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starrynights-sunnyskies · 5 months

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mine to save ⋆*·ﾟmisa x femreader

tension rises when you are tackled, right in front of misa’s nose. instead of yelling at her backline for getting them a penalty, misa is mad that her teammate has hurt her girlfriend.

Matches like these were both a blessing and a curse— for you’d finally have some time to see each other again after weeks of working for your designated clubs, but it also meant that one of you would be left disappointed with the results of the match. Still, to Misa, it was worth every defeat to see her favourite girl again in the flesh, preferably with the biggest grin on your face. That did not mean Misa would not give it her all while underneath the post for the entirety of the match, which was exactly why she needed no distractions. Misa never really had any problem to switch her focus on while stepping onto the field, and even if the sight of you running around near her was tempting to distract her, she still only had focus on the ball and the player making it move. She knew she had most of the next day to give you all the attention you deserved, but right now, that attention had to be focused elsewhere. That hadn’t stopped her from sneaking her usual mischievous grin your way when the two of you shook hands, though. The fact that it never failed to spur on some kind of blush on your face filled her with even more confidence. So as she ran up to her goal, she knew this was going to be a good day. Her girlfriend was in her line of sight, breathing the same air, and no longer only on her screen, the sun was out and she had a match to play, what could go wrong?

Well, she could lose said match, and she’d be pretty damn mad about it if she did, because she’d blame it on herself mostly, but she’d take the hit if that meant you would be sporting that big and beautiful grin of yours. Only, you weren't. Your bottom lip was curled inside and trapped beneath your teeth as your eyebrows were set in furious frustration. Misa would have found it adorable in any other situation, especially if she’d been the one to block your goal and then sent a wink your way, but the backline of Real Madrid just wouldn’t budge and let you through. Granted, that was their job. Misa was fine with that, if anything, it made her own job more easier and their win within reach, but she knew how frustrating a game could be when it did not go in your favour. That no matter the tactic that had been practised over and over, was not coming to fruition. It didn’t help that your team was mostly playing you long balls to surpass the midfield, leaving you standing isolated from the others and having to outwit Real’s defending wall by yourself. After the 39nth minute, Athenea’s shot hit the back of the net, heightening the stakes and the frustrations even more. It had become a physical match, consisting of shoves, tackles, pulls and harsh collisions. Just no cards yet, though that was waiting to happen next. It probably hadn’t happened yet because both teams could be equally blamed, and that would leave either team with little to no players left on the field.

Next, some through balls were intervened before they even reached you, and after glancing to the sidelines every so often and realising the coach had no plans of changing tactics yet, you balled your fists and disappeared off the pitch at halftime in lightning speed.

This behaviour was not foreign to Misa, so she followed after her team to the locker room. Football was a passionate sport, one she could lose herself in in the same way you did, and you were a passionate player. It was one of the things she loved so deeply about you. Not that a lot of people knew, of course. She never really saw use in mixing work with pleasure and although, yes, dating a fellow futbolista was blurring those lines a bit, she would never give her girlfriend special treatment when on the pitch.

“Looks like she’s been missing you like crazy, the way she’s been bullying us to get to you.” Olga glanced at her, playfully raising an eyebrow, knowing of the couple.

“More like you're bullying her,” Misa raised her eyebrow in return, challenging her, but the grin on her face mirrored her lightheartedness.

“I’m not going to take it easy on her, if that’s what you mean.”

“She’s just another player on the pitch for me. Can’t have my career jeopardised because I froze on purpose to let my girlfriend score against me.”

“Ice cold, you are,” Olga laughed, “But that’s only if they get through us. We’re holding up well so far.”

Misa hummed while taking a sip from her bottle. She wiped her chin dry, “Hm, thank you for that. I’d rather you deny her a goal. I do not want to sleep on the couch tonight if I end up stopping their first attempt.”

Olga rolled her eyes, “That’s not going to happen and you know it.”

“Best to be safe.”

“I mean, she does seem scary. The way she growled when she got smacked down or shoved against us! Girl has attitude.” Raso piped up from beside them, having heard bits from their conversation, “Just a bit, though…” She quickly added when she noticed Misa’s stare.

But to Misa, passion was passion. And as much passion and love you had for the game, you also had in multitude for her. The goalie suddenly turned chipper, her expression brightening as she stood up to get back on the field.

“I know. Isn’t she the best?”

As the whistle blew again, Misa noticed the fury had only barely left your body— your shoulders still held tension and your gaze still spat fire. The sight shouldn’t have worked her up the way it had, but she couldn’t help it. There was something extremely alluring and, dare she say it- incredibly hot - knowing that you had this side to you as well, in stark contrast to your usual soft and giddy demeanour off the pitch. It was normally the other way around, with her being the fiery one. She loved whenever you got like this. When you would fight, not flee. Whenever your looks could kill, albeit unknowingly. Misa had only seen it a handful of times before and each time it had left her feeling primal. But this was not the time to let that feeling take over. She was at work, there were eyes on her, and she’d already been tagged in the occasional post that suggested the two of you were a couple. It wasn’t like she was ashamed of herself or her relationship, no, quite the opposite. But Misa was protective over the small pink cloud she’d been on ever since being with you and, to be completely honest, she was too greedy and wanted no one to be let in on their love. It was all yours and yours only. Misa had never really been like that before. Granted, this was her first serious relationship, and if it were up to her, also her last. Still, she could tell that this was special, nothing ordinary. The real deal. She was protective and dominate in the sense that her hand would always hover on your lower back, she'd hand you her jacket or have a bag with snacks and other necessities at the ready for you. She’d always drive the car and open a door or sent a nasty glare towards anyone making you uncomfortable. Since day one, she had promised herself to make life the best it could be for her girlfriend. She’d picked up on your tells, knew what you liked and hated simply by reading your face. She could tell when you needed her, or when you needed some space. Communication was hardly ever needed when Misa always already seemed to know what you thought or felt. It surprised you, at first, how considerate and caring she was. It also embarrassed you for ever thinking the girl didn't have it in her. In your defence, that side had only come out when the two of you had gotten closer. You'd quickly understood that Misa was a guarded person when it came to letting someone in further than surface level, and that made the roar of pride and love you held for her burn at the realisation that she'd let you in. Waters run deep, and Misa had been the deepest damn part of the ocean at first, but here you were now. You were hers, and she was yours.

Misa never really thought too much about it like that. She just loved you more than she ever knew she could love someone. It was a simple fact, not something she pulled apart to examine. She treated you like a princess, simply because that was exactly what you deserved. Treating you to the best of her capabilities wasn't even a chore. She loved it all. It had even been an ongoing joke within your shared group of friends that Misa mirrored the behaviour of that of a lion and her cubs, but that was just the way Misa was when in love. Fiercely protective, incredibly loyal and with an abundance of love and adoration to give to those she cared for. And just to your luck, there was only one name her heart was chanting over and over again. It was admirable, endearing even, that someone could love so hard. It had only ever gotten her in trouble once, when you had tagged along to a club with Misa’s national team friends and a guy had cornered you on your to the restroom. It had ended the night abruptly with a calm but firm warning to leave the club, but it had also kept you out of harms way. A fair deal, if you asked her.

It was evident right from the start that your team had changed things up. The formation had changed, for starters. The gap between midfield and you had closed up and the defence seemed to stay behind more, guarding the wings. No more long balls, but quick-fire attacking play. With Real’s change to press more on the attack during this half, it left spaces between defending players large enough for the opposing team to work around. Misa’s voice bellowed across the field as she warned her backline to fall back, having seen through the next attack. They quickly did, and so your team retaliated a bit, passing and playing to find open spaces or to lure the defence out. A bad pass and Real was at play again, pushing forward and closing spaces to prevent a counter. But you hovered around, eyes squinted and focused on the ball and the placement of your teammates. You were closing in on Real Madrid, just as you’d practised. It was a surprise intercepted tackle that left Raso without the ball, looking backwards to see how it had gone back into play.

On her side of the pitch, with a little more overview, Misa saw before the rest how you ran in line with the ball flying through the air— eyes focused on it like a hawk to try and not fuck this up by being too eager and thus running off-side.

“Oye!” Misa yelled at her backline, who caught on just as quickly. She watched as your form neared and Misa tried to anticipate how to block out the goal. She was used to running out and taking the ball out of play the ballsy way, but also knew that you were unpredictable thanks to your broad skillset. If she ran out, she wouldn’t put it past you to not cheekily chip it over her head before she had a chance. If she stayed on the line, she knew that you’d just sent the ball flying into the far outer corner, just out of her reach. If she waited a little longer to try and use her gift to read you so effortlessly during football as well, then maybe the momentum would already be gone.

Then she saw it. Even if it was only the slightest inclination to your next movement, Misa knew— you were going to shoot it in the far corner, having felt the defenders of Real Madrid closely behind you and knowing they would not let you get any step closer to the goal if you didn’t act soon. Misa shuffled to the right side, anticipating your shot when she saw Olga appear behind you. She heard the thump of your body dropping against the ground like a bag of sand, the grunt that left your throat and the crowd that went haywire as you came to a nasty fall in the penalty box. The ref immediately ran over, the red card dooming high above Olga’s face. But that wasn’t the only red thing on the pitch.

Misa saw red. Seethed. Glared. Grind her teeth together and locked her jaw. Olga listened to the ref, while you were still on your stomach, turning your hands to see the burn marks of your fall and slowly pushing yourself up on your knees. A blur of bright green approached you in a flash and a large glove was protectively placed on your shoulder.

“I’m okay, only some burns.” You immediately reassured, having seen the painfully worried look on Misa’s face. She hated whenever you were hurt or sad, and if you didn't know any better, you'd say she'd usually feel just as sad or hurt whenever you did. If only such a thing was possible, you knew Misa would always swap places with you so you didn't have to feel it. She looked into your eyes to find the confirmation, her gaze soft and caring, until it hardened again when she looked back up at hearing the squabble happening behind you. She gave you a curt nod as she carefully helped you back to your feet. You shook out your limbs a bit and dusted the grass of your kit when that same flash of neon green whizzed by you in your peripheral. She put herself right within the circle of arguing players and the referee. But where other Real players where trying to get the ref on their side, Misa immediately turned to Olga, joining your teammates.

“What was that?! Was that necessary?”

Olga, surprised at the sudden turn of conversation, took in Misa’s intimidating form looming over her.

“That was mine to save, not yours.” Misa continued.

It was painfully clear that Misa's outburst was about the tackle with the amount of passion she spat her words and how she’d checked up on you earlier, not the penalty it had bestowed against her team.

Olga put up her hands, knowing there was no calming Misa down right now. Not when she was in game-mode and, hells, not when she'd just hurt her girlfriend.

“Easy, alright, I’m sorry. I miscalculated.”

“Yeah, you did,” Misa felt the ref’s hand push her back, heard the warnings of getting a card, then another set of hands, Raso, who gently pulled her back, before a more familiar touch gently held onto her underarm.

“It’s okay, shake it off, I’m okay.” She heard from behind her, your thumb grazing over her tattoos. Posing as a barrier, she stood in front of you, one of her gloved hands behind, careful to keep you there, watching with squinted eyes as the group of players dispersed when the ref blew the whistle and pointed to the penalty spot.

“I’m not taking it,” She heard you say and she immediately whipped around.

She knew you were only saying so as to not put Misa in even more of a mental predicament, but she didn’t want you tapping out of what could be an opportunity to put another goal behind your name.

“Que?! No, you were done wrong, so you’re taking it.” Immediately back into focus, she walked to the line, looking everywhere except at you, not wanting to heighten your nerves. Perhaps she’d been a little too harsh, but there were still eyes on her and she didn’t want to give anyone watching even more to gossip about— she’d simply make it up to you later. After all, on the pitch, you were just any other football player to her… even if she’d just yelled at her own teammate for taking you down, and not even for the right reasons.

Adrenaline coursed through her veins. She reached her arms up, bounced on her toes and then clenched and unclenched her hands into fists. She was ready. But were you? Finally, she had to avert her eyes to you. Your chest expanded with the big breath you took, digging the points of your cleats into the grass to get more grip in your shoe. Four steps back. Hands beside your hips. Pulling your jersey down. Adjusting your right sock. Misa knew this by heart, even if she’d only ever had you in front of her goal for penalties during training on your time off together.

The shrill sound of the whistle rang across the pitch.

She could practically see the strength amping up in your legs on your run to the ball. Your left hip was slightly off, the weight in your body more to the right and as you leaned back, even ever so slightly, she knew you were going for the far right corner, perhaps the same thing you'd had in mind before you had been taken down. You knew she'd know this, maybe you were trying to not give yourself the advantage over her by doing this, but Misa was not going to sit back and let it soar in.

Misa jumped, reached out, her fingertips grazing the ball before it hit the lower side of the bar and hit the net after an echoing clink. The crowd went haywire again, this time for a more positive outcome.

Misa took the loss in stride and watched as you took your win in quite a similar way. Then, as everyone went back to their positions, she couldn’t help but have to bite back a cheeky grin— she’d almost gotten in trouble for you again, but once more, it had been a fair exchange for your happiness.

⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ⋆*·ﾟ

#woso x reader #woso imagine #woso one shot #misa rodriguez x reader #misa rodriguez one shot

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luna-azzurra · 1 year

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Reactions to grief

Denial and Disbelief: Initially, a character may struggle to accept the reality of their loss. They might refuse to believe that their loved one is gone, clinging to hope or desperately searching for any signs of their presence.

Emotional Turmoil: Grief often brings intense emotional upheaval. Characters may experience profound sadness, despair, anger, guilt, or a mix of conflicting emotions. Their moods may fluctuate drastically, leading to outbursts of tears, frustration, or numbness.

Withdrawal and Isolation: Some characters might withdraw from social interactions, seeking solitude to process their grief. They may isolate themselves from others, finding solace in their own thoughts and memories.

- Physical Symptoms: Grief can manifest in physical symptoms such as loss of appetite, insomnia, fatigue, headaches, or other psychosomatic manifestations. These physical reactions can reflect the toll that grief takes on the character's overall well-being.

Immersion in Memories: Characters may immerse themselves in memories of the person they've lost. They might seek comfort in looking at old photographs, listening to recordings, or visiting significant places that remind them of their loved one.

Guilt and Regret: Characters may grapple with guilt and regret over things left unsaid or unresolved issues with the deceased. They may blame themselves for not being able to prevent the loss or feel remorse for any negative actions or words in the past.

Seeking Closure: Characters might actively seek closure by investigating the circumstances surrounding the loss or searching for answers. This could involve conducting their own inquiries, talking to people connected to the situation, or even pursuing spiritual or metaphysical avenues.

Attempting to Fill the Void: Some characters may try to fill the void left by their loss by immersing themselves in work, hobbies, or other distractions. This can be a way to cope with the pain or to create a sense of purpose in the absence of their loved one.

Rediscovering Meaning: Over time, characters may go through a process of reevaluating their own life's purpose and finding new meaning or direction. This can involve pursuing new interests, engaging in charitable acts, or dedicating themselves to causes that honor the memory of the person they've lost.

Healing and Acceptance: Eventually, characters may find a sense of healing and acceptance. While the pain of the loss never fully disappears, they learn to live with their grief and carry the memory of their loved one with them. This can lead to a renewed sense of purpose or a deepened appreciation for life.

Follow me on my IG for more Content. https://instagram.com/saraswritingtipps?igshid=NTc4MTIwNjQ2YQ==

#reactions #writing #writing tips #character development #writer on tumblr #writerscommunity #writer tumblr #writblr #writing advice #writing ideas #writersociety #creative writing #grief

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ego-meliorem-esse · 1 year

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July 13th, 1917

Be it from a sense of paternal concern or simply patriotic duty, Arthur made sure to leave his soldiers in the charge of an older Corporal and made his way to the quite pathetic excuse of a medical section where his son was left to rot.

Arthur had heard about the attack. He had been informed the day prior.

He had seen war and famine and sickness, but never like this. Arthur wasn't young, in any sense, and what wonders and strong political oppinions young men had, had left him a long time ago like a ship leaving the harbour in a hury to claim new land. This though, had left shock echoing within his tired, millenia old frame. He wasn't used to this.

Arthur made his way through the trenches with soldiers from every corner of the globe instantly stopping whatever they were doing prior and saluting him as if etiquette and rank mattered in hell. As if it was more importaint to greet the Higher ups than to survive long enough to even write a letter back to family. Arthur did understand that though. Routine and rules were the only thing keeping these poor and wretched souls from being consumed by thoughts of an imminent death.

The path to the section where Matthew was held was quite straightforward and quite familiar. He had marched to and from it hundreds of times and had a sort of automatic rithm in his step. Arthur made his way to the small and damp room with a fast pace indicative of familiarity, only to stop in his tracks in the shabbily built doorframe at the sight that awaited him in the corner.

Matthew sat in the corner of the sad makeshift medical section of the trenches, his back firm against the cold, damp wall.

His once-piercing blue-grey eyes were now clouded over with milky white cataracts, rendering him completely blind. The newly used gas had stolen his sight. His skin, once tanned and healthy, now bore the sickly pallor of a much older man who had endured unimaginable suffering.

Matthew's uniform, discarded in favour of his worn down undershirt, was now a tattered and stained relic of his time in the trenches. The not-white-anymore shirt clung to his emaciated frame as if decency still mattered in hell. The physical toll of the war was clear on his body. Not that Matthew would have to worry about seeing that any time soon. His hands, which had once held a rifle with resolve, now trembled even while resting on his thighs.

Despite his physical and emotional anguish, Matthew remained seated upright, his back pressed against the unforgiving, stained wall. A testament to his resilience if there was any left, a silent protest against the horrors that had taken his sight and left him broken in body and spirit.

As he sat there, his spirit reduced to a hollow shell, Matthew's face bore a mixed expression of utter defeat and complete indifference. His lips were drawn into a thin, lifeless line, and his cheeks were gaunt from the weight of his suffering. His blank, unseeing eyes stared into the abyss, as if waiting for answers and also hoping they'd never arrive.

In that moment, Matthew was not a representation of Canada; he was a young man who had been scarred and broken by the senseless brutality of war. The trenches around him buzzed with activity, but he remained isolated in his silent world of darkness and despair. The young medics job was done. He had patched Matthew up and left him to his own misery. Matthew was grateful.

Arthur stood there silently under the doorframe for what seemed like hours, but was probably only a few seconds. A strange and unfamiliar twinge of emotion plucked and pulled on his conscience. He hadn't felt guilt in quite some time. This feeling was reserved for drunken nights spent in solitude with the doors to the room he resided in firmly locked so that his sliver of self-deprecating emotion wasn't witnessed by any but himself, while he drunk himself to unconsciousness.

He preferred the emotional solitude to this.

Arthur had believed himself to be capable of most things. Especially conversation and confrontation. He was quite good at those as centuries of existence had proved. He believed himself quite skilful with words. Most of the time he knew what to say and when to say it without it resulting in unwanted and unforeseen consequences, while still making sure his opinion was heard.

Arthur had no words forming as he stood in that doorframe. If Arthur was a good man, his reasoning would be that he felt such strong empathy and sadness that words wouldn't be enough to express the sorrow he felt at that moment. If Arthur was a good man he'd run to his son, assure him that this wouldn't happen ever again and that he was safe. If Arthur was a good man he would fall on his knees in front of his oldest son and beg for forgiveness.

Arthur wasn't a good man.

He could admit to his shortcomings, but to act on them was not in his nature.

So he stood there for another 5 or 6 minutes watching his son shallowly breathe in and out, hearing the boys lungs struggle to keep up with his muscles contraction and need for air.

He must have made a noise, as Matthew's head tilted slightly to the left, almost looking at Arthur but definitely not seeing him. Arthur looked back at him.

The room was quiet, save for the desperate plea of Matthews lungs to be put out of their misery.

Sensing nothing after a few moments, Matthew turned his head back towards the blank wall ahead.

Arthur silently turned his frame around and slowly started walking the path he had taken to get here. As he took a few steps, he released the breath he didn't know he was holding.

How he longed for that whiskey bottle and that dark room where he could lock himself in and slowly drift out of consciousness instead of facing his own mistakes.

Arthur definitely was not a good man.

#ooof i had a field day with this one #father son drama ugh sighn me the fuck up #arthur is def not a good man im sorry to the england stans but he isnt #he lives his kids but he is not a good man #he would take a bullet for his kids bur he is not a good man #hetalia #hws england #hws canada #myart #my art #historical hetalia #my writing #arthur kirkland #matthew williams #hetalia fanfiction

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novaursa · 25 days

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Where Dragons Dare (3/3)

- Summary: Years later, Vaemond Velaryon petitions for his rightful claim to Driftmark. And a broken family must mend wounds that were inflicted long ago.

- Paring: male!targ reader/Alicent Hightower

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is twin brother of Rhaenyra and is bonded with a dragon. If you want to read more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 7 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

- A/N: this was requested by @witch-of-letters. I hope you enjoy this conclusion to the story. 🙂

- Previous chapter: 2

- Bonus part: Lost Chapters

You sit beside Alicent in your private chambers, the golden light of the late afternoon filtering through the high windows of the Red Keep. The day had been long, burdened by the weight of ruling in your father’s stead, and yet the discussion you’re having with your wife weighs heavier still. Rhaenyra’s impending visit to King’s Landing brings back memories—some bittersweet, some festering like old wounds—and it’s all been cast into sharper focus by Corlys Velaryon’s grievous injury. Now, with Vaemond Velaryon’s petition to claim Driftmark, the political storm brewing could tear apart the fragile peace you've fought to maintain.

Alicent’s eyes are fixed on you, concern mixed with resolve in those familiar dark depths. She’s changed over the years, just as you have; she’s no longer the uncertain girl manipulated by her father, but a woman of keen insight and strength—your equal and partner in every sense.

“It’s clear why Vaemond is pressing his claim,” she says quietly, her voice laced with tension. “He isn’t wrong to seek what he believes is his by rights. Driftmark belongs to the Velaryons, and the boys… well, it’s plain they’re not Laenor’s blood.”

Your eyes snap to hers, a flicker of warning there. “You shouldn’t speak of such things aloud, Alicent. Not with the walls of the Red Keep so eager to whisper.”

“It’s true, Y/N,” she replies firmly, her gaze unyielding. “Everyone knows it, even if they pretend not to. Viserys decreed them legitimate, but we all see the truth. The danger is in the pretense, in clinging to a lie for the sake of peace. But what peace is this, really? Vaemond’s words hold merit. Driftmark’s true heirs are being passed over for a fabricated legacy.”

A heavy silence hangs between you, the air thick with unspoken tensions that have lingered since the day of Laena’s funeral. Your thoughts drift, unbidden, to that dreadful night when everything unraveled—when Aemond claimed Vhagar and lost his eye for it. The memory of his pained screams still haunts you, a knife twisting in your heart each time you recall it. He bore it bravely, far braver than you expected from a boy his age, but the scars left behind were not just physical.

You let out a weary sigh, leaning back against the cushioned seat as your gaze falls to the intricate patterns on the stone floor. “I demanded justice for Aemond,” you murmur, bitterness seeping into your tone. “Luke should’ve been punished, but Father protected Rhaenyra as he always does. Her children are his blind spot, even now. She never truly acknowledged her son’s fault, not really, and from that moment on… everything between us was strained. We’re twins, yet she became a stranger after that day.”

Alicent’s fingers brush against yours, a silent comfort in her touch. “I’ve never forgotten what happened. I never will. It’s easy for Rhaenyra to speak of unity and family, but the truth is her actions always served her ambitions. She’s isolated herself on Dragonstone with Daemon, as if that distance absolves her from the mess she’s left behind.”

Your frown deepens. You love your sister, you do—but those love-blind affections have long been clouded by bitter reality. The bond you once shared feels frayed, worn thin by years of conflict and choices that placed her interests above everything else. Her sons—Jace, Luke, and little Joffrey—hold a place in your heart, but even that affection is tainted by the lies everyone is forced to maintain. You cannot forget how easily your own pleas for justice were disregarded, how Viserys himself demanded silence when you spoke of the truth.

“Viserys is clinging to a fantasy,” you say after a moment, your voice hard. “He wants to die believing that everything he’s built will remain intact, that the realm will carry on in harmony with Rhaenyra and her children. But there’s rot beneath the surface, and the realm won’t turn a blind eye forever.”

Alicent watches you carefully, her expression unreadable for a moment before softening. “It’s not only you who sees it. The lords whisper, the court shifts uneasily. And now Vaemond has brought that truth into the open, no longer content to pretend. The coming days will test the loyalty of those who have only remained silent out of fear.”

A silence falls once more, only broken by the distant cries of gulls and the muffled sounds of the capital below. The sun has dipped lower in the sky, casting sundown shadows across the room, but you can’t bring yourself to end this conversation, not when it feels as though so much is at stake.

“I don’t know what Viserys will do when Rhaenyra arrives,” you admit quietly. “He’s always favored her, always turned a blind eye when it comes to her and her children. If he sides with her again, if he dismisses Vaemond… it will spark something we may not be able to contain.”

Alicent shifts closer, her hand finding yours once more. “Then we must be ready for what comes. You are Prince Regent, Y/N. You have the authority to act, to protect the realm as you see fit. I know where my loyalties lie.”

You look at her, seeing the determination in her eyes, the quiet devotion that’s never wavered. She’s your wife, the mother of your children, and the one person who has stood beside you through all of it. The bitterness that lingers between you and Rhaenyra doesn’t extend here; with Alicent, there’s no pretense, no lies hidden behind strained smiles.

As night finally creeps over the capital, the light outside fading into a deep indigo, the two of you remain locked in conversation. You speak of the future, of what may come when Rhaenyra and Daemon set foot in the Red Keep, of the lines that may be drawn in the sand.

The fire crackles softly in the hearth as the night deepens, emitting warm flickers of light across your private chambers. The weight of the day’s troubles has lessened, replaced by the comfort of Alicent’s presence. The two of you remain close, sharing lingering touches and quiet words. As you move behind her, your hands begin to wander, gliding across the soft fabric of her gown. You hold her close, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breath beneath your fingertips. Your lips brush against her ear as you murmur, “I think I must confess my sins before the gods, though I fear they are far too many.”

Alicent turns her head slightly, raising an eyebrow at your words. There’s a moment where she appears to take your confession seriously, but then her expression shifts, lips twitching as she fails to suppress a laugh. “That was horrible,” she chuckles, shaking her head, her laughter lightening the mood.

You grin, enjoying the way her laughter sounds, how it brightens the shadows of the evening. “Perhaps, but I’m not sure the gods would easily forgive me if they knew the true extent of my sins,” you jest, voice low and teasing as your hands tighten around her waist.

Her laughter softens into something more intimate as she turns fully toward you, her gaze lingering on your lips before she closes the distance. The kiss is slow at first, a familiar dance of lips and breath, but it quickly deepens as passion flares between you. Her fingers thread through your hair, pulling you closer, and the world outside the chambers fades away. It’s just the two of you—no titles, no crowns, only the warmth of her body pressed against yours.

In the growing heat of the moment, clothing becomes a hindrance, something to be discarded in favor of the closeness you both crave. Your hands make quick work of her gown, letting it slip from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. She helps you shed your attire just as quickly until bare skin meets bare skin. There’s a moment of silence, the air thick with anticipation, before Alicent pushes you back onto the bed with a determined glint in her eye.

You watch as she climbs atop you, her every movement measured and deliberate. The sight of her like this—confident and in control—ignites something in you, a hunger that’s always been there but now roars to life. “You look like a queen,” you whisper, voice husky, your hands finding her hips as she guides you into her. “My heart, my love.”

Alicent gasps softly, closing her eyes as she sinks onto you, the slow, steady rhythm she sets sending shivers through you both. The pleasure builds gradually, each movement deliberate and teasing. You can see the mischief in her eyes as she reaches for a nearby candle, tipping it just enough to let drops of warm wax fall onto your chest. The heat is a sharp contrast against your skin, but it only spurs your desire further.

“To raise the dragon with fire,” she whispers, her voice low and filled with a playful edge as the wax continues to drip.

You chuckle darkly, gripping her hips more firmly as you thrust upward. “The dragon is already raised, my love.” Your words send a thrill through her, and the pace quickens as she moves above you, her moans mingling with your own.

The candles forgotten, they clatter to the floor as her movements become more intense, both of you teetering on the edge of release. But just as you feel yourself ready to fall over that precipice, Alicent suddenly stops, lifting herself away from you. The absence leaves you throbbing with frustration, your desire only heightened by the way she watches you, a knowing smile curving her lips.

“What are you doing?” you groan, the teasing ache almost too much to bear.

She leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, sensual kiss that only stokes the fire in your blood. “Patience, my love,” she whispers against your lips, her voice dripping with teasing amusement. But patience has never been your strong suit, not when it comes to her.

With a growl of determination, you flip her beneath you, your body pressing hers into the soft sheets. You position her on her stomach, her back arched as you take hold of her hips and guide yourself back into her. She moans your name, the sound sending a rush of satisfaction through you as you begin to move with renewed urgency, your rhythm rough and intense, driven by the need to claim her fully.

Alicent’s fingers clutch at the sheets as each thrust draws another cry of pleasure from her lips. You lean down, your mouth brushing against her ear as you whisper praises between ragged breaths, telling her how beautiful she is, how perfect, how she belongs to you as much as you belong to her. The words seem to drive her wild, her voice trembling as she reaches for that peak again.

The pace grows frantic as you both reach the edge together, your bodies locked in perfect harmony. With one final thrust, you feel the tension snap, sending you both spiraling into a shared high that leaves you breathless, your minds lost in the euphoria of your union.

When the last waves of pleasure fade, you collapse beside her, gathering her into your arms as you both catch your breath. The night is quiet now, only the distant hum of the city outside breaking the stillness. You press a kiss to her temple, your heart still pounding in your chest.

For now, in this moment, everything else can wait.

The corridors of the Red Keep echo softly with your footfalls as you walk side by side with your eldest son, Aegon. The council meeting had been more taxing than usual, and you could see the strain in the boy’s eyes, though he hides it behind a practiced indifference. You glance at him, noting how he chews the inside of his cheek—a habit he’s never quite grown out of.

“Father, I—” Aegon starts, his voice tense, betraying the anxiety that simmers beneath his confident exterior. “I didn’t mean to sound insolent when I questioned Lord Lyman, I just—”

You stop, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “You did well, Aegon,” you say, cutting through his worry. “There was no fault in what you said. You spoke with strength and clarity, and you asked the right questions. We must be clear in our decisions, especially when others are too hesitant to say what needs to be said.”

Aegon blinks, the tension easing from his brow. He nods slowly, his expression softening. “Thank you, Father.” His voice is quieter now, laced with gratitude, and as the two of you continue walking, his steps seem lighter. The bond between you is often tested by his impulsiveness and uncertainty, but moments like this remind you that beneath the bravado, Aegon seeks your approval, your guidance.

You approach the sunroom, where a midday meal awaits. The bright sunlight streams through the windows, bathing the space in warmth. Already seated are Aemond, Helaena, and Daeron, each engaged in their own conversations. Helaena’s face lights up the moment she sees you, her smile wide and genuine.

“Father! I finished my collection,” she announces excitedly, almost bouncing in her seat. Her gaze sparkles with the kind of innocent joy you’ve always cherished in her.

You smile back, a rare softness in your eyes. “That’s wonderful, Helaena. I promise I’ll come by later and see it. I’m sure it’s even more impressive than the last one.”

She beams at your words, her contentment visible, before returning her focus to the small assortment of insect jars she’s arranged on the table.

Aemond and Daeron, standing nearby, approach you as well. Aemond, ever the observant one, nods in greeting. “Father, it seems preparations for tonight’s feast are nearly complete. Mother mentioned that Rhaenyra’s arrival will likely set tongues wagging.” His tone is measured, hiding a touch of wariness behind his composed demeanor.

“Let them wag,” Daeron adds with a grin, his youthful energy apparent. “We’ll hold our own, as we always do.”

You can’t help but feel a sense of pride swell in your chest at how they’ve grown—each of them distinct in temperament, but unified by the bonds of family. “We will,” you agree, placing a reassuring hand on Daeron’s shoulder.

Before the conversation can continue, the door to the sunroom opens, and Alicent steps inside. Her eyes sweep across the room before settling on you. A subtle crease forms between her brows as she notices the slight grimace on your face—a telltale sign of discomfort you’ve never been able to fully mask from her. She moves toward you, concern evident in her expression.

“Y/N, is your leg bothering you again?” she asks, her voice laced with worry.

Before you can answer, Helaena, ever attuned to things others overlook, speaks up from her seat. “It’s the weather. The clouds are moving in. His leg hurts when the air changes like that.”

Alicent’s alarm deepens. “Should I summon Grand Maester Orwyle to examine it? Perhaps there’s something he can do.”

You shake your head, offering her a comforting smile. “It’s nothing to worry over, Alicent. Just an old pain from that fall off Dallax years ago. It comes and goes with the weather, as Helaena said. I’ll be fine.”

Though she nods, you can see that she’s not fully reassured, her fingers brushing lightly against your arm, a silent expression of her lingering concern.

The moment is broken by a knock at the door, and one of the guards steps inside, bowing slightly. “Your Grace, the Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon have arrived with their children. Princess Rhaenys and Lord Vaemond are with them as well.”

A heavy sigh escapes you, the weight of the situation pressing down like an iron mantle. “Of course they have,” you mutter under your breath, straightening your posture. Turning back to Alicent, you catch her worried gaze, knowing she senses the unease that tightens in your chest. This reunion has all the makings of a volatile confrontation, and the old wounds that have never fully healed threaten to bleed anew.

“I must go and welcome them,” you say, your voice measured but weary. The obligations of duty pull you forward, even when your heart longs to stay here with your family in this fleeting moment of peace.

Alicent steps closer, her fingers brushing against your sleeve in a silent gesture of support. “We’ll be by your side.”

You nod, grateful for her presence, and glance back at your children, who watch you with varying degrees of concern and curiosity. Even now, they look to you for strength, for guidance, and you cannot fail them. Not today. Not ever.

With one last glance at the warm sunlit room—a sanctuary from the political storm outside—you prepare yourself for the inevitable tension that awaits in the great hall. The time for peace and warmth has passed; now, you must step back into the fray.

The throne room is heavy with the weight of history, the distant clang of armor and murmured whispers echoing through the vast chamber. You stand at the base of the Iron Throne, the twisted swords looming behind you like the sharp shadows of past decisions. This place has always felt suffocating—the power it represents, the burden it imposes—but today, it seems even more so. The air is filled with anticipation, with all the words left unspoken over the years, words that now hover like ghosts between you and your sister.

The grand doors creak open, and in walks Rhaenyra, flanked by Daemon and her children. The entourage is impressive in its own right. But your eyes meet Rhaenyra’s first, a mixture of affection and lingering resentment flickering in her gaze. Daemon’s expression is inscrutable as ever, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips, as if he’s already prepared for whatever battle this day might bring.

“Brother,” Rhaenyra greets, her voice formal but laced with a warmth she struggles to fully suppress. The distance between you isn’t just measured by the steps she takes toward you but by the years of strained silences and fractured trust. “It’s been too long.”

“Too long indeed,” you reply, giving her a nod. “Though I wish it were under different circumstances.”

She glances back at her children—Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey—who linger closer to their stepfather. It’s a small, subtle act, but one that doesn’t escape your notice. The lines have already been drawn, loyalties established, even within family. Your eyes shift momentarily to Lucerys, who shifts uncomfortably under your gaze. The memory of that night, when Aemond lost his eye, still lingers in the corners of your mind like a festering wound.

Daemon steps forward, offering you a mocking half-bow. “Prince Regent,” he drawls, the title rolling off his tongue with a hint of amusement. “I trust King’s Landing hasn’t dulled your edge in all this politicking?”

“King’s Landing has taught me that sharper edges are often hidden behind polished words,” you counter, meeting his smirk with one of your own. “But some things remain constant, no matter how much time has passed.”

There’s a flicker of something in Daemon’s eyes—approval, perhaps—but he gives nothing more than a faint nod. The moment stretches as if both of you are waiting for the other to strike first, but the tension is cut by the sound of more footsteps entering the throne room.

Alicent appears, resplendent in her green gown, with Aegon and Aemond trailing just behind her. They take their places beside you, Alicent’s presence a quiet assurance amidst the charged atmosphere. Her eyes briefly meet Rhaenyra’s—a mixture of cordiality and something more guarded passing between them.

Rhaenyra’s gaze shifts back to you, her expression tight. “All this—Vaemond’s petition, this charade in court—is unnecessary. Corlys has already named Luke as his heir. This is nothing more than a farce driven by Vaemond’s ambition and desperation.”

You hold her gaze steadily, the words she speaks true, but there’s a bitterness beneath the surface that neither of you can quite hide. “Rhaenyra, you know as well as I do that perception is as powerful as truth in the eyes of the court. Vaemond’s claims are not without support among those who see blood over words. He’s leveraged the uncertainty surrounding Corlys’s health to rally those who resent the decree Viserys made years ago.”

“Resentment or ambition, it hardly matters,” Rhaenyra counters, her voice hardening. “Luke is Corlys’s chosen heir. This is nothing more than a blatant attempt to undermine our family, to sow discord in favor of personal gain.”

Before you can respond, Aemond’s cool voice cuts through the tension. “And yet, the matter has been brought before the court. The Driftwood Throne is more than just a seat; it represents the stability of our alliances and the power of the Velaryon fleet. Vaemond knows this well.”

Aegon shifts beside his brother, clearly eager to speak, but there’s an undercurrent of caution in his posture. “Let them debate the bloodlines and the claims. It’s all they seem to care about. But it’s our family’s unity that hangs in the balance.”

Alicent’s hand subtly rests on Aegon’s arm, a silent encouragement to temper his words. You can feel her worry radiating beside you, though she remains composed. “We cannot afford to be careless,” she adds, her voice steady. “The lords and ladies of the court are watching closely, each with their own interests at heart. We must tread carefully, especially with those like Vaemond, who are prepared to exploit any perceived weakness.”

Rhaenyra’s expression softens only slightly, the strain of years apart visible in the lines around her eyes. “I don’t want this to tear us further apart, brother. The realm needs stability, not more division. But it feels as though every step I take, every decision I make, is met with suspicion.”

You take a breath, weighing your words carefully. “Rhaenyra, I never wished for distance between us, nor did I want our paths to diverge as they have. But the choices we make carry consequences—sometimes ones we never intend. I want to believe that we can still find a way forward, even with everything that stands between us.”

Daemon’s eyes narrow slightly, watching you with a calculating gaze. He’s never been one to shy away from conflict, but even he seems to recognize that this moment is a delicate one.

Before anything further can be said, Alicent’s attention shifts as she catches sight of movement near the entrance. “It seems our guests have arrived.”

The doors swing open again, and in walk Princess Rhaenys and Lord Vaemond Velaryon, their presence commanding attention. Vaemond’s expression is one of grim determination, while Rhaenys’s gaze remains neutral, though there’s an underlying tension in the way she holds herself.

You sigh inwardly, the weight of what’s to come pressing heavily on your shoulders. “I must welcome them,” you say quietly, though the words feel more like a duty than a choice.

With a final glance at Alicent and your children, you steel yourself, ready to face whatever storm this day may bring.

The throne room is filled with an air of tension so thick it nearly suffocates, a place where every word and glance carries the weight of the realm’s future. You sit in front of the Iron Throne, flanked by your family—Alicent at your side, with Aegon, Aemond, Helaena, and Daeron standing proudly beside you. Otto stands as a silent sentinel to your left, his expression carefully neutral but his calculating mind undoubtedly working behind those cold eyes.

This is your trial to preside over, not his.

Vaemond Velaryon stands before the court, his expression carved from stone, his voice carrying the authority of a man with righteous conviction. “I speak plainly because this matter is not one of politics, but of truth! The Driftwood Throne is a legacy that cannot be tainted by a lie. Lucerys Velaryon is no true Velaryon. He carries no blood of our house—he is not the son of Laenor Velaryon!”

Murmurs ripple through the gathered lords and ladies, some leaning in, eager to witness the drama unfold. Vaemond’s words are like daggers thrown across the room, aimed directly at Rhaenyra and her children. You can see the steel in her eyes, her lips pressed into a thin line as she holds her composure. Daemon stands beside her, eyes narrowing at the offense, but he remains still, his calculating mind no doubt waiting for the right moment to strike.

You raise a hand to silence the room, your voice calm but firm. “Lord Vaemond, you’ve made your case. But it is not solely yours to decide. Princess Rhaenys, as the wife of Lord Corlys and the one who has stood by his side through every battle and storm, you have the most voice in this matter. Speak now, for the realm listens.”

Rhaenys steps forward, her presence commanding respect. Dressed in the deep blacks and reds of her house, she carries the pride of House Velaryon on her shoulders, yet her expression remains inscrutable. You watch her closely, knowing that her words will determine more than just the fate of Driftmark—they will shape alliances and define loyalties.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she begins, her voice clear and unwavering. “It is true that my lord husband is gravely injured and unable to speak for himself. But before he took ill, he made his wishes clear. He named Lucerys as his heir. My husband’s word is law on Driftmark, and I intend to honor it.”

Vaemond shifts uncomfortably, but remains silent for now.

Rhaenys continues, her gaze moving to Rhaenyra before settling on you. “Furthermore, Princess Rhaenyra has proposed a union—one that would not only preserve the legacy of House Velaryon but strengthen it. She has offered her son, Lucerys, to wed my granddaughter, Rhaena. A match I wholeheartedly support.”

The court stirs at this revelation. You feel the weight of Rhaenys’s decision pressing against your chest. Her words do more than just confirm Lucerys’s claim—they solidify Rhaenyra’s position in this fight. The offer to wed Rhaena to Lucerys would ensure that Driftmark remains in Velaryon hands, through Laena’s trueborn daughter. It’s a maneuver as brilliant as it is decisive. Rhaenys has thrown her support behind Rhaenyra in a way that cannot be easily countered.

You pause, considering the ramifications. Your eyes briefly meet Rhaenyra’s, searching for some sign of what she’s truly feeling beneath her stoic mask. She knows the significance of Rhaenys’s declaration; it’s more than just the inheritance of Driftmark—it’s a public alignment of houses, a strengthening of her line.

Just as you’re about to speak, Vaemond’s voice rises again, sharper now, with barely concealed fury. “This is an insult! A mockery of our house! You may support these... false heirs, but I will not allow Driftmark to be handed over to bastards!”

The word hangs in the air, searing through the room like a brand. A cold silence falls, eyes darting between you and Vaemond. Even Otto’s composed mask slips slightly, his eyes narrowing at the brazenness of Vaemond’s outburst. You feel a ripple of anger stir within you, a flame that you must keep controlled, for it would be too easy to let it consume you here.

Daemon steps forward, his smile a dangerous thing as he drawls, “Say it again, Vaemond. Go on.” His hand rests casually on the hilt of his blade, the invitation clear.

You rise from your seat, your gaze locking onto Vaemond with the weight of a dragon’s stare. The silence that follows is heavy, the tension crackling like lightning in the air. The audacity of his words echoes through the chamber—bastards. A line has been crossed, and everyone knows it.

“Enough,” you command, your voice low but resonant, silencing the whispers that had begun to stir among the lords and ladies. “You forget yourself, Lord Vaemond.”

Vaemond’s face twists with fury, but he stands defiant, unwilling to yield. “Your Grace, I only speak the truth that everyone here knows but dares not voice! Driftmark is the seat of House Velaryon, a house built on blood and salt. That blood should flow true, and Lucerys Velaryon carries none of it! The realm cannot be governed by lies and pretenses.”

You take a step forward, your presence a shadow over the defiant lord. “You speak of truth, but your truth is tainted by ambition and grievance. Driftmark’s future is a matter for Lord Corlys’s bloodline, and it has been decided by the one who holds that legacy. Princess Rhaenys has spoken clearly on her husband’s wishes and on the betrothal that will secure Driftmark’s future.”

Rhaenys’s head lifts, her expression one of quiet strength. It is a rare thing for the ‘Queen Who Never Was’ to publicly choose a side so explicitly, and in doing so, she has thrown the full weight of House Velaryon behind Rhaenyra and her children.

But Vaemond is not done. His eyes blaze with a dangerous mix of pride and desperation. “And you would have us swallow this pretense, this farce? I will not see my house’s name sullied for the sake of politics!”

Rhaenyra’s expression is a careful mask, but you know her well enough to see the tension coiled beneath the surface. Her sons stand rigid, their youth apparent in how they strain to keep composed, particularly Lucerys, whose gaze keeps darting toward you as if searching for some semblance of reassurance. You can feel Alicent’s eyes on you as well, a silent plea for this matter to end without bloodshed.

You straighten, feeling the weight of the crown’s authority settle around your shoulders. “This is not about what you will or will not see, Lord Vaemond. The decision is not yours to make.” You look to the gathered lords and ladies, letting your words carry across the room. “House Velaryon’s seat belongs to Lucerys Velaryon, named by Lord Corlys and affirmed by his lady wife. This court upholds that decision.”

There’s a murmur of agreement among some of the gathered lords, though others shift uncomfortably, clearly aligning themselves more with Vaemond’s view, whether they dare voice it or not. Vaemond’s defiance hardens into something bitter, his eyes flicking briefly toward Daemon, who remains a silent sentinel, the edge of his smile dangerous.

“Lucerys Velaryon is not a true Velaryon,” Vaemond growls, his voice rising with barely-contained rage. “He is—”

“Say it,” Daemon’s voice slices through the air like a dagger, his smile cold, daring Vaemond to cross that final line for the last time.

For a moment, it looks as if Vaemond might take the bait, the word trembling on his lips, but the air is thick with unspoken threats. You can see the flicker of fear in his eyes, a recognition that his next words could cost him more than just this claim. He hesitates, but the anger does not fade.

“The truth is plain,” Vaemond finally says, quieter now but no less venomous. “You can wrap it in silks and gold, but it remains a lie.”

Your patience wears thin. “Your passion is noted, Lord Vaemond, but you would do well to remember where you stand and who you address.” You glance at Rhaenyra, who remains poised despite the insults cast her way, then back at Vaemond. “This court has rendered its judgment. The matter is settled.”

The finality in your tone leaves no room for further argument. Vaemond clenches his jaw, his fists trembling at his sides, but he knows he’s lost. His pride is wounded, and though he has supporters among the court, none will openly defy the crown’s decision. He gives you a look filled with loathing, and for a heartbeat, you think he might lash out.

Before anything can escalate, Alicent steps forward, her presence bringing a calming effect, if only briefly. “This matter is closed,” she says with cool authority, echoing your decree. “The realm must look forward, not cling to the past.”

You nod, turning your attention back to the court. “The feast tonight will be held in honor of family and unity. I expect all to attend.” You emphasize the word family, knowing it holds different meanings for those gathered. Your gaze lingers on Rhaenyra and her children, then back to Vaemond, whose seething gaze is impossible to ignore.

Vaemond’s face is twisted with barely-restrained fury, but he bows stiffly. “As you command, Your Grace.”

The lords and ladies begin to disperse, the unrest easing as conversations shift to safer topics. But the undercurrents of unease remain. Alliances have been made clearer, but new fissures have formed as well.

As the court disperses, you catch Rhaenyra’s gaze. There’s a gratitude there, mingled with sadness, a recognition of the unspoken rift that still lies between you. “Thank you, brother,” she says softly when she approaches, her voice tinged with a mixture of relief and weariness.

You nod, offering a small, strained smile. “For now, let us put aside the politics and remember that we are family.”

Rhaenyra inclines her head, and though the words are spoken with good intent, there’s a heaviness that neither of you can ignore. The politics of blood, inheritance, and loyalty remain like shadows between you.

As Rhaenyra and Daemon leave the throne room with their children, you feel Alicent’s hand lightly rest on your arm. “You did well,” she says softly, her gaze searching yours for any trace of what you’re truly feeling.

You give a faint nod, but the weariness of the day weighs heavily on your mind. “Perhaps. But this is only the beginning. There are storms yet to come.”

Alicent’s eyes flicker with concern, but she remains composed. “Then we will face them together, as we always have.”

With that, you steel yourself for the next gathering—the feast, where smiles will hide sharpened knives and toasts will be laced with hidden meanings.

The Great Hall is aglow with the warmth of countless candles, their light reflecting off the polished silver goblets and rich tapestries lining the walls. The air is thick with the aromas of roasted meats, spiced wine, and the subtle sweetness of honeyed fruits. At the head of the table, King Viserys sits, smiling broadly, the years of weariness lifted, if only for tonight. His eyes, though dulled by age and illness, sparkle with the joy of seeing his family gathered together—just as he has always dreamed.

You sit to his right, with Alicent beside you, her presence a quiet, steadying force. Your children—Aegon, Aemond, Helaena, and Daeron—are arranged around you, each reflecting the shared Targaryen and Hightower legacies. Across the table, Rhaenyra sits with Daemon, their children—Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey, Baela, and Rhaena—filling the seats beside them. For once, the invisible line that has divided you all seems to blur, softened by the promise of reconciliation that hangs in the air.

Viserys raises his goblet, his voice trembling but rich with emotion. “To family,” he declares, looking first at you, then at Rhaenyra, his gaze lingering with unspoken hope. “We have all weathered many storms, but tonight, let us put aside our differences and remember the ties that bind us. Blood is what unites us, and that is stronger than any quarrel.”

You lift your goblet, meeting Rhaenyra’s gaze from across the table. There’s a flicker of warmth in her eyes, a reflection of the shared memories from when you were younger—before ambition and politics built walls between you. “To family,” you echo, letting your voice carry across the hall.

“To family,” Rhaenyra agrees, her voice softer, but sincere. The tension that usually clings to her words is absent, replaced by a genuine desire to find common ground. Daemon follows suit with a small nod, raising his goblet, though his eyes never lose their sharpness.

The others join in the toast, and for the first time in a long while, there’s a shared sense of unity at the table. The feast begins, and conversation flows more easily than you had expected. Laughter echoes, and even some of the past hurts seem to fade as old stories are shared, tales from when you and Rhaenyra were children, and the world was simpler.

Aegon, emboldened by the good cheer, leans toward Jacaerys with a grin. “So, cousin, when do we finally see if your swordplay has improved? Or are you still hiding behind the idea of ‘diplomacy’?” There’s a teasing lilt to his words, but it’s free of malice.

Jacaerys chuckles, accepting the challenge with grace. “Any time you wish, Aegon. Perhaps tomorrow, in the yard? I could use the exercise.”

Aegon laughs, and for once, it’s genuine. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Nearby, Helaena leans close to Rhaena, showing her a small, delicate beetle she’s been keeping. “This one’s new. I found it in the gardens this morning. It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

Rhaena’s face lights up with interest. “It is! You’ll have to show me where you find them. Perhaps we can look together tomorrow?”

Aemond, ever observant, listens as Daemon regales Daeron with stories of old Valyria, his tone as dramatic as ever. “You mustn’t rely only on strength, young prince,” Daemon advises with a sly smile. “There’s more power in a sharp mind than a sharp blade, though it’s best to wield both.”

As the night progresses, the atmosphere becomes lighter, laughter filling the hall. You notice Rhaenyra watching you, and when your eyes meet, she offers a tentative smile. There’s a pause, a moment where neither of you speaks, but the silence is full of unspoken words—regret, apology, and perhaps most importantly, a desire to heal what’s been broken.

“Brother,” she finally says, her voice tinged with emotion. “I’ve missed this—us, being together. I know there have been… difficulties, but I hope we can start anew.”

You take a deep breath, feeling the sincerity in her words. The distance between you hasn’t been easy, and the weight of your past grievances still lingers, but you find yourself nodding. “I’ve missed it too, Rhaenyra. We’ve both made mistakes, but we’re stronger together. Let’s try to move forward—for our family, for our father.”

Viserys beams at this exchange, his hand trembling as he lifts it to wipe away a tear. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. For all of us to be united, to leave behind the bitterness of the past.”

Alicent watches this with a soft smile, her hand slipping into yours beneath the table. “This is what he’s longed for,” she whispers. “You’ve given him peace, if only for tonight.”

As the meal continues, the tension that once plagued these gatherings begins to dissipate. Rhaenyra and Alicent exchange kind words, complimenting each other’s children. Daemon, though still carrying his usual edge, seems content to keep his barbs light, focusing more on keeping the mood lifted than on stirring the pot. Even Aemond, usually so guarded, appears more at ease, his exchanges with Jacaerys and Lucerys devoid of the usual undercurrents of rivalry.

At one point, Rhaenyra lifts her goblet again, a more private toast this time. “To new beginnings,” she says, looking at you with hope.

You smile, raising your own goblet in kind. “To new beginnings.”

The night stretches on, and for once, it feels as though the past might truly be put behind you. The bonds of family, strained though they’ve been, begin to mend. The ghosts of old wounds fade into the background as laughter, warmth, and shared memories take center stage.

Viserys, exhausted but happy, leans back in his chair, his hand resting on yours as he closes his eyes, a contented smile on his lips. “This… this is how it should always be,” he murmurs.

And for that night, at least, it is. Family, love, and unity win out, and the weight of the crown feels a little lighter.

From the Chronicles of King Y/N Targaryen I, The Reign of the Unified Flame

From “Fire and Blood: A History of House Targaryen” by Archmaester Melys:

Upon the passing of King Viserys I in the year 129 AC, the realm held its breath, fearing that the simmering tensions within House Targaryen would ignite into the civil war prophesied by many. But where the histories might have diverged into bloodshed and ruin, they instead tell a tale of unity and wise rule under King Y/N Targaryen, the Heir of Dragonstone, who ascended the Iron Throne as Y/N I, known to later generations as “Y/N the Peacemaker” and “The King of Balance.”

Though many lords whispered of conflict, it was King Y/N’s first decree that set the tone for his reign. Gathering his family—Queen Alicent, Princess Rhaenyra, and their respective children—he held council not in the Red Keep, but atop Dragonstone, the ancient seat of House Targaryen. There, in the shadow of their ancestors and the elder dragons, they swore an oath of unity before gods and men. It is said that Prince Daemon himself, ever the rogue, was the first to lay down his blade, pledging his loyalty to his nephew. With that, the seeds of war were quelled, and the Dance of Dragons was averted.

High Speton Eustace credits King Y/N’s wisdom and firm hand for this peace, stating, “His Majesty’s reign was marked by clarity of vision and an understanding that compromise is often the sharpest weapon.” Mushroom, in his typically bawdy accounts, attributes the peace to the deep affection between the King and Queen Alicent, jesting that, “It was her gentle whispers at night and not the threats of swords that kept the realm from tearing itself apart.”

Under King Y/N’s rule, Westeros saw another golden era of peace and prosperity. His approach to governance combined the fiery decisiveness of his Targaryen blood with a measured balance that many compared to his mother, Queen Aemma Arryn. The king’s court was diverse and inclusive; Princess Rhaenyra was granted full authority over the small council alongside her brother, with the Velaryons remaining staunch allies after the successful betrothal of Lucerys Velaryon to Rhaena Targaryen. Driftmark’s legacy was secured without further bloodshed, ensuring that the sea lanes of Westeros remained open and secure.

King Y/N’s family played a crucial role in his reign. His children with Queen Alicent grew into respected figures in their own right. Aegon, though restless in his youth, became a trusted commander, leading the royal navy in expeditions to Essos that solidified trade routes. Aemond, despite the loss of his eye, was known as “The Iron Shield,” a prince famed for his discipline and loyalty, who often served as Hand of the King when his father took to Dragonstone for respite. Helaena’s prophecies, often dismissed in earlier years, became valued by the court, guiding many decisions with a wisdom that bordered on the mystical. Daeron, the youngest, was known as the people’s prince, a bridge between nobility and common folk, fostering goodwill in the Reach and beyond.

The reign of King Y/N I was not without its trials. The Ironborn rose in rebellion more than once, but swift action by Aemond and Daemon in a rare alliance quickly subdued the threat. The Riverlands also saw unrest when Lord Grover Tully’s ambitions threatened to spill into open conflict, but the King’s deft diplomacy resolved the dispute before it could escalate.

Even so, the unity within House Targaryen remained the cornerstone of Y/N’s reign. It is said that Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent, once rivals after their marriages, grew back into a friendship they shared in their youth, sharing their roles as matriarchs to an ever-growing brood of dragonlords. Mushroom—never one to miss an opportunity for scandal—claims that their peace was ensured by shared interests in a secretive cabal of noblewomen, but wiser heads discount this as the jester’s usual mischief.

King Y/N’s dragons also played a vital role in securing his legacy. His bond with Dallax, the Night Fury, became legendary. Dallax, with his black scales and green eyes, was a fearsome sight in battle, but it was his presence at royal negotiations that often quelled rebellious lords before blood could be spilled. The dragon’s reputation as both guardian and enforcer of the realm added to the mystique of King Y/N’s rule.

In 143 AC, King Y/N I presided over the Grand Council at Harrenhal, where matters of succession and law were codified, ensuring stability for generations to come. It was there that his wisdom was most evident; by balancing the interests of all regions and houses, he secured peace in the realm without resorting to brute force. When the Maester's Conclave reviewed the royal lineage in later years, it was agreed by many that King Y/N’s efforts had preserved not just the peace but the very legacy of House Targaryen.

Mushroom’s final words on the reign of King Y/N are perhaps the most fitting. “In an age where dragons danced upon the edge of war, it took not just a dragonrider, but a man who saw the value in holding back the flame, to keep the realm whole. Where others would have chosen fire and blood, he chose balance, and in doing so, left behind a reign that many would envy.”

King Y/N Targaryen I passed away in the year 150 AC, leaving behind a legacy of unity, prosperity, and a realm spared the horrors of civil war. His children carried forth his wisdom, and under their guidance, Westeros thrived in an era known as the “Second Golden Age.” And thus, the realm’s history turned, not on a dance of dragons, but on a single king’s steadfast resolve to keep his family—and his realm—united.

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd x male reader #hotd reader insert #hotd x reader #hotd alicent #alicent x y/n #alicent x you #alicent x reader #alicent hightower #rhaenyra targaryen #viserys targaryen #daemon targaryen

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average-cosmopolitan · 8 months

Text

Just a couple sub Albedo thoughts :)

- Albedo is a great mix of awkward inexperience and unexpectedly smug. Like, have you seen his face sometimes? That smug Albedo face? That one. That.

- He’s 100% a virgin before you get at him, this isolated mf. So when you get to take his first time (after a very long time dating), he’s not used to… well, not studying things.

- When you first start out he’s going to be like… the kind of awkward only scientists can be. Attempts to dirty talk will be met by unimpressed looks and judgmental eyebrow quirking. - Mostly because at first he uses the biological terms (“penis” 💀)

- But that’s before you turn him into a mess

- He absolutely overestimates how much he can take. He assumes he’s going to have plenty of stamina and resistance because of his efficient homunculus body. Sure it’s good for physical activity and such, but it’s not like Rhinedottir built him for withstanding pleasure!? He fails to realize that sex is an entirely different wheelhouse than just physical activity

- So when you manage (your cock or strap) inside him (after many gasps about how much bigger it seems when it’s inside), and start to pound him he absolutely falls apart.

- Poor boy isn’t built for this. His every sense overridden by a sensation he wasn’t built to withstand. The normally composed alchemist, reduced to a blathering mess of tears and drool as he completely loses it.

- He will deny that happened the next day though

- In the future, when he knows what to expect, dirty talk will start to become more effective. And, you can start to explore more kinks with him!

- The idea of dollification with Albedo is fun, but I feel like he’ll only subscribe to that idea after a while, when he gets a better grasp and confidence with all this.

- Start out slow. Light bondage, praise, maybe a little edging and overstimulation. All light, please ease him into things

- Over time, he’ll be able to handle more and you can become more intense ofc :)

- He understands how sex works, but isn’t well-versed in the world of kinks and fetishes. So, corrupt away, my good fellow.

- At the end of the day, Albedo is always going to be high commitment and patience-driven relationship. High commitment high reward. Be good to him, and all that brain power will focus on making you happy (and being a good boy for you~).

- Albedo is my favorite if you can’t tell. My baby boy 🙏 Frfr. Love him so much.

This has been stuck in my drafts for months ❤️

#sub genshin #sub genshin x dom reader #sub!genshin #dom reader #dom!reader #sub character #sub genshin impact #sub albedo

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starsofang · 4 months

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poly!141 x autistic!reader

still thinking about that anon that requested how poly!141 would be with an autistic partner, so here’s a sweet little drabble about price with them <3

tw: brief angst before cute fluff, just reader being overstimulated and price offering comfort

The entire room felt like it was closing in on you. It made you feel suffocated, claustrophobic, like all the walls were slowly constricting you and threatening to squeeze you until you exploded into a bloodied mess of splattered red.

Warm flames were trickling into your bloodstream, slowly but surely, heating you up with rage, attempting to scorch you from the inside and out. It was becoming unbearable. It was ruthless.

You loved Johnny and Kyle. Truly, you loved them to death, just as much as you loved Simon and Price. But putting them together could be a youthful night of smiles and laughter, or it could be a recipe for disaster. Right now, it was the latter.

The restraint you had was wearing thin. It was painful, both mentally and physically, to mask your anger and not snap at the two of them for how loud they were being. It wasn’t their fault, they were always the more outgoing types when they were paired together, and a lot of it expressed itself when you were around so you wouldn’t feel excluded or isolated.

But god, it was wearing thin, borderline snapping and shattering into unrepairable pieces.

You were overstimulated. Extremely.

Your mind was poisoned goo, seeping into a puddle in your head, tainting your emotions with a venomous disease. It screamed at you, flooding you with overwhelming exposure.

The air in your lungs felt as if it were monoxide. It didn’t filter through, it didn’t make you feel like you were breathing. It was a strangling feeling, one that made you lightheaded and tuned out.

Johnny and Kyle’s voices mixed together in an agonizing shrill that made your eardrums feel like they were two seconds away from combusting. It didn’t calm you like it normally did, nor did it make you laugh. All it did was make you irritated.

“Please,” you begged, voice raspy and forced through the grit of your teeth. Your hands plugged over your ears, cupping them in attempts to drown out their rowdy jokes. “Can you please just shut up? For two fucking seconds? Please?”

Instantly, the room filled with a deafening silence. The two men stared at you, guilt pooling in their eyes when they realized just how inconsiderate they were being towards you.

They were aware of things that could overstimulate you to the point of blinded exhaustion mixed with rage, but even they could forget sometimes. They’d never hurt you on purpose, nor would they want to make you feel that way.

You were their partner, all of theirs, and with five of you in the mix, it was easy to let the reminder slip.

“Hey,” Kyle called out softly, reaching a hand out to you. When you flinched away from it, an angry glare etched into your eyes, eyebrows taut firm, mouth pressed into a frown, he pulled it away, noting how you were in no mood to be touched. “Hey, we’re sorry, dove. Didn’t mean to get too much, we’ll quiet down.”

Your hands remained over your ears but you could hear him perfectly fine, though made no effort to respond. The little virus in your mind was too occupied with spreading its disease, and you couldn’t cure it in a flash. It would take time to settle.

“Bonnie?” Johnny asked. You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head. It was too much. You needed space to breathe, and surely, they’d understand that.

Stepping away from them and out of the room without another word, the first person who popped in your head was Price. His office was right down the hall, so you stomped towards it, keeping your head low and your ears covered.

You didn’t bother knocking. You never had to with him, and he always kept it unlocked for when you wanted to see him, or needed to, in this case.

“Hey, pretty girl,” Price greeted warmly when you yanked open his door and stepped inside, before promptly hurling it closed.

His eyes followed you as you made your way over to the couch he kept in his office just for you, watching as you plopped yourself on it. Knees to your chest, sour expression, ears covered. It was enough indication for him to read the room.

You needed a quiet space, and that was something he could always give you.

Price silently stood from his desk, crouching down to one of his drawers. Tugging it open, he pulled out one of the blankets he kept on hand for you. Normally for when you’d take a nap in his presence, but this time it was for comfort.

Walking over, he stood in front of you, head tilted and eyes taking in your appearance. You were flustered and disheveled, and his heart ached seeing you shut down. He knew it was just all apart of who you were, but he still felt pained seeing you unhappy.

“Here, bug,” he offered with a kind smile, using careful hands to place the blanket around your shoulders. He wrapped you up in it, before stepping back, allowing you the space you needed until you were ready. “You want some music?”

Shaking your head, you continued glaring down at the floor, tugging the blanket tighter around yourself in a secure cocoon.

“Alright. I’ll be over there, okay?” He gestured to his desk, but when you didn’t respond, he took no offense and returned to his paperwork anyway.

The two of you sat in silence for the duration of your visit. He didn’t mind, and would cast the occasional glance in your direction to make sure you were well, before returning to his work.

The silence was needed. It calmed you, smoothed over your nerves and ceased the thumping of your heart and loud voices in your head. When you came to, you instantly made a mental note to apologize to Johnny and Kyle, but for now, you could welcome the quiet.

It took about an hour for you to move from your spot. An hour for you to calm. An hour for you to become aware.

The wildfire was finally put out, and you could breathe again without the angry smoke of it to strangle you.

Standing up from the couch, you wordlessly walked over to Price. He glanced up at you from his paperwork, placing his pen down and leaning back in his chair. He was patient, not making a first move until you did, but when you stood in front of him with a kicked-puppy expression, he opened his arms.

“C’mon, bug,” he assured lovingly.

You didn’t hesitate, stumbling into his lap and allowing yourself to be embraced in the comforting warmth of his arms. They wrapped around you, holding you to his chest. One hand lifted to lightly stroke through your hair.

“Want to talk about it?” he asked, and you shook your head from where it was buried in the crook of his neck. “That’s okay. Just needed some peace and quiet, hm?”

“Mhm,” you hummed into his skin, eliciting a light laugh from him. It rumbled against you, filling you with glowing warmth and making you sink into him further.

Price pressed a chaste kiss on the side of your head, smiling down at you when you peeked your head out from his neck, gazing at you as if you put all of the stars in the sky.

(You definitely ended up apologizing to both Johnny and Kyle later on, resulting in plenty of hugs and kisses to go around, and a brief smack on each of their heads when Simon found out about what they did.)

#call of duty #cod #cod mw3 #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #john price #johnny soap mactavish #soap cod #john soap mactavish #john price x reader #captain price #poly141 #autistic!reader #cod x reader #ghost cod #kyle garrick

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mimimarvelingmarvel · 29 days

Text

time bound part two

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

Part Two - 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: 1.9k

Months have passed since Johnny and I first crossed paths in the bleak void of the multiverse. In that time, the Borderlands have evolved from a chaotic, unsettling expanse into a strange but surprisingly reliable haven. I've acclimated to its disjointed blend of makeshift settlements and the diverse, often eccentric band of misfits who call it home. One of them is Laura, a fierce warrior with a rough edge, but a surprising softness beneath her surface. She once tried to explain the nature of my variant in her universe, but when she mentioned Logan, it struck a nerve too deep for me to handle.

Today, Johnny and I are on a reconnaissance mission near the heart of the void, tasked with scouting for any unusual movements. We trudge through the arid expanse, our boots crunching softly over the dry, sandy terrain. The sky is a turbulent mix of colors, the horizon a jagged line of shifting shadows and light. Alioth.

The constant strain of maintaining control over my powers in this inhospitable space is wearing me thin. I can’t afford to let my guard down. We push through a small sandstorm that sweeps across the landscape, its gritty particles stinging my skin. I keep my eyes sharp and my hand resting on the hilt of my blade—a gift from Electra, a gesture of trust and camaraderie.

The oppressive quiet is almost a physical presence, the weight of isolation pressing down on me. We are about to turn back when a sudden disturbance breaks through the stillness. My heart skips a beat as the faint sounds of a skirmish reach my ears. Johnny’s hand clamps firmly on my arm, his grip conveying urgency.

“Did you hear that?” he growls, his voice low and taut with focus.

“Yeah,” I reply, straining to discern the sounds amidst the howling wind. The unmistakable clang of metal and the harsh grunts of a fight grow louder. “Let’s check it out.”

We advance cautiously, our footsteps muffled by the shifting sands, moving toward the source of the commotion. As we approach a tall, metal structure, I begin to climb it, Johnny following to gain a better vantage point. The structure, a rusted remnant of some long-forgotten machinery, creaks under our weight. From the top, the view unfolds before me, and what I see makes my breath catch in my throat.

Two figures are locked in combat below us, their movements a blur of speed and violence. The first is a Deadpool variant, clad in a distinctive black-and-red suit. He’s wielding a pair of katanas with an expert’s precision, slicing through the air with practiced ease. His opponent is unmistakably Wolverine, his adamantium claws extended and gleaming with a deadly sheen. Logan moves with a predator's grace, slashing and dodging with equal skill.

At first, I can hardly believe my eyes. A Wolverine—how could one of his variants be here? My mind races, struggling to reconcile this unexpected sight with everything I know. The scene is almost surreal, like a twisted mirror reflecting a reality I can barely grasp. I glance at Johnny, whose expression has turned serious, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

“Is that…?” I start, my voice trailing off, unable to articulate the confusion swirling in my mind.

“Yeah,” Johnny confirms, his tone grim. “Looks like we’ve got some serious anomalies here. We need to find out what’s going on.”

I watch as Deadpool and Wolverine continue their fierce exchange, their movements a violent dance. Deadpool’s agile maneuvers and rapid strikes are met with Logan’s relentless aggression. Despite the chaos, there’s a strange familiarity in their fighting styles—both driven by an intensity that makes them almost mirror images of each other.

“What the hell is going on?” I mutter under my breath, my mind reeling from the disorienting sight.

Johnny’s eyes remain sharp as he observes the conflict below. “We need to intervene. This could spiral out of control, and Cassandra could notice.”

Before I can respond, Johnny is already moving, his voice ringing out with authority as he shouts to the combatants. “Hey! We fight each other, we lose.”

The two fighters momentarily pause, their heads turning toward Johnny as he approaches. Deadpool’s head tilts, his mask concealing any visible expression, but his posture suggests surprise. “Dear god, it’s him.” His voice carries a mix of awe and disbelief. I watch cautiously from above, hesitant to step in, my heart pounding at the sight of Wolverine. He looks so much like my own Logan that the resemblance is almost painful.

Deadpool’s voice rings out with an irreverent edge. “Fair warning, gorgeous. You’re going to encounter some indelicate language. A smidge of ass play, but we’ve been prohibited from using cocaine on camera.”

Johnny, unfazed, urges me to move. “Veil, let’s go.” He turns to address me directly, his tone focused and commanding.

Logan’s head whips up, his eyes locking onto me with a mixture of suspicion and recognition. “Y/N?”

I jump down cautiously, my heart in my throat as I watch Logan tense, his claws extending in readiness. I land, a knee on the ground.

“Now that’s a superhero landing!”

“Who the fuck are you?” Logan demands, his voice a harsh growl, the tension palpable.

Deadpool’s eyes widen in realization. “Buddy, I think that’s—”

“Shut the fuck up. I didn’t ask you.”

In that moment, I see it—the familiar huff of his breath, the furrow of his brows, and the flare of his nostrils. I’d recognize my Logan anywhere. His eyes flicker with something unspoken, a mixture of relief and anguish, and his claws slowly retract.

I step closer, my breath catching in my throat. I can barely hold back the tears as I take another step and break into a small run. Logan meets me halfway, his arms enveloping me in a tight embrace. “I thought you died,” he says, his voice choked with emotion as he buries his face into my neck. I squeeze him tightly, my tears mingling with his.

“The TVA, they sent me away. I tried to find you.” I pause, my voice faltering with the weight of unspoken pain. “The others?” I ask, my eyes searching his for answers. He shakes his head, and my face crumples in grief. I had feared this would happen.

Johnny’s voice cuts through the moment, sharp with urgency. “They’re coming.”

I pull away from Logan at Johnny’s warning, my heart pounding as I steel myself. Logan’s face is a mask of pain, and I feel the crushing weight of my failure. I could have saved them all.

Deadpool’s voice interjects with a mix of confusion and curiosity. “Who’s they?”

The answer comes in the form of an onslaught of vehicles, their jumbled piles of mechanics and scrap metal creating a menacing approach. Toad, Pyro, and Sabertooth are among those heading our way, their presence a foreboding sign of trouble.

Deadpool sidles up beside me, his tone laced with a twisted humor. “Oh, they’re driving angry. Can we pick this reunion up later, pumpkin?” He glances at me, then at Logan, who mirrors my confusion.

Johnny steps forward, his posture exuding determination. “I got this.”

I steady myself, preparing for the impending fight. “Stay close,” Johnny warns, and I move closer to him, readying myself for whatever comes next. Behind me, I hear Logan release his claws, the familiar sound providing a strange comfort amidst the chaos.

The cars circle us, forming a tight encirclement. “Cassandra is going to be giddy when she sees what we caught. You can’t run. Everybody knows that.” Pyro’s voice drips with malice as their vehicles come to a halt.

“You see anyone running, dick for brains? You’re not gonna love what happens next,” Johnny retorts.

Deadpool’s voice breaks in with manic excitement. “Oh, oh my God. Oh my God, he’s going to say it. Ha! Oh my God, he’s gonna say it!”

Johnny grins, preparing for his signature move. “Avengers—”

“—Flame on!”

“What?”

I look at Deadpool with a mix of bewilderment and exasperation as Johnny ignites in a ball of fire. Pyro watches, amused and relaxed. I create a temporal clone in the sky, urging it to engage as I manipulate time, freezing the action momentarily. As I resume time, Pyro defeats Johnny’s clone with a burst of flames. The real Johnny lands beside me.

“I know you,” growls a voice from ahead, and I turn to see Sabertooth approaching with a predatory glare.

Deadpool’s voice is a mix of awe and irreverence. “Holy shit… Sabertooth… your brother.”

I snap at him. “Deadpool, can it.”

Sabertooth snarls, his voice a deep rumble. “Ready to die!”

Logan prepares to fight, his stance resolute. Deadpool adds with exaggerated seriousness, “Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait! Time! People have waited decades for this fight. It’s not gonna be easy. Maybe not. Shoot the double and take him down. Side control, then full mount and you ground and pound, until he makes no sound because he’s dead.” He’s gripping Logan’s shoulders.

Wolverine’s expression hardens. “Shut the fuck up.”

Deadpool responds with a mix of arousal and admiration. “Oh my God. Okay, good luck. I’m a huge fan.”

The battle erupts with a ferocity that is almost immediate. Logan’s claws flash with deadly precision, and he swiftly decapitates Sabertooth. The severed head skids to a stop in front of Deadpool, who remarks with a grim humor, “What is it, girl? Is there trouble at the well?” It stops at his feet. “Oh, big trouble.” As Deadpool leans down and picks up Sabertooth’s severed head, I can’t help but grimace at the gory mess. Blood drips onto the sand, and Deadpool’s voice rings out with a bizarre sense of theatricality.

“Behold! The head of your precious queen, Furiosa!” Deadpool announces dramatically, holding the head aloft like a trophy. “I have the Wolverine. I alone control her. You come for me! You come for her!” He points accusingly at Logan. I furrow my brows in confusion. “I’m so sorry. I know it’s pronounced ‘him.’ I’m gender blind. It’s my cross to bear,” he adds with a wink, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Logan, breathing heavily from the intense battle, turns to me. “Who’s next?”

“Toad! You’re up!” Pyro’s voice cuts through the chaos, and I can’t help but let out a mischievous giggle. I watch with amusement as Toad sticks out his grotesque, warty tongue. I pull out my blade, my eyes narrowed in focus. With a quick, precise motion, I slice through the air, severing the tongue cleanly. It falls to the ground with a wet, squishy plop.

“Fucking nasty,” I mutter as the severed tongue writhes like a headless worm. The sight is both disgusting and oddly fascinating. Toad lets out a high-pitched scream of anguish, and as the chaos escalates, someone flips a switch. I turn just in time to see Logan hurtling towards me, and I brace myself.

Before I can react, Deadpool appears behind me, and the next thing I know, we’re all smashed together against a massive magnet. The force of the impact slams us into a heap, and I feel myself being crushed between Deadpool and Logan.

“Uh-oh. Holy shi—” Deadpool starts to exclaim before the sound is abruptly cut off.

The giant magnet presses down hard, and I feel a wave of darkness engulf me. The last thing I hear is Johnny’s distant shout, filled with frustration and concern.

Next Part

A/N: Let me know what you think! I’m sort of loving and hating my writing, next part will be Logan’s POV (maybe)

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