rolls her eyes before returning to her business.

He bursts into her tent to find her hunched over a book, tongue poking from between her teeth, as she scans over the page. This only lasts a few seconds before he scrambles onto the bed, squeezing her as tightly as he can manage, burying his nose into her hair, tears brimming in his eyes once more.

"Woah, hey!" She laughs, carefully setting her book aside, trying to discern what in the hells he is mumbling endlessly into her neck.

Need you-- need you-- love you-- can't lose you-- don't ever--

She hushes him, realizing something has gone terribly, terribly wrong, kissing his head and tugging him close. "Hey, what's wrong?"

She tries to cup his cheeks and bring his face up but he adamantly refuses, hard-swallowing the urge to bawl into her shoulder with every ounce of willpower he has. All he can manage is to cling to her, half sobbing, visions of that terrible future swimming in his head. He cannot let it come to pass, he will not--

And she holds him, cradling him in her arms, hushing him gently. Her face creases with worry, running her hands through his silvery hair as he pulls him into her lap.

"Little Star, what's wrong? You seem so upset. What can I do to make you happy, my love?"

"Is it done?" Ulma leans down as she enters the tent, carefully dodging the intricate tassels of the blanket strewn over the entryway.

"It is," The strange old woman replies, still rubbing the coin with her worn thumb.

"And?"

"I showed him nothing but truth," She says quietly. "I did not manipulate his vision. Only channeled it."

"That tells me nothing. I need to know if our children are safe."

"I cannot tell you this, Ulma. You know of the ways of our tribe; our relationship with these magics." Ulma's lips purse, her exasperation evident in her humorless expression. "I need to know--"

"His reaction was genuine. That was not my doing. He knows the price of power. I cannot tell you if he will pay it regardless," The old woman's head lifts, a slight mischievous smile playing on her lips. "But I can tell you what I think."

"And what do you think?"

"I have seen his soul-- the heart of it. I believe you will see our children yet. He will spare our heart to spare his own in kind. It beats in that woman," Her eyes twinkle in the low candlelight, a genuine smile widening across her cheeks. "I believe he can find redemption yet."

[novaursa]

Eternal Blaze

- Summary: You go after Aegon with your dragon to fight at Rook's Rest.

- Paring: reader (twin!wife)/Aegon II

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N and has same shade of eyes as Aegon. The reader is bonded with a dragon called Starfyre. For full chronological order of these works visit my blog. The list is pinned on the top. Or, you can read it as a one-shot.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 2 475

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

You soar through the skies atop Starfyre, her gleaming silver scales reflecting the sunlight, with hints of pale blue and alabaster shimmering underneath. Starfyre’s powerful wings beat in rhythm with your heart, carrying you swiftly to the battlefield at Rook’s Rest. Below, the chaos of war unfolds, but your focus remains on the sky, where your twin brother and husband, King Aegon II, battles Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was.

The air is thick with the scent of blood and smoke. You can hear the clash of steel and the screams of men, but above all, you hear the roars of dragons. Starfyre lets out a fierce cry, a call to her brother and mate, Sunfyre, as you near the fray.

In the sky, you see them: Aegon on Sunfyre, his golden scales glowing fiercely, locked in combat with Rhaenys on Meleys, the Red Queen. Meleys clamps her jaws around Sunfyre’s neck, and your heart skips a beat. Without hesitation, you urge Starfyre forward.

"To Aegon, my love," you command, your voice steady despite the turmoil within.

Starfyre responds with a burst of speed, her silver form cutting through the air like a comet. You reach the battle just as Aegon lets out a cry of pain and fury.

"Y/N!" Aegon shouts, his voice strained. "Help me!"

You and Starfyre dive at Meleys, claws extended and jaws snapping. Starfyre's roar echoes through the sky as she rakes her talons across Meleys' crimson scales. Rhaenys turns her attention to you, her eyes blazing with fury.

"Y/N, you traitorous wretch!" she yells over the roar of the dragons. "You will fall today!"

Your only response is a determined glare as Starfyre breathes a stream of pale yellow fire at Meleys. The heat is intense, and the air sizzles with the clash of flames. Meleys releases Sunfyre, turning her wrath on you and Starfyre.

Aegon, though injured, maneuvers Sunfyre to attack from the other side. "Hold on, Y/N! For the throne, for our family!"

You nod, feeling the bond between you and your brother strengthen. Starfyre and Sunfyre, born of the same clutch, fight with a ferocity unmatched. However, Meleys is a formidable opponent, her jaws snapping dangerously close to you more than once.

Suddenly, Aemond and Vhagar join the battle. Vhagar's ancient form casts a massive shadow over the battlefield. Aemond circles above, waiting for the right moment to strike. The combined might of Sunfyre, Starfyre, and Vhagar seems overwhelming, but Rhaenys is undeterred.

"Burn them all, Meleys!" Rhaenys commands.

Meleys unleashes a torrent of dragonfire, and the world around you becomes a blaze of red and gold. You feel the searing heat as Starfyre is engulfed in flames, her scales sizzling. She cries out in pain, but you hold firm, determined to protect Aegon.

Aemond seizes the moment, Vhagar's massive jaws closing around Meleys. The Red Queen thrashes, but Vhagar's grip is unyielding. Meleys' death throes are violent, and in her desperation, she lashes out one final time, her flames mingling with those of Vhagar, Sunfyre, and Starfyre.

The sky is a maelstrom of fire and blood. You hear Aegon scream, a sound of both rage and agony, as Sunfyre crashes to the ground, one wing half-torn from his body. You reach out, but it is too late. You can only watch as your husband and his dragon fall in a blaze of fire.

"Aegon!" you scream, your voice raw with despair.

Starfyre, grievously injured, struggles to stay aloft. Her once gleaming silver scales are now scorched and bloodied. You hold on tightly as she begins to falter, the strength draining from her with each beat of her wings.

"Hold on, Starfyre," you whisper, your voice trembling. "Just a little longer."

But the effort is too great. With a final, mournful roar, Starfyre's wings buckle, and you begin to fall. The ground rushes up to meet you, and the world around you becomes a blur of smoke and flames. The sound of your descent is like thunder, a deafening crash that echoes through the battlefield.

As you fall, you think of Aegon, of your love and your shared dreams. You reach out, as if you could grasp him from the air. The last thing you see before darkness claims you is the shattered form of Sunfyre, and the knowledge that you fought together until the end.

The ground trembles beneath the onrush of Criston Cole and his men, their armor clanking and weapons drawn. The sight that greets them is one of devastation and heartache. Smoke and dust fill the air, mingling with the acrid stench of burnt flesh and dragonfire.

Starfyre, despite her grievous wounds, has crawled over to Sunfyre. Her body, a gleaming silver now tarnished with blood and ash, curls protectively around her brother. Sunfyre, his golden form marred and broken, lies motionless beneath her. The two dragons, once the epitome of beauty and strength, now lay in a pitiable heap, their breaths shallow and labored.

Cole’s eyes scan the battlefield until they fall upon the twins. Aegon and Y/N lie side by side, their bodies bruised and bloodied. Aegon’s one side is horrifically burned, his armor melted and fused to his flesh, the pungent smell of charred meat filling the air. His ribs and hip are shattered, his breathing ragged and uneven. Beside him, Y/N is no better off, her body covered in bruises, blood trickling from her nose and mouth with each strained breath.

“Over here! Quickly!” Cole shouts, his voice urgent and commanding. “The King and Queen need immediate aid!”

The soldiers rush forward, their faces pale with fear and determination. As they reach the fallen royals, Aemond descends from the sky atop Vhagar, the massive dragon landing with a ground-shaking thud. Vhagar’s ancient eyes survey the scene with an almost sorrowful gaze, while Aemond dismounts swiftly, his usual cold demeanor shattered by the sight of his siblings.

“Aegon! Y/N!” Aemond cries, rushing to their side. He falls to his knees beside Aegon, his hands trembling as he reaches out to touch his brother’s charred form. “Brother, hold on. Help is here.”

Aegon’s eyes flutter open, pain and exhaustion etched deeply into his features. “Aemond…” he rasps, his voice barely a whisper. “Protect… her…”

Aemond nods, his eye glistening with unshed tears. “I will. I swear it.”

Y/N’s breaths come in shallow gasps, her eyes barely open, but she reaches out weakly towards Aegon. “Aegon…” she murmurs, her voice frail. “Together…”

Aegon’s hand, though shaking with pain, reaches out to grasp hers. “Always,” he breathes, the simple word carrying the weight of their bond.

Criston Cole watches, his expression grim but resolute. “We need to get them to the maesters. Now!”

The soldiers work quickly, lifting the twins with as much care as possible. Their bodies are fragile, and every movement elicits groans of pain. As they are carried away, Starfyre lets out a weak, mournful cry, her eyes following them until they are out of sight. She then curls tighter around Sunfyre, her protective instinct undiminished by her injuries.

Aemond stands, his gaze hardening as he looks at Cole. “Rhaenys and Meleys may be gone, but this war is far from over. We must regroup and prepare for what comes next.”

Cole nods, his face set in determination. “Aye, my Prince. We’ll see to the wounded and fortify our defenses. The realm needs its King and Queen alive.”

As they move to attend to the aftermath of the battle, Aemond casts one last look at the fallen dragons and his injured siblings. He vows silently that their sacrifice will not be in vain, and that the bloodshed at Rook’s Rest will be avenged.

In the depths of unconsciousness, you relive your last night with Aegon. The memory is vivid, as if it were happening all over again. The firelight from the hearth bathed your chamber in a warm, flickering glow. Aegon's eyes, the same shade as yours, were filled with a mixture of determination and a tenderness reserved only for you. 

That night, the world outside ceased to exist. The war, the politics, the looming battle at Rook’s Rest—all faded away in the sanctity of your shared moments. Aegon’s touch was fervent, his kisses desperate, as if he were trying to etch the memory of you into his soul. You responded with equal passion, your hands exploring the familiar planes of his body, every scar and contour telling a story of shared history and love.

“Aegon,” you whispered, your voice a mix of longing and love. “Promise me we’ll come back to this.”

His lips trailed from your neck to your ear, his breath hot and uneven. “I promise, Y/N. We’ll always find our way back to each other.”

Your bodies moved in perfect synchrony, each touch, each kiss, a silent vow of your unbreakable bond. The world might be at war, but in that moment, it was just the two of you, lost in each other, making love with a fervor that spoke of both desperation and eternal devotion.

The memory fades, and you are pulled back to the present by a wave of excruciating pain. Your body feels heavy and foreign, each breath a struggle. Slowly, you open your eyes, the bright light of the room blinding you for a moment. As your vision clears, you see your mother, Dowager Queen Alicent, sitting by your bedside, her face etched with worry.

"Mother?" you croak, your voice barely a whisper.

Alicent’s eyes widen in relief and she quickly leans forward, grasping your hand gently. "Y/N, thank the gods you’re awake."

You try to sit up, but the pain is too much. Every part of your body protests, and you fall back onto the pillows with a groan. Beside you, Aegon lies unconscious, his face pale and drawn, the sight of him sending a fresh wave of fear through you.

"Aegon…" you murmur, reaching out weakly towards him.

Alicent’s expression hardens slightly as she follows your gaze. "He is alive, but his injuries are severe," she says, her voice a mixture of relief and reproach. "You should never have gone after him, Y/N. You risked your life recklessly."

Her words sting, but you can see the fear and concern in her eyes. "I couldn’t let him fight alone," you reply, your voice strained. "He is my twin, my other half."

Alicent sighs, her grip on your hand tightening. "I understand your love, but you are the Queen. Your duty is to your people as well as to Aegon. If both of you were lost…" Her voice breaks slightly, and she takes a moment to compose herself. "The realm needs its King and Queen, Y/N. We cannot afford to lose either of you."

Tears well up in your eyes, partly from the pain and partly from the weight of her words. "I know, Mother. I know."

Alicent’s expression softens, and she brushes a strand of hair from your face. "Rest now. The maesters are doing everything they can. We will get through this, but you must be strong. For Aegon, for the realm, and for yourself."

You nod weakly, the exhaustion overwhelming you. As you close your eyes, you feel Alicent’s comforting presence beside you, her hand never leaving yours. The last thing you see before sleep claims you again is Aegon’s still form, and you silently vow to be there for him, just as he has always been there for you.

The room is dimly lit, the only light coming from the flickering candles casting shadows on the walls. You are barely awake, drifting in and out of consciousness for days now. The pain is a constant companion, a dull ache that ebbs and flows with every shallow breath. The maesters have done what they can, but their prognosis remains grim. Your fate, they say, is now in the hands of the gods.

Aemond enters quietly, his usual confident stride subdued by worry. He pauses at the foot of the bed, his gaze moving between you and Aegon. Orwyle, who left a few hours ago, had briefed him on your condition earlier.

“She suffered severe internal bleeding,” Orwyle had explained, his voice heavy with concern. “Her fate is uncertain. We’ve done all we can. Now, we must pray.”

Aemond steps closer, his face a mask of determination hiding his worry. He sits beside you, his presence a solid, reassuring anchor in the storm of your pain.

“Y/N,” he says softly, reaching out to take your hand. “Can you hear me?”

You manage a slight nod, your eyes fluttering open. “Aemond…” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “Our dragons�� Starfyre and Sunfyre… how are they?”

Aemond’s jaw tightens, but he answers with as much calm as he can muster. “Both are grievously wounded but alive. Starfyre and Sunfyre are being tended to. Ser Criston ordered his men to feed them with the bodies of fallen soldiers until a steady source of cattle can be provided.”

A flicker of relief crosses your face. “Good… they need to be strong.”

Before Aemond can respond, Aegon stirs beside you, his face contorted in agony. He awakens with a gasp, his eyes wide with pain and fear. “Y/N… where is Y/N?” he croaks, his voice thick with desperation.

“I’m here, Aegon,” you whisper, mustering all your strength to squeeze his hand. “I’m right here.”

Aegon’s eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, the pain seems to lessen. He clutches your hand tightly, his grip trembling. “Don’t leave me,” he pleads, his voice breaking.

“I won’t, ” you promise, forcing a weak smile.

Aemond watches the exchange, his heart heavy with emotion. He feels a surge of protectiveness, vowing silently to do whatever it takes to keep you both safe.

“I’ll get Orwyle,” Aemond says, standing up. “You need more care, both of you.”

He leaves the room swiftly, his mind racing with thoughts of how to ensure your recovery. As he walks through the corridors, he passes soldiers and servants, all bowing respectfully, their faces lined with worry. He finally reaches the maester’s chambers and bursts in.

“Orwyle, they need you. Now,” Aemond commands, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Orwyle nods, gathering his tools and potions quickly. “I will do everything in my power, Prince Aemond,” he assures, following him back to your chambers.

Upon their return, Orwyle immediately begins to tend to you and Aegon, checking wounds, administering potions, and murmuring prayers under his breath. Aemond stands by, his presence a silent promise of protection and support.

As you drift back into a fitful sleep, the last thing you feel is Aegon’s hand in yours, a small comfort in the midst of your suffering. Aemond watches over you both, his heart a mixture of hope and fear, determined that the gods will grant you the strength to survive this ordeal.

[oldschoolfrp]

Flight to the Star Kingdoms -- The party commands a fleet of ships at sea, passing through a magical storm into a void between worlds (Valerie Valusek, D&D module M1: Into the Maelstrom, TSR, 1985)

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Eighty-Six

The next few weeks at Dragonstone passed swiftly as there was much to do. After seemingly coming to a stall once the dragonseeds had left to take Tumbleton, reinforcements finally arrived. The castle bustled with activity, the sound of preparations and strategy discussions echoing through the halls.

A new Small Council had formed at Dragonstone since the previous council was overthrown in the Capital. With the arrival of Lord Commander Criston Cole and Unwin Peake from Harrenhal, along with the unexpected presence of Lord Larys Strong, deliberations began on how the Greens would retake King's Landing. The war room was frequently occupied, maps and parchments scattered across the table as heated discussions ensued. Yet, despite the fervent brainstorming, the ideas suggested so far proved unsuccessful, each plan encountering insurmountable obstacles.

Aemond, anticipating the need for sound medical and scholarly advice, had written to the Citadel, requesting a Maester to join them at Dragonstone. The Citadel responded affirmatively, agreeing to send a number of candidates from which the royal couple could choose who would serve as the Grand Maester on the newly formed Small Council.

However, it became evident that the selected Maester would not arrive in time for Maera’s birth, which was now predicted to be a mere fortnight away. When she first found out she was pregnant, Maester Orwyle had examined her carefully, his face lined with concern and concentration. “The very end of the eighth moon,” he predicted with a note of finality.

In the meantime, Maera remained resolute, continuing her duties despite the increasing burden of her pregnancy. Her steps were slower, her movements more deliberate, but her spirit remained unyielding. She attended council meetings alongside Aemond, her presence a silent reminder of the stakes involved and the future they fought for.

With the arrival of the boats from both Harrenhal and King's Landing, Maera found her belongings slowly filtering their way through Dragonstone and ending up back in her possession. Each day brought new parcels and crates, some familiar and comforting, others a stark reminder of the upheaval they had endured.

She was sure that Lord Unwin Peake had grabbed what he could from her rooms in the Riverlands after he received the summons. The items were neatly packed, a testament to Unwin's efficiency. But it was Lord Larys who had brought her belongings from the Red Keep, and Maera still did not trust him. The thought of him personally going through her property made her shudder. He was a creep, and his unsettling presence always seemed to lurk just at the edge of her awareness.

As she unpacked her things, Maera experienced some sadness that not all of her possessions had found their way back to her. She knew this was a time of war, and the Lords had probably only grabbed what they deemed as essentials. Still, it pained her to think of the personal items lost in the chaos, relics of her past now scattered or gone forever.

Among the returned belongings, her black and gold dresses emerged, rich fabrics glinting in the torchlight. Her jewels, too, were there, glittering with the promise of better days. Books she had collected over the years, their pages worn from frequent reading, were stacked carefully in a corner. Some of her weapons had also arrived, including her old hunting bow and a spear sent from Dermot years ago.

Despite the arrival of her possessions, Maera found she couldn't use most of them so late in her pregnancy. The journey on Ēbrion to Dragonstone had weakened her previous injuries, forcing her to take a break from riding on dragonback. The thought of mounting a dragon now was unbearable; her body ached in ways she had never imagined, and the weight of her unborn child made every movement a laborious effort.

There was no way she could use her bow, her swords, or her spear. She was too exhausted just from walking up the stairs, let alone sparring outside. The very idea of engaging in combat or even practicing her skills felt like a distant memory, a part of her life that seemed almost unattainable in her current state. Her once agile body was now cumbersome, each step a reminder of her physical limitations.

The only thing she could do was write letters to her allies. She spent hours at her desk, scribbling replies diligently, aware of the importance of maintaining these connections. Many letters needed to be written, but the task quickly grew tiresome. The monotony of correspondence weighed heavily on her, draining her spirit. There seemed to be no time for fun or joy.

Is this what being a Princess was supposed to be? she wondered, frustration bubbling beneath her composed exterior. Even her giving birth, something she had once envisioned as a deeply personal and private experience, was now a matter of national importance. Her womb was no longer just hers; it was a vessel for the future of the realm, scrutinized and monitored by those who saw her child as a pawn in their political game.

Maera sighed, setting her quill down for a moment, her hand aching from the relentless writing. She looked around at the familiar trappings of her past life—dresses, jewels, books, weapons—all now out of reach, relics of a time when she felt in control of her destiny. The once comforting presence of these items now only served to highlight her current helplessness.

She rubbed her swollen belly, feeling the baby kick beneath her hand. There was a glimmer of hope in that tiny movement, a reminder that despite everything, life continued to grow within her. It was a small solace, but enough to keep her going through the long, tedious days.

The tender moment was interrupted when Maera’s chamber doors opened. Aemond entered, his straight silver hair swaying as he walked, cutting a striking figure in his own clothes. The green tunic he wore reminded Maera of her father’s eyes, her own eyes. She wondered if their child would have her eyes too.

There was still tension between the couple, both walking on a knife’s edge when interacting with each other. They remained separate most days, apart from the few short hours they would spend eating a meal together. Depending on the atmosphere, sometimes the meals were filled with idle chatter, and other times, deathly harsh silence.

Maera rose from her seat, one hand on her stomach and the other on the back of her chair, pushing herself to stand. The pressure on her back and stomach, as well as her injured leg and arm, was intense, but she managed. Once stood up straight, she sighed in relief and bid her husband a respectful nod.

“Is there anything you need, my Prince?” she asked, confusion in her voice.

Before Aemond could answer, a flurry of stewards entered, carrying wooden chests, which only heightened Maera’s confusion. She glanced at Aemond, searching for an explanation in his stern features. His violet eye, usually sharp and calculating, softened slightly as he looked at her.

“I’m not sure how long we’ll be here. At the very least, we won’t leave till you’re recovered from birth,” Aemond said before gesturing to the chests now being placed around the room. “I thought I would bring you some things to pass the time.”

The Princess blinked, momentarily at a loss for words. She watched as the stewards opened the chests, revealing a plethora of art supplies. The vibrant colors in the paint pots and variety of materials were overwhelming.

There were thick, rich reds and blues, delicate pastels, earthy tones, and metallic hues that shimmered in the light. Brushes of all sizes and shapes were meticulously organized, from fine-tipped for detailed work to broad, flat ones for sweeping strokes. Sponges of varying textures and shapes promised endless possibilities for creative expression. The parchments and canvases were of the highest quality, their pristine surfaces waiting to be transformed by Maera’s touch.

Aemond stood back, observing her reaction. His usual sternness was softened by a hint of anticipation, as if hoping this gesture might bridge the widening gap between them.

“This… this is thoughtful,” she said, her voice catching slightly as she ran her fingers over the tops of the paint pots. “Thank you.”

The one-eyed Prince nodded, his expression still serious but with a hint of relief in his eye. “I thought you might find some solace in it. You painted frequently at home.”

Maera smiled faintly, the tension between them easing just a fraction. She could see a glimmer of hope in his eye, a momentary easing of the tension that had plagued their relationship.

Aemond looked down, his long silver hair cascading over his shoulders as he avoided her gaze. After a moment, he suggested, “Perhaps you would join me for dinner this evening as well?”

Maera paused, uncertain. His gesture was thoughtful, yes, and it did clear the air slightly. But there was still a long way to go. “I require my rest this evening,” she replied politely, her voice tinged with hesitation.

Her husband nodded, his stern face masking the disappointment that flickered in his eye. He looked away, the muscles in his jaw tightening briefly. With a sigh, Maera then suggested, “But maybe we could break our fast together in the morning.”

Aemond’s expression softened slightly, and he agreed with a small smile. He reached for her hand, his touch gentle yet firm, and placed a small kiss upon it. The warmth of his lips sent a rush of unexpected emotion through Maera, causing her face to blush.

The Prince lingered for a moment more, his thumb caressing the sapphire and gold ring he had given her. The gesture was intimate, filled with unspoken words and unexpressed feelings. He then turned on his heel and left, his presence lingering in the room even after he had gone. Maera couldn’t deny the butterflies she felt at the thought of breaking their fast together, a fleeting smile forming on her lips.

The days grew longer, and for Maera, time seemed to stretch interminably. For the majority of her marriage, she had been pregnant, a state of being that was all too familiar for noble ladies of her status. It was common for them to be with child almost every year, a cruel arrangement that seemed to trap them in a cycle of childbirth until they could no longer bear it.

Preparations for Maera’s impending labor continued in earnest. The midwives were put on high alert, their presence a constant reminder of the imminent arrival. The chambers were meticulously readied with the necessary supplies, an array of linens, herbs, and tools placed strategically for the moment of need. Aemond, though often occupied with his duties, enquired about her well-being daily, either directly or indirectly through the castle staff. His concern was a small comfort in the midst of her growing discomfort.

The months had completely transformed Maera, both emotionally and physically. The trauma of war had left indelible marks on her spirit, and the rapid changes in her body were no less overwhelming. Her curvaceous figure had morphed into something unrecognizable, her body adapting to the demands of the growing life within her. Maera’s hips had widened, her breasts were harder than rocks, her muscles ached tremendously, and after all of her suffering, she had still not given birth.

The babe, now nine days late, seemed determined to take its time. Maera, exhausted and increasingly agitated, found herself in a constant state of anticipation.

The midwives assured her repeatedly that all was well. The babe within her kicked and wriggled energetically, a sign of its robust health. It was in the right position for birth, they said, and everything was progressing as it should. And yet, the birth did not come. Maera’s frustration grew with each passing day, her patience wearing thin as she awaited the moment that would finally bring an end to this prolonged ordeal.

Her concern grew as each day passed without the presence of a Maester. She remembered that Maesters were typically present at births when complications arose, so their absence must have been a positive sign from the Gods, indicating that her labor would be swift and uncomplicated, with no need for medical intervention. But if all was to be well, why was the baby still not here?!

The midwives had suggested confinement to minimize stress and give Maera a chance to take in the sight of her newly furnished chamber. The room was now adorned with a cradle, baby clothes, and soft rugs, intended to create a comforting environment and potentially jumpstart her labor. However, to Maera, the room seemed to taunt her, rubbing it in her face that the child had not yet come. The thought of staring at the same four walls endlessly filled her with dread, knowing she would go insane if she remained confined.

Desperate for a distraction and some semblance of control, Maera sought refuge in Dragonstone's library. She pulled out a number of books and scrolls, searching through ancient texts and medical treatises in a futile attempt to find something, anything, that might relieve her suffering and allow the babe to come.

After poring over several books, Maera finally stumbled upon sections related to pregnancy and childbirth. Over the course of a few days, she attempted numerous strategies to initiate her labor. She found recipes for spicy teas and drank them, but nothing happened. Determined, she took vigorous walks around the castle, pushing through the pain in her leg and the exhaustion that accompanied her efforts. Yet, there was still no sign of the baby’s arrival.

One morning, Maera awoke to a sudden pain, her abdomen squeezing and releasing for a few seconds. Her heart leapt with hope. Finally, some movement. However, as she turned in her bed, the pain subsided. Perplexed and cautiously optimistic, Maera summoned the midwives.

Upon examining her, the midwives declared the pains to be ‘false contractions.’ While they reassured her that this was a good sign, indicating that her body was preparing for labor, it did not mean the labor was beginning. Maera huffed in frustration, feeling the weight of disappointment. It was back to the drawing board.

Determined not to give up, she resumed her search for solutions, combing through more texts and experimenting with different methods, all while the anticipation and tension grew within her. Each moment felt like an eternity as she yearned for the arrival of her child, hoping that soon, her efforts would finally bear fruit.

After another evening of tireless reading in hopes of finding a miracle cure for her ailments, Maera finally stumbled upon something promising. The practice was outdated and certainly frowned upon by the Faith, but she had already done things the Gods would not approve of. She resolved to ask for forgiveness later.

The text she found described a method first documented in Old Valyria during the time of Aenar Targaryen, her ancestor who relocated his House to Dragonstone. If it had worked for her ancestors, surely it must work for her, she concluded. The excitement and desperation mingled within her, pushing her to try this ancient practice.

Maera made her way back to her chambers and summoned the midwives once again. They strongly advised against it, citing that she should allow nature to take its course as the Gods intended. Maera rolled her eyes at their caution. Surely the Mother and Maiden would understand her plight?

Ignoring their protests, she ordered the maids to dress her in a black sheer nightdress that accentuated every single curve of her body. Her hair fell loose into curls, a beautiful mix of brown and silver. She dabbed some perfume onto her neck and wrists, the scent of jasmine and vanilla filling the air, before leaving her room.

“I was not expecting you here this evening.”

The stone walls of the room were adorned with tapestries depicting the fiery history of House Targaryen, their dragons soaring majestically over battlefields and burning cities. Heavy wooden furniture, intricately carved with dragon motifs, filled the room, and the hearth was always alight, casting a warm glow over the dark stone and keeping the chill at bay.

Now that Aemond had unpacked his belongings, the room began to reflect his character. His polished armor and weapons were meticulously arranged on stands and racks, each piece gleaming and well-cared for. Books on history, warfare, and Valyrian lore were stacked neatly on shelves, alongside maps and scrolls detailing strategies that could be used in the ongoing war. A dark green tapestry bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen hung prominently on one wall, a symbol of his allegiance and ambition.

When Aemond entered his chambers, he furrowed his brow, seeing the shadow of a stranger perched upon his bed. His hand instinctively went to his sword, but as he drew closer, he was met with the sight of his wife in her sheer black nightgown. His violet eye quickly widened, taking in the sight of her fully, his gaze raking up her body.

Maera attempted to appear desirable, though she felt nothing of the sort. Her heart pounded with nerves, and her body ached from the weight of her pregnancy and the exhaustion of her efforts. She resolved that this was merely a transaction to get what she needed and would attempt to play her part convincingly.

The Princess took a deep breath and met his gaze, her voice soft but steady. “Me neither,” she replied, her tone attempting to be sultry despite her inner turmoil.

Aemond's eye swept over Maera's form one last time, lingering on the curves accentuated by her sheer nightgown. Then, without a word, he moved to sit on the chair next to the dresser, beginning to unbuckle his boots. Maera sighed, realizing she needed to be more direct.

"I require your assistance," she stated, trying to keep her voice steady.

Aemond's eye flicked up as he removed his boots, repeating her words as if trying to make sense of them. "My assistance?"

Maera nodded and gestured to her swollen stomach. "I'm exhausted," she explained, her frustration evident. "And if I hear one more midwife telling me to relax for the sake of the baby, I will burn this castle down."

Aemond breathed out a laugh, the sound unexpected but welcome. He then began to unbuckle his dark green doublet, agonizingly slowly, and Maera could not tear her gaze away. When he removed it, leaving him in just his cotton shirt and trousers, he looked at her with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “So what do you need from me?”

She gulped, attempting not to be overcome by desire for her husband. Despite her anger and the gulf between them, the sight of him stirred emotions she could not easily suppress. "For you to perform your duty," she said, trying to maintain her composure.

Aemond tilted his head, confusion evident in his eye. Maera clenched her jaw, frustration and longing mixing in her voice as she clarified, "The marital act, Aemond.”

The Prince smirked, a glint of amusement in his eye. "It's already evident that I have performed my duty," he replied, gesturing to her rounded abdomen.

Maera dug her nails into her palm, the sharpness of her frustration growing as she tried to explain herself. "I read in a Valyrian tome that the act can bring forth labor towards the end of pregnancy," she reiterated, her voice carrying a mixture of urgency and irritation.

Aemond nodded slowly, his violet eye studying her with a hint of amusement dancing beneath the surface. He raised his brow for a moment, as if pondering her words, before decisively removing his cotton shirt. The action revealed his lean, muscular form, marked with scars that told tales of battles fought and dangers faced. Despite her current state of mind, Maera couldn't deny that he was undeniably handsome, and the sight of him after their prolonged separation only served to intensify her desire.

Pulling his silver hair free from its confines, Aemond's locks cascaded over his broad shoulders, framing his sharp features with a striking contrast. He spoke in a low, measured voice, his words laden with a subtle challenge, "Well then, wife, all you need do is simply ask me.”

“…ask you?” She parroted, her mind racing to comprehend his meaning.

“Yes.” Aemond stepped closer, looming over her on the bed, his presence commanding and magnetic. He leaned down slightly, bringing his face closer to hers, and repeated in that same low tone, "Ask me."

Her breath quickened in response to the intensity of his gaze and the proximity of his body. A mixture of anger and longing churned within her as she felt his deliberate attempt to tease and provoke her. She clenched her jaw, fighting the inner turmoil of pride battling against desperate need.

Their eyes locked, and in that charged moment, Maera felt the room shrink around them, the air thick with unresolved tension. She struggled to maintain her composure, her hands trembling slightly at her sides. Despite her determination to resist, a part of her yearned to surrender to the allure of his presence, to bridge the emotional chasm that had grown between them.

The Princess rose abruptly from the bed, her hands pressing firmly on Aemond's shoulders as she shoved him backwards. Her breath was quick, eyes flashing with a mix of frustration and defiance.

"Coming here was a mistake," she declared sharply, her voice tinged with anger. She turned away from him, walking briskly towards his dresser. Running her fingers through her curls, she decided to play Aemond's game of cat and mouse. "It's a pity Hugh Hammer has already left," she remarked coolly, her tone laced with provocation. "He would have jumped at the chance to bed me."

Maera heard him storming towards her, and she glanced into the mirror to see his looming figure behind her. Before she could react, his arm darted forward, grabbing her neck and yanking her backwards. She gasped as her back pressed against his bare torso, feeling the tension radiating off him.

“You would dare let someone touch you?”Aemond growled into her ear, his grip tightening slightly. His voice was edged with possessiveness and anger.

Meeting his intensity, Maera asked in return, her own voice steady despite the pressure on her neck, "And what would you do if I did?"

There was a charged silence between them, the air thick with tension and unspoken desires. Aemond's grip on her neck loosened slightly, his breath brushing against her skin as he leaned closer. “Slit their throat and let the blood spray and drip down your beautiful face,” he murmured, the brutality of his words causing her stomach to do flips.

Maera's expression hardened as she spun out of his grasp, facing him chest to chest. Her eyes locked onto his with defiance and frustration, yet beneath the surface, a flicker of something more complex lingered.

"You're insufferable," Maera declared sharply, her voice a blend of exasperation and an underlying current of something deeper, something primal that stirred within her.

Before Aemond could respond, she made her move. Leaning forward, Maera closed the distance between them in one swift motion. She crushed her lips against his with a fierce hunger, the kiss a tumultuous blend of passion and frustration. Her hands moved to grip his shoulders, fingers digging into his bare muscles.

Her lips moved against his with a fervor born of months of tension and misunderstanding. She tasted the familiar essence of him, a mix of warmth and something distinctly Aemond. His response was immediate, his arms encircling her waist, pulling her closer into him, melding their bodies together in a desperate embrace.

Maera felt herself being pushed back to the bed, her husband’s hands venturing to her shoulders as he pushed sleeves of the nightgown down, the sheer material falling off of her body and pooling at her feet. Aemond’s hands immediately flew to her breasts, squeezing and massaging the rounded flesh, which brought her great relief. A soft moan escaped her lips as she surrendered herself to him, his touch fueling the yearning within her that she had desperately tried to deny.

Aemond pulled away for a moment, grabbing one of the pillows at the top of the bed before placing it behind her. He then dropped to his knees, his hand crawling along the length of her leg, the calloused fingertips dancing along her calf before meeting the soft rounded meat of her thigh. She instinctively widened her legs, inviting, if not begging him, to touch her, revealing her glistening cunt to him.

“Fuck, you have missed me,” he purred before swiping his tongue through her folds.

“Oh Gods,” Maera sighed as her husband lapped at her core like a man starved, his tongue delivering deliberate strokes to her clit, causing her to squirm. Each flick of his tongue and the firm pressure at her aching core intensified the desire pooling inside of her.

The Princess’s hands gripped the sheets tightly as she felt herself getting closer and closer to her peak. Aemond’s eye flicked up, grabbing onto one of her hands and placing it firmly onto the back of his head. All semblance of control left her body as she finally fully surrendered to him, whimpering as she gripped his silver tresses.

Maera allowed her hips to roll against her husband’s face, that oh-so familiar knot tightening in her stomach as he savoured the nectar of her arousal. Aemond’s hand squeezed her thigh harshly as his other moved down to let his fingers join his tongue. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head in pleasure as two fingers entered her, whilst he peppered kisses against her puffy clit.

His digits curled inside of her, brushing against that rough patch within. The Prince groaned as he heard her muffled voice moaning his name, the sound of her arousal echoing throughout the chambers. Mere seconds later she saw stars as she gasped for air, the tight coil snapping as pleasure completely washed over her. She held Aemond in place, her nails digging into his scalp as he continued licking and sucking her clit through her peak.

The one-eyed Prince did not give her time to catch her breath before flipping her onto her front, her swollen belly resting on the pillow he had previously put behind her. As Maera turned her head to see what he was doing, she felt is tongue run through her folds, lapping up her arousal before licking all the way to her puckered hole, causing her to gasp. Then without warning and the sound of rustling fabric, he entered her in one swift movement, filling her to the hilt before setting an erratic pace.

Her orgasm had left her sensitive and she swore she could feel every inch, every ridge, every vein even more intensely than she had ever done before. She bit her lip, determined to not let any more moans escape her. She had already given too much of herself away. This was supposed to be a transaction, a means to an end. And yet it felt so fucking good.

Maera gripped onto the sheets for dear life as her legs began to shake, his cock hitting that rough patch within her over and over again with each forceful thrust. She felt his hand slide up her neck and tangle into her brown and silver locks before pulling her upwards, her back now against his chest, his breath fanning against her face. When his other hand snaked down to stroke her bundle of nerves, Maera’s back arched instinctively, hand hand flying backwards to tangle once again in his hair.

The pressure began to build once again in her stomach, blinding hot pleasure wracking through her body like electricity. She turned her head to look at him and took in the beauty before her. Aemond, his face flushed, his jaw slack as he looked down, watching as his cock disappeared into her.

Without thinking, she pulled his face towards her, colliding her lips with his. Aemond’s tongue slipped past her parted lips, lapping the inside of her mouth as he tasted her. After a moment, he pried himself away, simply resting his forehead against hers, both of them gasping for air as they chased their peaks, their breaths mingling. The hand in her hair began to snake down her body, pausing momentarily on her breast, grabbing and kneading the flesh harshly, before descending further and resting on her swollen stomach.

It was intimate. Too intimate for what this was supposed to be. But Maera did not have time to dwell, her mind and body out of sync as her cunt fluttered around him, pulsating with a rhythm that was overwhelming, gripping and squeezing his cock like a vice. His release followed soon after, his hot white seed painting her walls, a feeling that she had missed, no matter how much she tried deny it.

After a moment, once their breathing had slowed, Aemond collapsed onto the bed beside her, and Maera turned to lay on her back, her hair fanning around her like a dark and silver halo. She was covered in a sheen of sweat, her face flushed from her two peaks, her body feeling practically boneless.

She felt amazing. Desired. Wanted. Loved? No, that was too much. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She felt his hand brush against hers hesitantly, as if he did not wish to scare her away. But she could not stand it, and abruptly sat up, her heart still pounding from the intensity of their coupling.

She reached down to the floor, her fingers brushing against the sheer fabric of her nightgown. With a swift, almost frantic motion, she pulled it over her head, the delicate material clinging to her still-flushed skin.

There was no time for tenderness or comfort. It was not possible. He had betrayed her, slain her kin, and almost gotten her killed through his sheer lack of action. Yet why did she only feel whole when she was with him? When she surrendered to his whim? When she accepted that her hate for him was also intertwined with her love for him?

As she stood, she let out a deep sigh, frustration gnawing at her. She was mad at herself for giving in to her desires, and even more so at Aemond for his infuriating ability to provoke her. She turned to leave, but her injured leg gave way slightly, causing her to stumble. She caught herself on the edge of the bed, her breath hitching in pain.

Aemond’s voice cut through the tension. “Are you-?”

Maera whipped around to glare at him, her eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and vulnerability. She didn’t want his pity, not now, not ever. “I’m fine,” she snapped, her voice cold and sharp.

Without waiting for a response, she stormed out of his room, her movements brisk despite the pain in her leg. The corridors of Dragonstone seemed to stretch endlessly as she made her way back to her chambers, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Reaching her room, she closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a moment as she tried to steady her racing heart.

Maera woke alone in her chambers the next morning. The bed was cold and empty, a stark contrast to the heated passion of the previous night. She lay there, staring at the ceiling, a mix of frustration and regret gnawing at her. She had allowed herself to become so close to Aemond, and it had awakened feelings she thought she had long since repressed.

She swore she could still smell his scent on her—leather and dragon smoke, a heady mix that made her heart clench painfully. The memories of their encounter played vividly in her mind, his touch, his whispered words, the intensity of their shared desire.

She knew last night had been a mistake, a desperate plea for aid to an adversary. Aemond had done what she asked, but he didn’t have to be so smug about it. Or make her feel so good. It was supposed to be a transaction, nothing more. Yet, in his typical manner, he had twisted it into something deeper, something that left her feeling exposed and vulnerable. Such a devious son of a-

“Oooooofff.”

A sudden and intense pain seized her. It radiated from her lower back and surged through her lower stomach, shooting down the back of her thighs. She gasped, her hands instinctively gripping the sheets as her muscles tensed in response to the unexpected agony. Her breath hitched, and she closed her eyes, willing the pain to pass.

When it finally subsided, Maera knew this was different from the false contractions she had experienced before. She immediately rang the bell to summon the midwives, her heart pounding with a mix of anxiety and determination.

The midwives arrived quickly, their faces a blend of concern and professionalism. One of them, a young woman with kind eyes, asked, "Are you sure it isn't another false contraction, Princess?"

Before Maera could respond, the pain struck again, more intense than before. She clutched the bedpost for support, her body doubling over as she tried to breathe through the agony. The midwives moved swiftly, two of them holding Maera’s hands, whispering words of comfort, while the oldest midwife, a seasoned woman with a calm demeanor, began her examination.

After a few moments, the older midwife looked up, her expression resolute. "Her labours have indeed begun," she confirmed. The other midwives nodded, their grips on Maera’s hands tightening in solidarity and support. The room buzzed with quiet urgency as they prepared for the task ahead.

A million thoughts raced through Maera's mind. Relief washed over her at the prospect of her pregnancy finally coming to an end, but it was swiftly followed by a wave of anxiety. Surviving the pregnancy had been one battle, but childbirth was an entirely different and more dangerous ordeal. The absence of a Maester to oversee the process only heightened her fears, amplifying the possibility of complications spiraling out of control.

Trying to steady her nerves, Maera addressed the midwives. "I know this stage of labor can last for days, especially with a first child," she said, her voice edged with determination. "I need you to assist me in dressing. I have a meeting to attend in the main hall."

One of the younger midwives, her face pale with concern, strongly advised against this plan. "Princess, you should begin confinement immediately to prepare for a safe delivery and ensure you get enough rest," she pleaded.

Maera, ever resolute, pushed back. "We are at war," she stated firmly, though willing to find common ground. "I will attend the meeting, and once it is over, I will begin my confinement. You can wait outside the chambers in case you are needed."

The midwives exchanged uneasy glances but complied. They helped Maera into a dark black dress, sparing her the restrictions of a corset. The dress flowed around her, accommodating her swollen belly. As they laced up the back of the dress, Maera tried to focus on the task at hand, pushing aside the fear and pain. Every movement was a reminder of the life inside her, the child that would soon be born into a world of chaos and conflict. As the midwives finished, Maera took a deep breath, steadying herself for the journey ahead.

Maera walked down the corridor, flanked by guards, her midwives trailing a few paces behind. The grand hallways of Dragonstone seemed longer and more daunting than usual. As she moved, a sharp pain struck, radiating from her back and lower stomach, searing down to the backs of her thighs. She halted abruptly, her hand flying to the wall for support, her other clutching her swollen belly. The intensity of the pain forced her to grit her teeth, her breathing shallow and rapid as she fought to stay in control.

The corridor’s dim torchlight cast long shadows, flickering over her strained features. She tried to steady her breathing, focusing on the rhythm to regain control. The contractions were coming every ten minutes or so, a relentless reminder that time was running out. But she needed to attend the meeting.

One of the guards turned and approached her with concern etched on his face. "Princess, are you alright?" he asked gently.

As the pain subsided, Maera straightened, smoothing out her dress with trembling hands. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, pushing her hair back from her face. "Move on," she commanded, her voice firm despite the lingering ache. The guards nodded and resumed their pace, Maera following behind, albeit slower and with a noticeable limp.

The midwives whispered amongst themselves, their hushed tones barely audible but clearly filled with concern. She imagined they were analyzing her labor, tracking her progress with each step. Maera pushed their voices to the back of her mind. She needed to focus on the meeting ahead. The world outside the chamber was still at war, and she needed to be informed, prepared for the future that awaited her child.

She paused at the doors, taking a deep breath, hoping to keep her composure. The pain was a constant companion now, but she could not let it overwhelm her. Not here. Not now. She squared her shoulders, resolved to stay in control, and signaled for the guards to open the doors. The heavy wood creaked open, and she stepped inside, every step a testament to her strength and determination.

The grand hall was an imposing room, its high, vaulted ceilings echoing with the whispers of history. Tall, narrow windows lined the walls, casting thin beams of light that danced with the flickering of numerous torches and candles. The cold, dark stone of the walls was adorned with ancient Targaryen banners, their red and black hues deepening the hall’s sense of foreboding and power.

In the center of the room stood the stone table, carved with meticulous detail into a map of Westeros. Candles were lit beneath it, their flames illuminating the hidden contours of mountains, rivers, and cities etched into the table’s surface. The soft, warm light created an almost ethereal glow, making the map appear alive.

The council members were gathered around the table, their faces a mix of determination and unease. Aemond’s gaze flicked up as Maera limped towards them, his violet eye never leaving her. With a subtle gesture, he signaled a steward to bring a chair forward, ensuring Maera could sit beside him.

Lord Unwin Peake was the first to stand, his seasoned face breaking into a smile. Maera returned his greeting with a polite, though strained, smile, her teeth grinding as her womb contracted once more. The pain was a constant undercurrent, but she refused to let it show more than necessary. Lord Commander Criston Cole looked striking in his Kingsguard armor, the pristine white and gold of his cloak contrasting sharply with the dark stone of the hall. A golden chain around his neck signified his status as Hand of the King, the heavy emblem resting on his broad chest.

Lord Larys Strong, the Master of Whispers, leaned casually on his firefly-embellished cane, his smile polite yet inherently sinister. He offered her a respectful nod, his voice soft as he commented, “Princess, I am surprised to see you in attendance.” Maera merely rolled her eyes, unwilling to engage with him, and continued her determined walk to the seat beside Aemond.

As the lords began to sit, Larys continued, “If memory serves correctly, you do not have a seat at this council.” His words hung in the air, a thinly veiled challenge. “And with your baby overdue-”

Aemond was quick to interrupt, his tone cold and firm. “Were it not for my wife, none of us would be standing here in the first place.” Maera reached her seat and Aemond rose, pushing the chair in behind her. He turned to the room, his voice commanding attention. “The Princess is a valuable asset and a dragon rider. If anyone has a problem with her attendance, they are dismissed.”

The room fell silent, the authority in Aemond’s voice leaving no room for dispute. Maera sat, her breathing steadying as she focused on the council’s proceedings. The illuminated map of Westeros beneath them seemed to pulse with the weight of their decisions. Despite the pain and the tension, she was determined to play her part.

News from King's Landing was shared with a solemn gravity, each piece of information adding weight to the room's already tense atmosphere. It was assumed that Ser Tyland Lannister, the Master of Ships, had succumbed to the tortures in the dungeons. Maester Orwyle had attempted to escape but failed miserably, resulting in his return to the dark depths of his prison.

Reports indicated that the smallfolk had seemed to accept Rhaenyra's rule, but Maera silently concluded that their acceptance was likely born out of fear. It was hard to argue against the people and their dragons who now held the city with an iron grip. The gold cloaks, who maintained their loyalty to Prince Daemon, held the gates of the city firmly closed, preventing anyone from getting in or out. The troubling news of Helaena and Alicent being taken as hostages brought no new developments, leaving an ominous cloud over the council's proceedings.

As the updates were fed back to the room, Maera found it increasingly difficult to listen. The pains came in rapid succession, each one more intense than the last. She clutched the arms of her chair, her knuckles white from the effort. Her back felt as if it were on fire, and she ground her teeth to distract herself, sweat forming on her brow. Every word spoken around the table seemed distant, overshadowed by the agony coursing through her body. Her focus wavered, the room blurring at the edges as she struggled to maintain her composure.

Aemond's watchful eye had never left Maera, and his concern began to grow as he observed her increasingly pained expressions. Leaning slightly towards her, he asked quietly, "What is wrong?" Maera, still conflicted about their previous night together and determined not to show any weakness, shook her head, gritting out a terse "Nothing." Aemond, sensing the tension and knowing better than to press further, returned his attention to the meeting, though his gaze frequently flicked back to her.

Suddenly, the doors of the grand hall burst open, and Ser Alfred Broome, a guard who had previously served Rhaenyra, entered in a panic, his eyes wide and a scroll clutched tightly in his hand. The council members looked on furiously at the interruption, but the distress on Ser Alfred's face quickly turned their fury to concern.

The knight began to apologize for the intrusion, but Aemond cut him off, asking sharply, "What has happened?" Ser Alfred's eyes darted around the room, taking in the tense faces of each council member. Maera studied his gaze, sensing the gravity of the situation.

Ser Alfred stuttered, struggling to get the words out. "My Lords, a raven has arrived from Harrenhal." He paused, visibly shaken. "It is Prince Maelor."

Maera's heart sank, a cold dread washing over her. No. Surely not. Thena had gotten him out. He was on his way to Tarbeck Hall. The scroll in Ser Alfred's hand shook with his nerves as he continued, "He has been...he is..."

Aemond stormed out of his seat, his face a mask of fury and fear. He approached the knight in a few swift strides and snatched the parchment from his trembling hand. His eye went wide as he read it, the color draining from his face. The room fell silent, the tension thick as Aemond's reaction confirmed their worst fears. “Gods be good.”

The news of what was on the scroll quickly became apparent without the need for further words. The council members exchanged horrified glances, their faces paling. Prince Maelor, who would have become King, the last son of Aegon, was gone. Just like Aemond’s other nephew, Jaehaerys. The Blacks had succeeded; they had vanquished Aegon’s line.

Maera’s heart pounded in her chest as another, far more terrifying thought dawned on her. This did not mean the Greens were without a leader. Aegon and his sons were gone, but the late King Viserys had more than one son.

Did that make Aemond the…?

Did that make Maera the…?

“Arrrgggghhhh!” Maera lurched over, one hand gripping the edge of the stone table and the other clutching her swollen stomach. The pain that tore through her was unlike any she had felt before, a searing agony that radiated from her back to her lower abdomen and down the backs of her thighs. It was harsh, brutal, and all-consuming. She groaned, her face contorting with the effort to remain standing.

The suddenness of her movement drew the attention of everyone in the room. Conversations halted, and concerned murmurs filled the air. Maera’s vision blurred as she fought to steady her breathing, but the contractions were coming too quickly now, leaving her little time to recover between them.

She felt something warm and wet running down her leg. Panic surged through her veins. Gathering her skirts in a trembling hand, she glanced down to see blood flowing between her legs. A sharp cry of alarm escaped her lips. She looked up at Aemond, her eyes wide with terror, and saw his face mirrored her own fear.

“The babe is coming,” Maera declared, her voice quivering with fright and desperation.

Notes: *insert panicked Michael Scott meme here*

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88 @darylandbethfanforever9

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[saltpepperbeard]

no because really, i think stede is operating in a way he thinks will win him respect. i think he's operating in a way he thinks is the expectation. i don't think he likes it, and i don't think it's "him," but i think he enjoys the positive reinforcement from everyone around him. he's literally never had that before in his life.

he was bullied as a child for what he enjoyed. he was cast aside by his father for being himself. the crew threatened to mutiny against him or even just flat-out kill him because he was too "weak."

and here he is trying to pull himself up out of maelstrom of mistakes. "he's been a failure his whole life." he's trying to do everything he can to rectify that. he wants to be the lighthouse for his crew. he wants to be a good captain. he wants to be a good pirate. he wants to be a good lover. he wants to be something.

and he was actually getting there himself--he just didn't realize it. listening to his crew more, showing them kindness, leading them when they were lost and had no place to go, putting his own grief on hold and taking back the revenge...

he was getting there! but still, he was surrounded by those haunting expectations, by the fear that it wasn't enough.

the whole conversation between he and ed where ed is encouraging him to command respect/be tougher. the whole conversation between he and izzy where izzy says he's "never met anyone with a total lack of skills." zheng saying that she didn't "conquer china by letting people go on and on about their feelings."

not to mention the goading from ned. "once you kill me, you're a real pirate. you're not an amateur." "see? that's why he likes you. your bumbling amateur status."

it all keeps swimming circles around him, looming above his head like a shadow.

he thinks he has something more to prove. he thinks he has to be more. even though his own methods work, like ned's crew turning on him simply because stede showed kindness and understanding, all these phantoms keep telling him it isn't enough and that the other methods are more effective.

because he kills, and looks visibly shaken by it, but his crew cheers. he grabs ed by the collar despite them wanting to take things slow, and they grow intimate. he walks into jackie'z after it all, a place where he was previously banished from, and is treated like a sort of pirate hero.

it's not him. "we don't just banish people, do we? that's not us."

but it's encouraged. it's celebrated. so he thinks it should be.

[mimimarvelingmarvel]

time bound part twelve

pairing: worst wolverine!logan howlett x f!mutant!reader

Part Twelve - Masterlist

summary: Y/n’s life takes a dramatic turn when the Time Variance Authority intervenes, pulling her from a critical moment in her timeline. The TVA sends her to the void where she eventually meets with Deadpool and a very familiar face. With Deadpool's universe in the balance, alongside his reluctant would-be pal, Wolverine, and the enigmatic time-bending mutant known as the Veil, the trio must complete the mission and save Deadpool’s world from an existential threat.

overall warnings: 18+, Fem!Reader, AFAB Reader, Use of Y/N, Her X-Men name is Veil, She/her pronouns, Swearing, Angst, Heavy Violence, Character Death, Deadpool (he’s his own warning), Hurt, Fluff, Angst, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, TVA

word count: 2.7k

a/n: So sorry for the late update, but I’ve just returned to uni and got the flu almost immediately. I am watching the Greatest Showman to make me feel better.

A high-pitched ringing fills my ears, drowning out every other sound. My body feels like it’s being jolted by thousands of volts of electricity, every nerve burning, every muscle straining to hold on. I can barely see through the blinding light, the energy warping around me, threatening to tear me apart at the seams.

“Y/N!” A voice cuts through the chaos, desperate and loud. My head whips to the side, and I see Wade, his arm outstretched, hand reaching for me as he tries to squeeze through the violent storm of energy surrounding us.

“What are you doing?!” I scream, the words barely audible over the roar of matter and anti-matter colliding.

Wade grins, though it’s strained. “Saving your life, Bub!”

Before I can process what he’s doing, I feel another presence to my left. “Take my hand.” Logan’s voice is rough, commanding. His hand is outstretched, eyes locked on mine with an intensity that cuts through the blinding light.

My heart pounds in my chest, and I feel tears welling up in my eyes, blurring the chaos around me. Logan. Wade. Both of them reaching for me, trying to pull me out of this—whatever this is. I stretch my arms out, trembling from the force of the energy ripping through me. Wade’s hand clasps mine tightly, and Logan grips the other, their strength anchoring me as the meeting of matter and anti-matter surges in a deadly collision.

The energy pulses violently, the air crackling with power. I’m the anchor. The focal point holding it all together. And I can feel it building to a breaking point, the pressure unbearable, my whole body vibrating under the strain.

Then, everything erupts.

The world explodes around us. A deafening boom rattles my bones as the ground beneath our feet gives way. I see walls crumbling, debris flying in every direction, a swirling maelstrom of destruction. But somehow, through it all, I remain anchored—connected to Logan and Wade, their hands the only thing tethering me to this world.

As the building collapses, I feel Logan move. He pulls me into his chest, wrapping his arms around me in a protective embrace. His body, hard and unyielding, shields me from the falling rubble as the room disintegrates around us. Wade is somewhere nearby, swearing loudly between coughs, but I can’t focus on him. All I can feel is Logan’s warmth surrounding me, his heart pounding in his chest, his breath hot against my ear as he whispers something I can’t make out over the chaos.

Eventually, the chaos begins to subside. The air clears, the dust settling around us. Logan’s grip on me loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go, keeping me pressed against his bare chest as he rises from the wreckage, surveying the damage.

My head swims as I open my eyes, coughing through the dust and smoke. Logan still has me held tightly, his shirt ripped away in the explosion, leaving his torso exposed. My eyes can’t help but wander over the way his muscles ripple as he moves. He glances down at me, his face streaked with dirt, but his expression softens as he meets my gaze.

“You alright?” he asks, his voice low and gruff, concern etched in his features.

I nod weakly, my heart still racing. “Yeah… I think so.”

Logan’s eyes linger on mine for a moment longer, then he releases me gently, stepping back as Wade stumbles over, covered in dust but grinning like a maniac. “Well, that was fun!” he quips, brushing off debris from his suit. “Let’s do it again sometime.”

I roll my eyes, still trying to catch my breath. “You’re insane,” I mutter, shaking my head.

Wade winks at me. “You love it.”

Logan lets out a low growl, giving Wade a hard shove on the shoulder. “Enough.”

We make our way through the debris, stepping over broken stone and shattered glass. Logan stays close, his arm brushing mine occasionally as we navigate the remnants of the room that was once whole but now reduced to ruins. The scent of dust and burnt metal fills the air, thick and cloying in my throat. My body still aches, my muscles protesting with every step, but it’s nothing compared to the adrenaline pumping through me.

We round a corner, sparks fly around us, the lingering energy from the explosion still crackling in the air. Wade walks out first, declaring; “He has risen, baby girl!” Standing there, looking anything but pleased to see us, is Paradox. “Fuck!” He’s flanked by a group of TVA agents, each of them looking ready to intervene at any moment.

Deadpool points to me, his expression mischievous. “Found your new Anchor Being.”

Paradox stares at me, disbelief clear on his face. “I don’t understand. How is she still alive?”

With a flourish, Deadpool shrugs. “Turns out she’s basically a little mutant cross between a human and a time ripper. Indestructible motherfucker.”

One of the TVA agents steps forward, her voice steady and commanding. “Let’s get this Deadpool variant back to The Void,” she orders, her eyes locking onto Wade with a no-nonsense expression.

Wade’s eyes widen in mock horror. “Wait, hold on, what?”

Before anything else can happen, a new figure enters the room—Peterpool. He rushes in, arms waving. “Nope, actually, this one’s homegrown,” he says, nodding toward Deadpool. “Like me, he belongs here.”

The TVA agent, her badge reading B-15, raises an eyebrow. “And you are?”

Peterpool grins. “Peterpool. But you can call me Peter. And I hope that you do.”

Paradox, still clearly frustrated, throws his hands up in exasperation. “What the fuck is happening here?”

B-15 crosses her arms, unimpressed. “You are under judgment for operating an unsanctioned Time-Ripper. Take him,” she orders, and in an instant, her agents move in on Paradox.

As they grab him, Paradox struggles, his voice rising in anger. “I was just doing what you don’t have the guts to do! Get off, get off! Your hands off me!” He continues to shout as the agents drag him through a shimmering TVA portal, his voice fading as he disappears.

B-15 turns her attention back to the rest of us, her gaze landing on me and Logan. “I’m grateful. Let’s hold the bows, though,” she says dryly. “You led an Omega-level mutant to this timeline.”

Deadpool’s grin widens. “You’re welcome.”

B-15 looks between me and Logan, her tone growing serious. “And you two shouldn’t even be near this timeline.”

Deadpool steps in, unfazed by her reprimand. “They’re welcome.”

She pauses, her eyes sliding over to Peterpool, her expression softening slightly. “And you look damn good in that suit,” she says, a hint of a smile pulling at her lips.

Peter’s face flushes, his voice apologetic. “I’m so sorry.”

B-15 shakes her head, clearly amused now. “I wanna show you something. Something huge.”

Deadpool, ever the opportunist, quips, “That’s what Scoutmaster Kevin used to say.”

Ignoring him, B-15 gestures to her little TVA device. “Do you see that? Your universe is regenerating.” The lines that represent the timeline is slowly fixing itself. “Whatever you did here, you not only saved your world, but you also spared your timeline from extinction.”

B-15 steps back, preparing to leave. “Rest up. I have a feeling your work is only just getting started.”

She turns to go, but Deadpool isn’t done yet. “Wait! We couldn’t have made it out of The Void without some help from some people that the world kinda forgot. Is there any way you could maybe find a way to bring them home?”

B-15 hesitates, glancing over her shoulder. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“And,” Deadpool continues, his voice taking on an uncharacteristically serious tone, “I promised my friends here that the TVA could undo some pretty awful shit in their timeline. What would you say to that?”

She looks at us, her gaze thoughtful. “Change the past?”

Deadpool nods. “They did help me save the world.”

B-15’s expression softens, but there’s an edge to her tone as she responds. “And their pasts brought them here today. There’s nothing to fix, Mr. Wilson.”

With that, she steps through her portal, disappearing into the stream of time. The reality of it all settles in—I'm forever chained to this world, this timeline. But somehow, it’s almost comforting to have a place to live again. A world that, despite all the chaos, I’m now part of.

Deadpool breaks the silence. “Shawarma?”

Logan, his voice as gruff as ever, grunts, “I could eat.”

As we step away from the destruction, the world feels both unfamiliar and strangely right. And for the first time in a long time, I feel... at peace.

Next Part

taglist: @oscarissac2099 @somiaw @100percentlazybonez @obsessedwthdilfs @sun7lowxr @corvid007 @aheadfullofsteverogers @raptor192 @bontensbabygirl

[vodika-vibes]

Heyy can you please please please

Do a ,, Ideal types of Wolffe, Rex, Jesse etc…“

Someone already did a bad Batch version but no one did a version of our other husbands that would be so nice

Ideal Types

Pairings: Captain Rex x Reader, Commander Wolffe x Reader, ARC Trooper Jesse x Reader, Commander Fox x Reader

Warnings: Uh...this is actually pretty angsty. Sorry.

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni @imabeautifulbutterfly @stupendoussludgezinerebel-blog

A/N: I wasn't sure how many you wanted, so I went with four. I added Fox because I love him, lol. Also, this might not be, exactly, what you wanted. But I was feeling poetic this morning, and then angst monster smacked me with a baseball bat and yeah. I hope you like it!

Captain Rex x Reader - A pillar. Someone who supports him through everything.

You smile at Rex, soft and warm and gentle as he rests his head on your lap. He’s more asleep than awake at this point, and you lightly trail the pads of your fingers over his short hair, careful to not wake him.

He’s so tired, your perfect Rex. Your handsome Captain.

But here, in the safety of your apartment, enveloped in your soft arms and soft scent, the stress lines on his face ease away, making him look his physical age, rather than much older.

He turns in his slumber, his face pressing against your stomach and his arms slide securely around your waist, clinging to you like a child would cling to a treasured blanket, and your smile softens.

He works so hard, your Rex. Has so much stress and responsibility laid upon his broad and strong shoulders. As if he's stuck bearing the weight of the galaxy.

But, right here, right now, you can bear that weight for him.

"Rest, my love." You whisper, your voice soft enough that he doesn't stir, "I have the watch."

Commander Wolffe x Reader - A lighthouse, someone who is able to light his way home, even in the darkest of times.

"You're tense, Wolffe." Your voice is soft as you slide your hands over his shoulders to wrap him in a hug from behind. "Is everything alright?"

His smile is wry and slightly bitter, and you have your answer.

No. He's not alright. He's not been alright since the day he lost most of his battalion. Since the day his beautiful red armor bled all the color out and turned into the solemn grey of mourning.

It's a wound that still bleeds, you know.

You press a feather light kiss against the back of his neck and tighten your arms around him. You won't pressure him, you won't ask him questions.

For all that the curiosity burns, your love for him burns brighter. And so you hold him, and offer him your unyielding support.

He's lost in a maelstrom of grief and pain. A storm of sorrow buffets him from every angle. And there are no words that can ease his suffering.

And so you offer the only thing you can. Your silent support and your undying love. You'll be here to light his way back to shore, always. Forever.

ARC Trooper Jesse x Reader - A sanctuary, someone where he's allowed to break and shatter, without fear of any consequences.

He's shaking.

Jesse's arms are firm around your, his face pressed against your neck as he lays on top of you...and he's shaking.

Trembling, really. Like a tooka kitten.

Your arms wrap around his broad shoulders and you turn your head to kiss the side of his head. You knew, of course, that this deployment was...bad.

But until this very moment, you had no idea how bad.

You won't ask, though you know he'll tell you if you did.

Even though your heart breaks when you feel his tears against your bare shoulder. And then it shatters when a sob rips from your Jesse's throat.

Even then, you still won't ask. You are his sanctuary, his safe place where he can be just a man, and not the strong soldier that he has to be every other day.

And when he, brokenly, whispers that he's applying for ARC, you just tighten your arms around him.

And you know, know, that this story ends in tragedy. But you'll continue being his safe place until it's not needed anymore.

Commander Fox x Reader - A bulwark, a barrier between him and the rest of the galaxy. Someplace where he can feel safe.

Fox sighs, low and quiet as he looks up at you. He has dark circles under his eyes, he hasn't been sleeping again. But that's nothing compared to the angry bruises that you're treating for him.

"I'm sorry," he breathes out, "For being such a burden."

You smile at him, warm and loving, "You could never."

Something like distress slides across his face, "Cyare, I-"

"Shh," You soothe him with a gentle touch of your hand against his cheek, "Whatever it is, darling, it will hold. At least for now."

The distress remains, though it fades as you lovingly apply bacta to another bruise.

He suffers, your Fox. You see it more and more clearly with every passing day. He's losing time, he has growing blank spots in his memory...and it terrifies him.

It terrifies you too.

How long before he's not him anymore? Until he no longer looks at you with love and adoration, but with blank disregard.

You shove the thought to the side firmly. Right here, right now you have your Fox. And you will shield him from the rest of the galaxy, for as long as you can.

That's all you can do for him.

[ascendingaeons]

Hymn to Sekhmet

by Joey Rivers (ascendingaeons)

O Sekhmet, Great Eye of Ra, the First and the Last Healer and Destroyer, Mother and Daughter You Who accepted the Command of Ra, Your Father To cleanse the Two Lands of Isfet But Your nature was too mighty, Great of Strength as You Are Wanton and unrestrained, You ravaged Earth as a purifying flame And as Ra looked on and saw His Eye, He was stricken with pause By the Will of the Sun, Your Rage was quieted by a crimson brew And into transformative slumber You fell, Great Goddess And from Your great Rage, Het-Heru rose A new Eye was christened, of eros sublime And you, Great Mother, knew the sadness of regret

You, Great Goddess, know the measure of rage unbound And so You Stand, Great Mother of War, in defense and duty Of the Principles and Consequences of Ma’at Your Children are many, Great Lady of Life Diverse in their multitudes, empowered by their tribulation

Yours is the soldier, Your Mighty Sekhem made flesh and bone Entrenched in a maelstrom of fire and blood Returning home to a nation that does not understand him

Yours is the survivor, a living branch of Your burning Will triumphant Endeavoring to rise above the quagmire of loss and agony Through You their struggle is transmuted into the golden light of ka ascendant

Yours is the mother, she who knows sacrifice and sleepless nights A font unyielding of love and pride, of smiles and laughter perfected They who bear the weight of the world so a child can know childhood

Yours is the healer, an alchemist of the ontological persuasion He who is humbled by the frailty beholden to human experience He who ushers Your Sekhem through the riptide of transformative loss

Yours is the artist, through whose passions course Your Divine Fire Who walks the scales of inspiration and madness, knowing Creation unfiltered An alchemist versed in the milieus of perception

For You, Great Goddess, are the very Force of Change You are that which makes men tremble so Such an unnecessary fear, of wisdom and experience untouched Were I You, I would feel such sadness But how You smile, Great One! How You laugh! How You fight! You are not “she who cowers before Apep!” NO! You are the Great Lioness Who rends Chaos asunder! You fight and rage and bite and tear Passion and emotion alive and unrestrained!

You are Love, Great Goddess You are Fear, Great Goddess You are Devotion, Great Goddess You are Loss, Great Goddess You are Health, Great Goddess You are Sickness, Great Goddess This is why I call You the Mother of Life Your Ka is the very essence of experience! Your Sekhem is the very wind of change!

When I first called upon You, timid and unsure, I beheld Your Gaze, a window of fire open before my face And as quickly as You Saw me, You left And again when I called to You with offering of water and bread Exhausted by grief and devotion, tirelessly sung from a caregiver’s heart You came to me and my eyes were opened to You! As I lay without sleep, You stood at my bedside Stroking my back with strong hands of fire Whispering strength and courage into my ear As a sentinel You walked with me, a Mother Lioness guarding Her cub Such loyalty and tenderness You showed And my eyes were forever opened to Your nature

You are the very Force of Creation, the Monad of Being From which stems those primordial principalities Love and Fear, Physis and Logos, Known and Unknown Order and Disorder, Life and Death, Dynamism and Stasis

I offer henu to You, Great Goddess of Creation The endless potentiality and movement of the living cosmos The Fires Divine that Become living sinews and living earth

I offer henu to Your Husband Ptah, the Cosmic Smith Patron of artisans, of those who tirelessly toil In the pursuit of Bringing Into Being but a shard of the Sacred Unmanifest

I offer henu to Your Son, the Beautiful Nefertem The Ageless Lotus that rose from the Benben Stone The First Splendid Light to Shine in the churning Waters of Nun

It was You Who held my right hand as I accepted the mark of a healer And embraced me as a Mother would Her graduating son I offer You my pain, Great Goddess So that You may transmute it into Strength I offer You my fear, Great Goddess So that You may transmute it into Courage I offer You my uncertainty, Great Goddess So that You may transmute it into Wisdom

Into Your Belly I give of myself to unleash my greatest potential To burst from Your Bosom, shining and emboldened For there is nothing that is beyond Your Reach, Great Mother It is for me, now, to See that nothing is beyond my own

Dua Sekhmet! Dua Sekhmet! Dua Sekhmet!

[commanderyes]

The Commander Says Goodbye

I’m not going to lie, I’m extremely anxious as i’m writing this, out of what these news could mean to a lot of people, and my heart feels heavy enough it could drop down my ribcage any minute from now and squish all my other organs. But I’ve been dancing around this topic for a long time now, and I think i’ve finally reached a point where i can’t ignore it anymore, for my own sake.

I hereby announce Commander Yes has come to an end.

As I’ve mentioned plenty of times before, here and to many other people, when I began this comic all the way back in 2018 I was in a really bad, really low place in my life in every sense of the word, and it was a spur-of-the moment decision to cheer myself up, because Path of Fire had just released and my enjoyment of the game had reached fever pitch and I had been playing Guild Wars 2 alone since as far as launch, and none of my other friends had ever really gotten into it. I guess I just, dunno, cried out into the big maelstrom of the community, one voice amidst millions, because i wanted SOMEBODY to look at what i did and revel in the nerdery with me.

And somehow the snowball began to roll and people wanted more and more of what I could do, and I was being actively reached out to, and, well, some time after that I landed my first ever job, I discovered a lot of things about myself, and I found myself in communities that welcomed me with open arms, and many of the people in there have since become among the best friends I could’ve possibly encountered, kindred souls who i’ve shared joys and sorrows for many years and who I can’t imagine living without anymore.

And all the while I kept making the comics, and with every entry posted every week I’d keep having people stopping to comment on them, and whether they were dumb jokes or personal takes on the story, they’d all share how much what I do kept hitting them in the kokoro, and to this day whenever I play anywhere in the game I still get people who recognize me and thank me for doing what I do. It was wonderful, it IS wonderful, and seeing that response motivated me to keep going, because what did still mattered to people, out there.

But I did always say I planned to keep doing these comics until I ran out of energy for them, and I think i’ve finally reached that point.

Because ever since I actually landed that job I’m exhausted and sleep-deprived every other day, so much so that I only have time to work on the comic on saturdays and sundays, and it gets harder and harder to just sit and draw, and at that point it was just more work, and while I still enjoy and play Guild Wars 2 a lot, it no longer consumes my time and attention like I’ve used to and i’ve been having fun with more personal projects, and honestly the direction the story is taking these days does not sit right with me and it’s hard to find inspiration in that, and this might be borderline selfish but every year I find people care less and less about the comics and it really takes a hit to you motivation when hardly anybody responds after you’ve spent a whole weekend trying to squeeze a five-page comic out.

And, well, I have been doing these for six years straight, and I think that’s a good run. I’m tired, and ready to move on, at long last. Let it be someone else’s turn.

But that’s the beautiful thing about this community, isn’t it? Even if I’m hanging up the hat, there are a whole lot of fantastic artists out there, as we speak, still cranking out works of art, deserving of all the attention they can get. And think of all the artists yet to come! For every story that ends, another story is just about to begin!

The world keeps on spinning, one way or another.

I’ll be closing my patreon shortly after this, but the reddit archives and tumblr blog shall remain for people to browse whenever they feel like (or until they both go in flames, i guess, what social media isn’t about to these days)

I still don’t think I ever was that much of a big deal, but all the same, to everyone who’s ever supported me and helped me be the person I am right now, to everyone who’s been there from the beginning, to all the devs of this game that has captured us for nearly a decade now, to all my fellow players and artists out there

Thank you.

See you out there, fellow commanders. Still the stars find their way.

[brewed-pangolin]

Captain MacTavish has a certain affinity for domestic home life.

Stripping the responsibility and command at the door as he bathes in the simplicity of a civilian lifestyle.

He loves it more so because of you.

You wear it with an ease he's only beginning to comprehend.

The way you move with fluid energy around the home while he still has to remind himself of the layout every time he steps through the front door.

Two different worlds converging under one roof. You being the skilled commander, and he being the young apprentice.

It takes time.

You fought the first two times he came back from extended tours. Soap still set in his ways of control, and you too stubborn to change your stance on the ways of the home.

The next two reunions were easier. Both of you coming to terms with your own disadvantages. Him relinquishing command to let you take the lead, and you being understanding to his newly acquired vulnerability.

And this is where he fell in love with domesticity.

The simpler ways of living that flowed around you with a certain air of quiet modesty.

He would always lend a helping hand if needed, and you would deny almost every time.

Told him he could handle the more hands-on duties of the home while you took care of the more regular maintenance.

An ebb and flow that moved to create perfect simitry.

An energy you grew fond of in his presence, and one you let eat away at your soul in his absence as you took up his mantle.

The walls of your home seemed to close in on you when he was pulled away. The quietness reverberating of their plastered surface and embedding into the pores of your skin.

Yet they would breathe new life the moment his heavy footsteps echoed through the silent halls once more.

Pushing away your solidarity. And restarting the domestic maelstrom that powered the living vitality that was your home.

Captain MacTavish Masterlist

[sparkywrites25]

Perspective

Summary: You're struggling in the aftermath of a mission. Amid the beauty of autumn, Levi finds you.

Pairing: Levi Ackerman x Reader

Inspiration: Credit goes to @creativepromptsforwriting for some of the prompts that I used. Here is the post.

TW: descriptions of death and violence as well as symptoms and mentions of anxiety/PTSD especially flashbacks and panic attacks.

Taglist: @youre-ackermine @galactic3a @notgoodforlife @ladycheesington

Notes: If you like my work and want to see more then please join my taglist. Form is pinned on my blog.

Your footsteps crunch satisfyingly against the browning leaves beneath your boots. You enjoy the harsh, crisp sound as you march across the grounds to the thick woodland surrounding the base. Under the stunning rays of sunset, the forest shines in various shades of golden-brown, green and red. The leaves that drop to the ground are beautiful in their variety before they land with their comrades and disappear into the autumnal mulch of the earth, turning to bits under your weight. 

Huffing quietly, you lower your head and continue onward, a scowl twisting its way across your features. Away from the prying eyes of your comrades and commanders alike, you allow your feelings to fully settle over you. Your first ball into fists so tight that your nails scratch deeply at your palms and your shoulders are so squared that they ache already.

Each puff of air is sucked in and inhaled quickly, each one shallower than the one before. You let your stride increase, your anger pouring off you in waves as you retreat deeper and deeper into the forest. The colourful, bright ways of sunset begin to disappear behind the thickening shade of the trees. 

The scent of apples hits you immediately and your stomach surges in immediate, nostalgic delight. In those brief seconds, you are back home watching your mother serve up the family treat of apple pie, the apples produced from the family orchard. Or you’re running through the orchard with your friends, ducking behind trees and lying down flat behind brushes and bramble. Or you’re strolling under the trees with a basket, plucking down the ripest-looking apples and adding them to your basket, beaming with pride at the growing pile there and then comparing the collection to the ones sitting in your siblings’ baskets.

Back before you killed anyone. 

The thought brings you a stop and for a moment you can’t breathe as the images hit you again: comrades swallowed up in horrific, gaping mouths, riders racing towards their endangered comrades only for a surprise grab to pluck them out of their intentions and their lives, and the remains of bodies and blood streaming the plains around the titans. 

You reach out a hand to the nearest tree to steady yourself as the stench of iron and death overtakes you at once. You gag under it and bring your fist to your mouth at once. 

You’re a useless captain. You should have just taken the loss and focused on the mission. You should have protected your squad. Maybe you wouldn’t have lost half of them. 

It was so simple at the time; the possibility of saving the new recruits and minimizing casualties. It was a sick twist of fate that your decision had resulted in more casualties. 

You lean against the tree and slide down it until you have slumped onto the ground. You stretch out your legs and you feel your anger draining out of you as your intrusive thoughts take hold. Anxiety swirls like a maelstrom, filling up your body with a dizzying, queasy feeling of regret. The faces of your team, the ones who will never come home again, drift in front of your face, like their ghosts are taunting you. 

Why shouldn’t they?

You let out a shuddering breath, a strange, strangled sound escaping you when you think of Commander Erwin’s announcement this morning. The next mission would be delayed. There was talk of that being the last one before expeditions halted for the winter. You smile mirthlessly. Once upon a time, that would have irritated you. You would have been chomping at the bit to get out there again. 

Now titans are chomping on your team. 

You pass a hand over your face, closing your eyes as that weight falls over you again, the heaviness of responsibility, of the consequences of your decision. The same burden of dread and hindsight that hovers over you at night, sapping sleep away from you before it can land.

Your breathing is coming out in shallow, quicker pants. You stretch out your hands either side, feeling for the earth around you. Your left hand closes around the nearest object - something smooth and lukewarm. You turn your head to look at the smooth, round object in your fingers. Your see a chestnut, free of its spiky case, sitting in the lowest dip of your hand. You clutch onto it instinctively, hanging onto it steady firmness as you breathe deep.

On your other side, your fingers meet with the familiar shape of acorns. You trace the shapes of them with your fingers. The motion helps with the increasing struggle to breathe. You can feel some of the nervous energy disappearing into the movement and you gasp for breath, trying to take in more air. 

You’re so weak. You’re pathetic. 

How you ended up in this position, you suddenly can’t remember? Why did the higher ups think that they could trust you? What made them think that they could trust you? They made a mistake. That much is very clear. You can’t even breathe properly. 

You hold onto the acorns and the chestnut, focusing on the grip and trying to breathe as slowly and deeply as you can. Unfortunately this isn’t the first time you’ve felt like this. You just have to wait. You keep your fingers moving over the acorns and then move your fingers over the chestnut as well. You feel some of the anxiety beginning to ebb away little by little. 

“Planning on camping here all night?” Captain Levi questions as he steps out from behind some trees to your left. You jerk at the arrival, cursing yourself for not spotting him. 

Too busy panicking about nothing, huh?

You swallow and look away from him, trying not to focus on how put-together he still looks after a day of training and official duties. Not even a hair looks out of place. 

“It’s not a crime to seek out some peace and fucking quiet,” you snap at him between gritted teeth, your fingers still trying to work off the worst of your feelings. 

The famous captain slowly strides over to stand in front of you, frowning at you as if he can’t believe that you’re actually sitting in the dirt. In fact, that’s probably exactly what he thinks, you muse. 

“You shouldn’t be on your own when this happens,” he reminds you.

“I don’t exactly get advance warning,” you bite back. 

“You’ve been stressed to hell all day.”

“So? I’m often stressed. I’m used to it.” You exhale, feeling your breathing beginning to steady at last. Your eyes flutter closed with the rising relief of the feeling of air actually settling in your lungs properly. 

“Hange told you to go and see them if you were this stressed.”

“Yeah because running to my superior officer every time I get pissy is a real good look.”

Levi crouches down, his kneecaps inches from the ground and his eyes, as grey-blue as pale slate, meet yours intensely. “Everyone needs to take a breather. That includes you.”

“Why should I when I don’t deserve it?” you question, your brows furrowing.

He’s silent for a moment, still staring into your eyes. He looks like he’s reading you. “You made a tough call. You did what you could. Sometimes it goes to shit. That’s not on you.”

“They would be alive because of me,” you whisper. 

“Not necessarily. If we’d advanced further, we could have run into another titan horde and lost even more lives.” Levi frowns at you. “You can’t know what would have happened. We’ll never know that shit. Once we make a choice, anything else is gone forever. All you can do is choose what you’ll regret the least.” Levi’s words are calm but firm at the same time.

You lower your gaze to the leaves between your legs. You can feel yourself steadying now that your breathing is returning to normal. You think about your options back then on the mission. Would you have regretted leaving the recruits to it? Would you be haunted by that instead of this? Was it always going to end with you sat in the woods having a panic attack?

You sit there silently, mulling over your thoughts. Levi remains crouched but he stops staring at you, gazing around the forest instead. It takes you a few minutes to realize that he’s keeping an eye out for trouble while you recuperate. You feel a swell of gratitude and something deeper at the thought. 

Eventually you clear your throat and your fingers release the acorns and the chestnut. You start to pick yourself but suddenly Levi’s hands clasp around your elbows and he hauls you to your feet. 

You’re unsettled by his strength and so when you are upright, your feet stumble, unprepared for the sudden weight again. You topple into Levi who catches you against his chest. Your face is instantly nose to nose with his and your heartbeat begins to quicken for an entirely different reason. 

He’s staring at you for a moment, his mouth ever so slightly open as his eyes dart down to your lips for a moment. His arms move around you, holding you to him. 

You don’t want to move. You want to stay there, wrapped up in his arms. You want to stay in this little bubble, out here in the trees away from titans and tragedy. 

Levi leans in a little, like he’s going to touch his lips to yours. Like he’s done so many times before already, in the darkness and in the privacy of his office or yours. Part of you wants him to, to linger here together a little longer. 

But your breathing is quickening again and Levi pulls himself out of the daze that holds you both. His arms around you shift so that his hands hold your elbows again. 

“Come on,” is all he says and you nod, getting your bearings and stepping back from the hold. Once he’s sure that you’re steady, he lets go and you feel the absence of his touch. 

Soon you’re walking through the woods again but this time, the rage and fear has calmed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour later, you are settled in one of the chairs beside Levi’s fireplace, a large mug of pumpkin spice tea in your hands and the comforting presence of your little black furball, Sooti, in your lap. 

The dark little kitten snoozes happily against your stomach and you lower one hand to brush against her soft fur. The motion eases away some more of the earlier anxiety. 

You smile towards Levi who is working quietly at his desk behind several stacks of paperwork. His jacket and cravat have been put away and the top buttons of his shirt are undone. At last, a few strands of his hair are falling into his eyes. 

You say nothing to interrupt him, just reflecting on how lucky you are to have him, and all of the good things in your life. You’re grateful to be able to see that clearly again. 

After taking a sip of your tea, you turn to gaze into the firelight, feeling your body relaxing once again. The crackling of the fire and Sooti’s purring fill the air, and your heart with peace.