#stream halt and catch fire!!!

[vhagarswattle]

Scott McNairy getting good reviews for fairyland at Sundance!!!

[chaosheadspace]

For the kiss prompts: 20 or 22 for Dreamling please?

Thank you! Those are on a scar / in arush of adrenaline.

Under a cut bc spoilers for TKO. I'm afraid if you haven't read the comics, this won't make a lot of sense, I apologise.

It's raining heavily, the wind howling and trying to knock him off balance. There's lightning and fire in the sky of the landscape Hob somehow knows, although he could swear he's never been here before.

“You can't have him!” He shouts through the icy prickle of rain, against the storm, against the shadows. “If you want him, you have to go through me first! And I won't let you! He's my friend!”

Disembodied laughter before him, behind him, around him, three-toned, malicious, gleeful.

“Please, Hob,” Dream says from behind him, calm, defeated. It nauseates Hob to his bones. “You need not be caught in this. This is not your fight. Please.”

“Like hell it isn't!” Hob screams, his fingers clutching the roughly hewn spear cold, numb. He will not back down, not from this. He won't let them.

A figure before him, sudden, without warning. She is dark, beautiful. She fills Hob's heart with dread, because he knows her without ever having seen her, like the land, like his heart.

She walks past him unharmed, unopposed, because Hob knows he cannot touch her, just like she cannot touch him. His insides burn, agonising grief scorching his soul.

“Please,” he begs. “Please, no. No.”

“This ends here and now,” she says, authority dripping from every word like tar. “I won't let this go on. Shame on you,” she shakes her head at Dream. “And shame on you,” she points at the sky. “This is over now.”

“No,” Hob whispers, powerless, sinking to his knees. His vision swims, his heart beating faster than any heart ever ought to be inside any living thing.

“I am tired, my sister,” he can hear Dream say. Hob cannot see him. Not anymore. Blackness shrouds him, muffles his senses. Hob cannot feel his body. He desperately wants to scream, to thrash, to do something, anything, but everything is so heavy—

Hob wakes with a gasp, mid-struggle with his blanket, a confused yell ripping out of his lungs. Before he can even catch his breath, he can hear a crash from his living room.

Hob vaults out of bed, needing no light after seven years in the same flat, adrenaline pumping through his veins, hammering through his heart. This is a nightmare, an endless series of nightmares—

A figure on his couch. A person. A familiar person.

It all crashes down on Hob at once, a sudden halt to his system, the fight, the hopelessness, the fear. The comedown is brutal, the residual rush in his blood making him shake, tremble, pausing for long seconds.

“Dream?” he whispers, disbelieving. It is Dream, unmistakably, in the faint, slated streetlamp light coming through the window.

In two strides he's over by the sofa, at Dream's side who's crumpled half on it, half off it.

Dream just groans in answer, pale, boneless, as Hob clumsily hauls him up into the cushions, into his lap. He is warm. He is breathing, heavily so, his chest heaving against Hob’s body. He is barely conscious when Hob takes a closer look.

There's a red scar marring Dream's cheek, and Hob takes his face into his hands, planting a relieved kiss on it before drawing Dream tightly against his chest, tears streaming down his face. “Dream,” he sobs, rocking him. “Oh, Dream.”

He gets no answer, but slowly, surely, he can feel Dream's arms sneak around his waist.

Send me a kissy prompt or grad the other ones here

[marvelmusing]

Dark Depths

Part Two

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova x Fem!Reader (mermaid au)

Summary: After growing somewhat accustomed to your new life under the sea with Aleksander, the time to hunt the stag for your coat arrives, meaning you must make your return to land.

Warnings [18+]: smut, oral (fem receiving), mermaid to human transformation, mentions of injury and blood, Aleksander keeps the reader in the dark about a lot of things, unestablished dom/sub dynamic, some angsty vibes

My Masterlist • Part One

It doesn’t take long for Aleksander to find you, sitting in your usual spot on a rocky crag not far from the shore. The tail Aleksander had given you is a dull gold colour, the kind that changes depending on the lighting. Under the sea it shimmers like a treasure chest stuffed to the brim, but as you sit perched above the waterline your scales look muddy in the cold daylight.

Ever since you were a small child you’ve longed for the sea, and now your heart belongs to Aleksander, to the open ocean and all its wondrous creatures. But being born on land means that a fracture of your soul lingers there, a dull ache in your chest that refuses to be rid of so easily by Aleksander’s magic.

He settles beside you smoothly, wrapping his arms around your waist to console you. He kisses the salt streams on your cheeks, brushing his nose against your face affectionately.

“I know it hurts,” he murmurs.

A sob catches in your chest and you shake your head. There is no way he can know how deep your pain runs. Desperate for something to alleviate the discomfort, you begin to itch over your collarbones.

Aleksander curls his fingers around your wrist, halting your self-destructive actions. Unused to having such sharp nails, you hadn’t realised the scratches you had been leaving over your skin. He places his hand over your chest, smoothing soothingly over the irritated skin there.

“When I was born, Grisha lived on land,” he admits quietly.

Tears glistening in your eyes, you turn to face him.

“Like me?”

He nods slowly.

“My mother was an incredibly powerful witch with impossibly high standards for her children. In the time I spent with her, she abandoned five children.” He pauses, staring out towards the shore with a sombre expression. “I remember each of them.”

There’s a despondent glimmer in his dark eyes and you reach for his hand. He glances back at you, offering a brief smile that fades all too quickly.

“When I didn’t live up to her expectations, she cast me aside as well.”

“How old were you?”

He swallows hard.

“Thirteen.”

“Aleksander,” you whisper softly, squeezing his hand.

“I went searching for my sister after that.”

“Your sister?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard the stories of the sea witch that lives further north.” You nod. “Ulla took me in for a little while. She helped me with my tail.”

Considering this new information, you begin to fidget with the crystal on your necklace.

“The other Grisha call you a witch.”

He laughs softly.

“They do.”

“Why?”

“Grisha use their power through song. Their voices manipulate their specific sphere of power - whether that be fire or metal or blood. Those who don’t rely wholly on their song are considered witches.”

Aleksander has used his magic around you on several occasions. A simple flick of his fingers can summon tendrils of shadows - something he seems to do unknowingly when he’s lost in thought. Alina had sung to you when the two of you were children, making the sunlight dance with her enchanting melody.

“I’ve never heard you sing.”

Aleksander is quiet for a moment, his gaze lowered to the rock beneath you.

“Most Grisha sing in pairs with someone whose power complements their own. Harmony is important to us.”

“Complements?”

He nods slowly, leaving you guessing at what he means. Light would complement darkness; but you’ve only ever known one sun summoner - Alina. But surely he could have taken her for himself when she had made a deal with him for human legs. Instead, he had used her power to give you a tail with seemingly no benefits for himself.

The expression on your face must appear pained due to your confusion, as Aleksander kisses your forehead, tucking your head against his chest.

“It will get easier, once you have your coat. I promise.”

At the mention of your coat, you perk up a little.

“When will we start looking for the stag?”

“Soon.”

“But when is soon?”

He breathes out a small laugh at your enthusiasm.

“When the first flakes of snow fall over the land.” You nod. Aleksander’s touch is delicate as he strokes your cheek, keeping your attention on him instead of the shoreline. “How are you feeling today?” he asks softly.

A small crease appears between your brows.

“Better. My tail doesn’t hurt anymore. But…” Heat blossoms over your cheeks as you trace your fingers over your abdomen. “There’s a strange ache here.”

He hums absently.

“Swimming in your ocean form will require your muscles to stretch in an unfamiliar manner. You will grow accustomed to it.”

Unconvinced by his explanation, you bite down on your lower lip, dragging it between your teeth. There are plenty of other places on your body that feel sensitive as of late.

“Are there muscles here as well?” you ask shyly, gesturing to your chest.

Aleksander’s gaze sharpens, examining you intently.

“May I take a look?”

Nervously, you glance around at the open sea and the nearby shoreline, searching for anyone who could see you in such an exposing position.

“Here?”

“No one can see us.”

Hesitantly, you reach for the coarse piece of string holding the fabric together over your chest. Aleksander had fashioned it for you, though he had also explained that most merfolk only wear jewellery and their coats. Aleksander himself always wears a belt, with his pouch and knife attached to his hip and a small scrap of cloth covering a portion of his pelvis.

The fabric covering your top half is still damp from your time in the sea and it clings to your body. Aleksander removes it slowly, revealing your bare body to him. Instantly, your nipples harden from the cold, salty air. As always, his hands are warm and you shudder when he cups your tender breasts.

He gives you a gentle squeeze, drawing a weak sound from the back of your throat. He then begins to roll your nipples between the pads of his fingertips, alleviating some of the pressure beneath your skin. A soft moan escapes your lips and your eyes flutter closed momentarily.

Aleksander glances down, a smirk tugging at his lips. When you follow his gaze, you find your lap glossy with a thick wetness, though you struggle to find where it has come from.

“There is nothing you need to worry about,” he assures you. “Merfolk reach maturity at around your current human age; your body is simply preparing for your mate.”

There’s a haze clouding over your mind, his words wading through fog and your thoughts scramble for comprehension. Slowly, you blink at him, staring at the lean muscle of his stomach and tail, the thick hair over his jawline, his pink nipples, and strong hands. He’s so beautiful, it makes you ache.

“How do merfolk mate?” you manage to ask him.

He smiles widely, cradling your face between his hands and for a moment you think he’s going to drag you back down to his cave and show you. Instead, he kisses your forehead gently.

“Not yet, darling. I’ll show you, in time.”

»»---------------------►

When the snow begins to fall on land, Aleksander instructs you to wait in the shallows for him. Nervously, you bob your head above the waterline, eyes scouring over the shore for any sight of him. Being parted from him makes you uneasy. It isn’t long before you see a strong black horse galloping over the sand with Aleksander sat astride.

He looks like a king. The thick black fur of his coat is piled up over his shoulders, the adjoined cloak billowing behind him in the wind. He’s attained human clothes: polished black riding boots, dark trousers, and a fine woollen jacket. The image of him makes your stomach flip and you swim closer to the shore, eager to join him.

Aleksander dismounts smoothly, striding towards the water as you flail with your tail, struggling to change into your human form as quickly as you’ve seen him do it. He wades into the shallows, scattering sea spray as he scoops you up easily and carries you out onto the sand. He kisses your temple as he lowers you to the ground.

“I’m going to take your necklace,” he tells you.

Instantly, your hand closes protectively around the gem hanging between your breasts, clutching it tightly.

“Why?”

“The power in the crystal is what gave you your tail. While wearing it, you won’t be able to change back into your human form.”

Aleksander had given you this necklace when you were still human. The power inside had belonged to your childhood friend Alina, traded to Aleksander so that she could become human. It feels wrong to give it up, even temporarily. He notices your hesitation, curling his fingers gently around your wrist.

“I’ll take good care of it. I promise.”

When you nod, he unclasps the back of the chain, removing it from around your neck. He places it on himself, the shimmering yellow gem nestling perfectly at the hollow of his throat. Aleksander watches you intently and you frown, eyes wide with confusion as you search his expression for any clue on what is supposed to happen.

Then it happens.

It feels as if someone has sliced through your tail, carving a sharp blade deep into the muscle and bone that are now shifting back into legs that you can’t bear to look at. The sight of them, thighs and calves and toes, so sickeningly human, makes you cry against Aleksander. You don’t want them. You want your tail back. Hot tears spill down your cheeks, the salty droplets a poor imitation of the sea that is now your home. It hurts.

Aleksander’s voice is a near whisper, but it somehow manages to cut through your anguish.

“Let’s clean you up a little.”

The wounds have closed, but the blood remains sticky on your legs. As Aleksander moves you over to the water, the sand grates against your sensitive skin. Everything is too much all at once. The muscles in your legs twitch painfully, protesting against their existence. A weak sob shakes your body as Aleksander scoops up a handful of water, pouring it carefully over your legs to clear away the blood.

“Just focus on one thing at a time,” he suggests in a low murmur. “The water’s cold, isn’t it?” A small hum of agreement catches in the back of your throat, as you bury your face further into his chest. “How does the sand feel?”

“Itchy,” you mumble petulantly.

He breathes out a soft laugh.

“And how do I feel?”

“Warm. Safe.”

He kisses the crown of your head.

“I’ll always keep you safe, my little starfish.”

That draws a weak laugh from you.

“Starfish?”

He hums in agreement, offering you a small smile.

“A delicate little thing, but very hard to break.”

Emotion sticks in your throat at the sincerity of his words.

Walking is awful. Each step feels like a knife is piercing through the sole of your foot. Every breath is accompanied by a sob. Aleksander keeps his arm around your waist, holding you tightly beside him as your teeth chatter. When your tears turn pitiful, he hooks his arm beneath your knees, opting to carry you to his horse.

“It will get better,” he assures you, pressing a faint kiss to your hairline before he lifts you up into the saddle.

»»---------------------►

Aleksander wakes before you, slipping out of the small bedroom he had rented at a local tavern. He returns with a tray full of breakfast, rousing you from your slumber as he removes his boots.

He slips his arm around your waist, draping his body over yours as he pulls your back against his chest. His palms are warm and firm as they run over your bare body. He leaves a trail of slow, lingering kisses along the length of your neck before murmuring against your ear,

“The men downstairs are whispering. They think the mysterious traveller has caught himself a mermaid.”

“They aren’t wrong,” you mumble into your pillow.

Aleksander smiles against your skin.

“But you weren’t a mermaid when I caught you, were you?”

Unable to fight your smile, you squeeze your pillow, nestling yourself further under the sheets.

“No.”

His smile widens. There’s a pause as the two of you soak up this moment, soft sunlight filtering its way through the thin curtains as you stretch lightly, reaching for your pillow and tucking it against your chest. Aleksander presses a tender kiss to the space between your shoulder blades.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

His question brings your attention back to your body, the aches and pains and the terrible sense of loss that hums inside you.

“Like someone’s hollowed out my heart.”

He kisses your temple softly, sliding his hand beneath you to place his hand over your chest.

“Your heart is right here. Even I can’t take that from you.”

Aleksander gives your body one final affectionate squeeze, before he sits up.

“I think you could,” you whisper.

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he reaches for the tray of food, breaking up a crust of bread to feed to you in small portions. The action makes your stomach flip, reminding you of your first few days under the sea, when Aleksander had fed you by hand because you were too weak to do it yourself.

Settling yourself back against the rickety headboard, you bunch up the covers, drawing them up to your chest to shield yourself from the morning chill. Aleksander holds a piece of bread up to your lips, ignoring the heat burning over your face.

“I can feed myself,” you protest quietly. The words come out softer than you intended, weakened mostly by the indulgent smile quirking at the corner of his lips.

“It’s my duty to provide for you.” He pinches your chin lightly between his fingers, a darkness glimmering in his eyes. “Humour me.”

When you take the bread into your mouth, his smile widens and your body is molten hot, your breathing deep and heavy as he looks at you, gaze unwavering. He feeds you the entire slice, piece by piece, praising you the entire time.

Once you’ve finished, he brushes his knuckles over your cheek, thumb smoothing over your cheekbone.

“You seem warm, milaya.”

He tugs the covers back, revealing your naked body to him. Instantly, you clasp your legs together tightly and he chuckles.

“Shall we check that the change was successful?” he asks, mischief dancing in his eyes as he curls his fingers around one ankle. With the attention of the room being brought onto your legs, embarrassment crawls over your skin.

“Don’t,” you say quickly, before adding in a small whimper, “Please.”

Aleksander stares up at you, his dark eyes flickering over every inch of your expression and you feel frightfully vulnerable, as if he can see every thought rushing through your mind. He pushes at your ankle slowly, bending your limb so that your foot is placed flat on the bed.

“I know you don’t think much of your human form,” he says in a low voice. “But tail or legs, you are beautiful.” He presses the barest hint of a kiss to your calf and you shudder. “Can I show you?”

He continues his kisses, mapping a path slowly upwards from your ankle. Breathlessly, you squirm beneath him.

“It isn’t mating season yet,” you state.

He grins.

“No it isn’t. But that doesn’t mean I can’t kiss every inch of your body, does it?”

His lips are warm and firm as he kisses over your calves, parting your legs with ease. His fingers rub soothing circles over your tense muscles, doing everything he can to alleviate the aches and pains that linger after your transformation. Emotion catches in your throat, tears gathering in your eyes as his mouth reaches your knees.

“Aleksander,” you cry. “Please.”

The rough scrape of his beard is delightful against the soft skin of your thighs and you whine as he spreads your legs even further apart. His teeth drag lightly over the flesh of your inner thigh in a playful bite and you tip your head backwards against the headboard.

He hums quietly. His nose brushes against your mound and you whimper. He tilts his head, clicking his tongue at the sight of the mess between your thighs. A jolt of pleasure jitters down your spine. Arching your back away from the mattress, you throw one hand back to gasp at the headboard. The other hand sinks into Aleksander’s dark locks, fisting the hair tightly as you cling to him.

He glances up at you, his lips parted, and you feel as though you might come undone just by looking at him, imagining his lips against your cunt. His gaze is deliberate as it moves down your body, so weighty you can almost feel it over your skin like a caress. When his eyes lock onto your cunt, you squirm lightly, heat burning across your cheeks in an inferno.

“May I kiss you here?” he asks in a whisper.

You nod fervently and he grins darkly.

“Come now, little starfish. I would like a proper answer.”

“Yes, please. Please kiss me there.”

His lips are so gentle, the barest hint of a kiss as his mouth brushes against the soaked folds of your cunt. A breathy whimper escapes you as the tip of his tongue parts your folds, revealing your weeping cunt to him fully.

Neither one of you want to break this moment, barely able to raise your voices to anything above a low whisper.

“Aleksander,” you say, voice cracking.

“Both hands on the headboard,” he orders in a murmur.

Just the action of obeying him, settling both of your hands on the headboard above you, bearing your body to him in total submission, has you teetering on the edge of what you think might be your climax. It’s been so long since you’ve touched yourself - even longer since someone else has touched you - the idea of an orgasm feels elusive. Yet something violently pleasurable is creeping its way closer.

The motion of his tongue is addictive, a dizzying circle that traces around your sensitive clit. The little bud is swollen and throbbing, every pulse makes you more and more desperate for him.

A tear slips down your cheek as you say his name. His tongue strokes leisurely against your cunt, lapping up the arousal that has gathered from teasing your clit. The moan that rumbles in the back of his throat makes you quiver. It’s mortifying, being so affected by the sound of him.

“I’m close,” you admit.

A weak sob of pleasure and shame threatens to choke you at the thought of being so wanton. Aleksander places his palm over your stomach, a warm and comforting pressure that soaks into your skin even as he pins you down. His tongue licks over your cunt for several beats before he lifts his head from between your thighs. Arousal glosses over his lips and you clench around nothing, breathless at the sight.

“Relax, darling.” He slips his hands beneath you, kneading your ass cheeks purposefully. A sharp groan is dragged out of you as he grasps at the tender flesh. “You’ve been holding all of this inside you for far too long. Now it’s time to let go.”

There’s a roaring in your ears, drowning out every sensation that isn’t the clenching of your cunt as Aleksander suckles greedily on your sensitive clit, his bottom lip grazing against your quivering entrance. The rush of your release smears over his mouth and chin, making a thorough mess of him. Pleasure has stars sparkling over your vision, your limbs tingling with a heady bliss.

Time slips away from you, passing by unnoticed with each heavy breath you take. The world is small, narrowed down to the satisfied weight of your limbs against the mattress. It takes you quite some time to realise you’ve been staring up at the ceiling.

Shakily, you turn onto your side, wide eyes searching frantically for Aleksander. Once you find him beside you, dark eyes warm and safe, the tension in your chest snaps and you burst into tears. Instantly, he pulls you onto him, allowing you to cry against his bare chest.

“It’s alright, darling,” he assures you in a low voice. The sound vibrates in his chest, buzzing against your ear. “I’m so proud of you; you did so well.” He strokes his fingers along your spine, drawing shapes on his way down. “You’ve been such a good girl for me. My brave little starfish.”

He kisses your forehead, nuzzling his nose affectionately against your hairline as his words warm in your chest.

“You should find walking a lot easier now.”

You blink at him, a tear slipping down your cheek as you start to realise something that makes your heart twist.

“Is that why we did this… to make it easier for me to walk?”

He takes a hold of your chin firmly, keeping your eyes locked on his.

“We did this because you are mine, and I refuse to condone you feeling bad about any part of yourself.”

Unable to stop yourself, you climb up his body, straddling his waist as you press your lips against his. He responds instantly, cupping your face with both hands to deepen the kiss. As you grip onto his hair, Aleksander leans forwards to meet you, lowering his hands to squeeze at your calves.

This time, there’s no sense of unease as he touches your legs and you smile into the kiss as his hands wander up your thighs to grasp at your waist, pulling you flush against him. Aleksander smiles as well, tracing his touches up your body.

“We should be heading on our way.” A pout puckers at your lips and he chuckles. “The sooner we find the stag, the sooner we can go home.”

Home with Aleksander. That makes you smile.

»»---------------------►

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[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

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

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

Chapter Ninety-Five

Aemond’s fury was palpable, simmering just below the surface, and understandably so. The news that his wife had been disrespected so publicly by a mere rat of a peasant enraged him beyond measure. His posture was tense, his fists clenched at his sides, as he stalked back and forth across her chambers. His silver hair swayed with every agitated step, catching the light streaming in through the tall windows. The ruby on the Conqueror’s crown atop his head glinted ominously, reflecting the storm brewing within him.

His eye, blazing with barely controlled anger, fixed on Maera for a moment before he turned away, his voice a growl as he summoned Ser Alfred Broome, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. The knight entered the room swiftly, his expression stoic, but Maera could see the flicker of apprehension in his eyes as he faced the furious king.

“Find him,” Aemond ordered, his voice cold and sharp. “Set a number of guards to the task. I want that street urchin found and killed in the most torturous way possible. Flog him, flay him—I care not, just so long as he dies screaming. And when it’s done, hang his body on the gates as a warning to any who dare to defy the crown.”

Maera’s heart sank as she listened to her husband’s dark commands, her mind racing. She couldn’t let this escalate further. The violence he was so eager to unleash would only sow more fear and hatred, and she knew this wasn’t the answer. Aemond was ever the dragon, fierce and unyielding, but she had to be the one to temper his fire.

Without hesitation, Maera crossed the room and grabbed Aemond by the arm, her touch firm yet gentle. He stopped mid-sentence, turning to look at her with a mixture of surprise and anger. But as he met her gaze, the sternness in her green eyes halted his rant, the fire in him flickering uncertainly.

“Enough,” she said quietly, yet with a firmness that brooked no argument. She brought his hand to her cheek, holding it there as if to ground him. “I am fine. There is no need for further violence. This will only bring more unrest, more anger.”

For a moment, Aemond simply stared at her, his fury gradually giving way to something else—concern, perhaps, or the realization that she was right. The tension in his body slowly ebbed, his posture relaxing just a fraction. He looked at her, really looked at her, and the sight of her unharmed, her gentle reassurance, was enough to douse the worst of his rage.

Aemond exhaled slowly, his hand still cradling her cheek as he nodded reluctantly. “As you wish,” he muttered, his voice low and strained. He glanced at Ser Alfred, who had been waiting silently for his king’s final command. “You are dismissed, Ser Alfred. There will be no hunt today.”

The knight bowed slightly and left the room without a word, leaving the two of them alone. The Queen’s words were gentle but firm as she tried to soothe her husband’s anger. “It was only one man out of a thousand attendants, Aemond,” she began, her tone calm, almost pleading. But her attempt at reassurance was met with a sharp growl as Aemond pulled away from her grip. His eye flashed with fury, his lips curling into a snarl.

“It only takes one man to do enough damage!” he snapped, his voice edged with frustration and fear. The thought of Maera being harmed, even by a single peasant, was enough to rekindle the fire in him, the dragon within raging against any threat to his queen.

Maera’s gaze softened as she watched him, understanding the depths of his fear. She approached him once more, her steps deliberate, her expression resolute. “Aemond,” she said, her voice unwavering, “I watched the majority of them turn on the man who attacked me. One of their own.” She paused, noting how Aemond’s gaze flickered towards her, the anger in his eye giving way to something more thoughtful. “What happened today showed that the people are with us. They see your claim as legitimate.”

Aemond’s eye met hers fully now, the harsh lines of his face softening ever so slightly. He reached out, taking her hand in his, their right hands still bandaged from the ritual of the night before. The connection between them was palpable, their bond forged in blood and fire, deeper than any crown or title. “Being King is harder than I anticipated,” he muttered, his voice low, almost as if he were speaking to himself more than to her.

Maera furrowed her brow, her eyes searching his face, silently urging him to continue. Aemond exhaled deeply, the tension in his shoulders still visible as he spoke. “In moments like these, when my family is at risk,” he admitted, his voice thick with frustration, “I don’t wish to act with diplomacy and dignity. I want to act with dragon fire and vengeance.” His grip on her hand tightened, his expression darkening. “I feel useless, cooped up on this fucking island while the pretender sits upon our throne. And holds my sister and mother as prisoners.”

Maera listened intently, her heart aching for him. She knew the weight he carried, the burden of his crown and the constant threat to their family. Whilst the war waged on in the background, there had not been any ground-breaking progress for a while. Minor battles won and lost but nothing that brought them closer to retaking the Capital.

His desire for retribution, for decisive action, was understandable, even if it was dangerous. She squeezed his hand, her voice soft but firm. “You are not useless, Aemond. You are a king, and your time will come. But until then, we must be patient.”

He looked at her, the conflict in his eye clear. But as he held her gaze, his anger slowly subsided as he nodded in defeat. She sighed, recognising his frustration. She reached out and grabbed his hand, her grip firm yet gentle, as if to anchor him. A small smile curved her lips, a mixture of empathy and affection. “Come, my King,” she said in a lighthearted tone, trying to lift the weight from his shoulders. “Join me in the nursery to see our daughter.”

Aemond’s tense expression softened at her words. He allowed a smile to break through, a genuine, albeit weary, one. “As you command, my Queen,” he replied, the edge in his voice replaced by warmth. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it to lead the way.

A few more moons passed, and Aemara was nearing six months old. She had become a bright and cheerful baby whose radiant smile could light up any room. Maera often found herself marveling at how much Aemara reminded her of Aemond when he was a child, with the same mischievous spark in her eyes and the infectious joy she brought to those around her. Though Aemara loved being with her mother, it was clear she held a special place in her heart for her father. The moment Aemond entered the room, Aemara would gurgle and babble with delight, her little arms reaching out until he scooped her up.

Aemond didn’t mind the child’s playful tugging on his hair or her curious fingers grabbing at his eye patch. He would smile, his stern demeanor melting away as he spoke to her in High Valyrian, determined that her first word would be "Kepa," the Valyrian word for "father." Maera had teased him, reminding him that it would be some time before Aemara would speak, but Aemond was unwavering in his intent.

All seemed better between the King and Queen as the days went by. Aemond, who had once been so distant out of respect, began spending a few nights in Maera’s bed. At first, it was only occasionally, but gradually, those nights turned into every night. His appetite for her was unquenchable, but it was not purely for passion that he sought her company. More often than not, Aemond simply enjoyed being with his wife and daughter, finding a rare peace in the simplicity of their family life.

Eventually, his possessions were moved permanently into Maera’s chambers. It was an unspoken acknowledgment that this was where he belonged, with his wife and child. They started and ended each day together, and the bond between the family only grew.

Sȳndor, Aemara’s dragon, was growing at an extraordinary rate, much faster than anyone had anticipated. Within a few short moons, the dark-scaled beast had reached the size of a fully grown dog, a sight that left the dragon keepers in awe. They marveled at the rapid growth, whispering amongst themselves about the creature's exceptional lineage. Maera, observing Sȳndor’s development, put it down to the powerful bloodlines of its parentage- Vhagar and Ēbrion.

The dragon keepers, concerned for the young dragon's development, insisted that Sȳndor should be housed in the Dragonmount with the other beasts. They argued that the mountain was better suited to accommodate a growing dragon, where it could learn to interact with its kin and develop its natural instincts. However, both the King and Queen knew that the connection between dragon and rider was sacred, especially in the formative years, and they wanted to preserve it as much as possible.

After much discussion, a compromise was reached. By day, Sȳndor would spend her time in the Dragonmount under the watchful eyes of the keepers, who would train her to respond to commands and nurture her instincts so that one day, she might become an exceptional mount. But at night, Sȳndor would return to Aemara. The beast, though too large to share her crib, was content to curl up at the foot of it, vigilantly guarding her as she slept.

Despite the peacefulness that had settled over Dragonstone, Maera could sense that her husband was restless. Aemond, ever the warrior, was struggling with the quiet. He was the rider of the world’s largest dragon, a man forged in the heat of battle and tempered by fire. The simple act of waiting did not suit him. His nature was impulsive, his temper quick to ignite.

She could see the tension in his eye, the frustration in his every movement. He was a dragon tethered to the ground, yearning to unleash his fire but held back by the need for patience. Maera knew that managing his restlessness was crucial; they had to wait for the right time to strike, no matter how much it grated against Aemond’s instincts.

The opportunity for action soon presented itself, though not in the way Aemond had anticipated. Small boats began arriving in the dozens, each carrying weary and frightened people from the Capital. Their clothes were ragged, their faces lined with fear and uncertainty.

At first, Aemond was suspicious of their arrival. He did not allow them entry into the island after Maera had been attacked, choosing instead to keep them camped on the beach below, their fires flickering like distant stars in the night. Maera, ever the compassionate Queen, organized parcels of food and medicine to be delivered to them, ensuring they were cared for while her husband investigated the reason for their sudden appearance.

Ravens soon arrived bearing messages from across the continent. Reports trickled in that people weren’t just fleeing to Dragonstone, but also to the Stormlands and Riverlands. Aemond’s wariness grew—why would so many abandon King’s Landing, the heart of the realm? The answer soon became chillingly clear: Rhaenyra was beginning to lose her grip on the Iron Throne.

The betrayal of two of her dragonseeds, Ulf and Hugh, had struck a severe blow to the Black Queen's reign. These once-loyal dragonriders had defected to the Greens, and their treachery had sown seeds of paranoia within Rhaenyra's court. She began to doubt everyone around her, suspecting betrayal at every turn. Her Small Council, once unified in its purpose, had splintered, with factions forming, each vying for influence over the increasingly erratic Queen.

Rumors spread that the gates of King’s Landing would be shut tight, with no one allowed to enter or leave the city. The atmosphere within the capital had grown tense, a powder keg ready to explode. Larys Strong’s network of spies had done their job well, stoking the flames of panic among the smallfolk. The fear that whatever horrors had occurred in Tumbleton would be repeated in King’s Landing drove people to abandon their homes and seek refuge elsewhere.

Maera had heard whispers of what had transpired in Tumbleton—Ulf and Hugh had seized the town for the Greens, but the details were murky. What she did know was that the smallfolk were terrified, haunted by the specter of death and destruction. As the reality of the situation sank in, Maera and Aemond knew that the time for action was near. Rhaenyra’s hold on the throne was weakening, and with it, the stability of the realm. The smallfolk’s exodus to Dragonstone was a sign—a clear indication that the tide was turning.

The one-eyed King called for a Council meeting, his voice ringing with the authority of a dragonlord. Maera entered the chamber at his side, her presence as commanding as his. The room was already alive with murmurs and whispers, the members of the small council conversing in low tones. There was a palpable buzz in the air—a mix of anticipation, eagerness, and a thread of trepidation running through the room. All eyes turned toward the couple as they approached the head of the table, the council members rising briefly out of respect before resuming their seats.

Aemond took his place in the high-backed chair at the table’s head, his posture rigid, the crown of Aegon the Conqueror perched upon his silver hair, the ruby glinting ominously in the candlelight. Maera sat beside him, her demeanor poised yet alert, her presence lending an air of calm authority to the room.

The Hand, Ser Criston Cole, leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table as he addressed the council. “Now is the perfect time to strike,” he declared, his voice carrying the weight of conviction. “Rhaenyra’s power wanes with each passing day. The smallfolk’s loyalty is shifting to our side. If we act swiftly, our attack will not be seen as aggressive but as a rightful assertion of your claim, my King. The Greens will be seen not as conquerors but as liberators, reclaiming what is yours by right.”

A few nods of agreement circled the room, but the tension did not dissipate. Before the murmurs could rise again, Lord Lyonel, the young Master of Coin and Aemond’s cousin, abruptly interjected. His voice was sharp, cutting through the Hand’s confident tone like a blade. “Are you aware, Lord Hand, of the vile atrocities taking place in Tumbleton?” His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken horrors.

Criston Cole’s brow furrowed, a flicker of impatience crossing his face. “Atrocities?” he echoed, the word laced with skepticism. “War is never without its dark deeds, Lord Lyonel. We cannot shy away from what must be done.”

Maera’s brow furrowed as she turned to Lyonel, her green eyes narrowing in concern. “What exactly are you talking about, cousin?” she asked, her voice steady but edged with the need for clarity.

Lyonel turned to her, his expression softening slightly, though the horror in his eyes remained. The Master of Coin, usually calm and composed, leaned forward, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the table’s edge.

“Your Grace,” he began, his tone now more measured but no less urgent. “These are not mere dark deeds. The smallfolk who fled King’s Landing fear a fate worse than death. Tumbleton was razed—raped, pillaged, burned. This is what the smallfolk fear—this is why they flee King’s Landing. They fear that we will bring the same devastation to their doorstep.”

The Queen, visibly taken aback by the utter disgusting news she had just head, glanced at her husband, who was listening intently, his face a mask of controlled fury. His hands, resting on the arms of his chair, clenched tightly, the knuckles whitening under the strain.

Criston Cole’s expression darkened, but he held his ground. “These are the harsh realities of war, my lord,” he said, though there was a note of uncertainty now creeping into his voice. “We cannot allow these fears to paralyze us. If we do not act soon, we may lose the momentum that is finally swinging in our favor.”

Maera, sensing the tension rising between the Hand and the Master of Coin, placed a calming hand on Aemond’s arm, subtly signaling him to maintain his composure. She knew that while Criston’s pragmatism was necessary, Lyonel’s concerns could not be dismissed lightly. She addressed the Hand directly, her voice steady but tinged with an undercurrent of tension.

“How can we not be seen as conquerors when such vile acts are committed in our King’s name? How do we differentiate ourselves from the very monsters we seek to defeat?” Her question hung in the air, a sharp challenge that demanded an answer.

Before Criston could formulate a response, Lord Lyonel interjected, his voice resonating with the urgency of his message. “The Queen speaks wisely,” he said, his tone firm. “I have received word from my father—messages that the soldiers in our army share the same concerns. Men are deserting the cause. They cannot stand by and watch these heinous acts committed daily in the name of King Aemond.”

Maera’s heart sank at this revelation, the weight of it settling in her chest like a stone. If soldiers were deserting, it meant their forces were weakening. The Reach, a crucial stronghold, would be left vulnerable to a counterattack from the Blacks. The thought twisted her stomach into knots. She turned to Aemond, her voice laced with quiet but palpable urgency. “This cannot go on any longer, my King. Tumbleton is won; there is no need for such savagery.”

Aemond’s single eye remained fixed on the painted table before him, where the map of Westeros was laid out. He nodded slowly, but his response was measured, almost reluctant. “They will be stopped,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, “in time.”

She frowned, her eyes searching his face. Why was he so hesitant to act, to put an end to this unnecessary bloodshed? There was a disquieting tension between them, a silent question she did not voice but that lingered in the space between them.

Sensing the need to assert his authority, Aemond abruptly rose from his chair, his stature commanding the room’s attention. “I agree with my Hand,” he declared, his voice firm and unyielding. “Now is the time to strike.”

He moved to the painted table, his eye fixed on King’s Landing, the capital that had once been his home. His finger traced the path along the Crownlands, and he continued with calculated precision. “The odds are now evenly matched. Rhaenyra is losing the support of the common people. The fear that grips the city is our advantage.”

Aemond’s gaze swept across the room, his tone becoming more assured as he outlined the dragons each side possessed. “The Blacks have five dragons: Syrax, Caraxes, Sheepstealer, Moondancer, and Seasmoke. We have Tessarion, Vermithor, Silverwing, and the two largest dragons in the world: Vhagar and Ēbrion.”

As he spoke, his eye seemed to glint with the prospect of the battle ahead, a warrior’s anticipation simmering beneath the surface. The council members listened intently, their own thoughts undoubtedly swirling with the implications of the King’s words.

Maera watched him closely, her frown deepening. While she understood his eagerness to capitalize on their advantage, she could not shake the sense of unease that crept into her thoughts. The hesitation in his earlier words, the reluctance to stop the savagery—this was not the way it should be.

The King began moving pieces across the painted table, his fingers deftly guiding the dragon figurines and tiny soldier markers as he outlined his strategy. His eye was sharp and focused, his voice resonating with the authority of a king as he described the battle plan.

“We will divide our forces,” Aemond declared, positioning a dragon figure on the northern border of the Crownlands. “I will lead an assault on King’s Landing from the Riverlands, attacking from the north.” His hand slid the dragon piece from Dragonstone to the northern edge of the map, his intention clear in the decisive movement.

He continued without pause, picking up another dragon figure and placing it alongside a group of soldier markers on the southern border of the Crownlands. “Daeron will fly to the Stormlands and bring the Baratheon forces to bear from the south.”

The Queen’s eyes flickered with unease as Aemond next spoke of the Dragonseeds. He moved another dragon piece to the map near Tumbleton, aligning it with a large Hightower host. “The Dragonseeds will attack from Tumbleton, backed by the forces of House Hightower.” He flicked his eye up to his wife. “Their loyalty will ensure the Black Queen’s downfall. Which is why, for now, they must be appeased.”

At this, Maera couldn’t help but roll her eyes and shake her head slightly. She held her tongue, though, knowing now was not the time to challenge her husband in front of his council. Still, the idea of relying on the Dragonseeds, known for their recent debauchery, troubled her deeply.

Aemond then shifted his focus to the eastern approach, placing a dragon piece and several ship markers in Blackwater Bay. He looked up at Maera, his gaze intense. “You, my Queen, will attack from the east with Ēbrion, supported by the fleet of Morne. Together, you will match the Velaryon fleet and prevent any escape by sea.”

Maera took a deep breath, steadying herself as she felt the weight of the room’s eyes upon her. She knew she had to choose her words carefully. Her husband was a proud man, impulsive and headstrong, and she needed to approach him with diplomacy and respect—especially in front of his council.

She clasped her hands in front of her and spoke calmly, her voice measured. “My King, if we bring the full force of our dragons and armies to King’s Landing, there will be nothing left for you to rule except ash and bone.” Her words were spoken with care, but the underlying warning was clear.

The room fell silent for a moment, the tension palpable. Lord Bryndemere, the older Master of Ships, finally broke the silence, his tone even but firm. “Your Grace, this may be our only chance to eradicate Rhaenyra and her cause once and for all. The city will endure.”

Maera’s gaze shifted to Lord Bryndemere, her expression unreadable. She knew the council’s eagerness to rid the realm of Rhaenyra, but the thought of unleashing such destruction on the capital weighed heavily on her. Aemond remained silent for a moment, his eye flickering between Maera and the map before him.

The Queen’s eyes then swept across the room, taking in the faces of each councilman seated around the table. She could see eagerness in some, wariness in others, but all were silent as they awaited her next words. Her gaze lingered on each man before she finally spoke, her voice firm but tinged with concern.

“And what of the people who have already fled?” she asked, her tone carrying the weight of her worry. “What of those who arrived at Dragonstone seeking our protection from the pretender? Will they not see us as they see Rhaenyra if we do this?” Her words hung in the air, resonating with a mixture of compassion and pragmatism.

She turned her attention to Aemond, her eyes searching his face. “What of those who remain in the city? Whether they are loyal to Rhaenyra or not, they will see us as invaders, turning King’s Landing into another Tumbleton. Is that what we want? To be seen as condoning the chaos wrought by the Dragonseeds while they remain unchecked?”

The council remained silent, absorbing her words. The tension was almost palpable, thickening the air as the implications of her questions sank in.

Lord Larys, the Master of Whispers, finally broke the silence with a sigh. “I admire your tender heart, Queen Maera,” he began, his voice oily with false sympathy.

Maera’s eyes flashed, and she cut him off immediately, her tone sharp. “Do not patronize me, Lord Larys.” Her voice was steely, brooking no argument. “This is not about a womanly mind that cannot stand the idea of hurting the innocent,” she continued, though in truth, part of her did recoil at the thought of more innocents suffering. “This is about the possibility that if the smallfolk do not back us, they could rise against us. Should they decide they are tired of being casualties in a war they did not start, they could put all our heads on spikes.”

A hushed murmur rippled through the room as Maera’s words struck a chord. She turned back to Aemond, her gaze almost pleading now. “It was not only the Gods and our dragons that put House Targaryen on the throne,” she said, her voice softer but insistent. “It was the people, and the love they had for our House. We must not lose sight of that.”

“The Queen is right.” Another voice broke the silence, agreeing with her. Maera turned to see Grand Maester Vaegon, her estranged grandfather, sitting up straighter in his seat. His face, lined with age and wisdom, bore a contemplative expression as he nodded slightly, acknowledging her point.

“It would be unwise,” Vaegon began, his voice measured and thoughtful, “to disregard the sentiments of the smallfolk. The hearts of the people are fickle, and once lost, they are difficult to regain.” He paused, his eyes meeting Maera’s. Despite their estrangement, she could see the respect he held for her argument. Maera nodded in return, granting him permission to continue. The room fell silent once more, all eyes now on Vaegon as the gravity of the situation settled over them.

“Whilst most of you are too young to remember, it was not that long ago when another powerful king ruled Westeros,” Vaegon began, his tone measured. “Before the reign of Jaehaerys the Conciliator.”

Maera’s eyes flicked around the room, noticing the councilmen exchanging puzzled glances, their murmurs of confusion barely concealed. But when she turned to her husband, she saw something different. Aemond’s face was rapt with attention, his single eye locked onto the Grand Maester as if he were hanging on every word.

Vaegon continued, his voice growing more somber. “This King, too, felt his birthright had been stolen from him, and when the time was right, he arrived in the capital on the back of the world’s largest dragon to claim it. His ambition was as fiery as his dragon, and he believed that power alone would secure his rule.”

The murmuring among the council grew louder, many of them clearly unsure where this was leading. But Maera noticed that Aemond remained silent, his mind clearly racing with the implications of Vaegon’s story.

The Grand Maester’s gaze grew darker as he went on, his voice lowering as if recounting a grim tale from a time most would rather forget. “This King was not remembered fondly. He brought war to the city he sought to rule, burning not only his enemies but also those who were unfortunate enough to be caught in his path. He was hot-tempered, impulsive, and his commoners lived in fear of his wrath, for they had already seen firsthand the destruction he was capable of unleashing upon the city. And this does not even touch upon the horrors that occurred within his own castle walls.”

Vaegon’s eyes shifted toward Aemond, his expression now one of pointed inquiry. “Tell me, Your Grace, do you know of which King I speak?”

Maera turned her gaze to Aemond, her heart beating faster as she awaited his response. Without hesitation, Aemond’s voice rang out, strong and certain. “Maegor the Cruel.”

A hush fell over the room, the councilmen’s murmurs ceasing entirely. The weight of Aemond’s words hung in the air, and Maera could see the realization dawn on the faces of those gathered around the table. Vaegon’s comparison was not lost on them, nor on Aemond, who stared intently at the painted table before him.

The Grand Maester nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving Aemond’s. “Yes, Maegor the Cruel,” he confirmed, his voice now tinged with a warning that resonated through the chamber. “A ruler who believed in power above all else, but who left behind a legacy of fear and ruin.”

The Queen watched Aemond carefully, her own heart heavy with the implications of Vaegon’s tale. The tension in the room was palpable, the silence profound as each man considered the lesson that had just been imparted.

Vaegon held the King’s gaze, his voice firm yet carrying an underlying warmth of a mentor speaking to a student. "Your wife, the Queen, is wise in recognizing that it will take more than power to secure the Iron Throne. Power alone may win battles, but it is not what sustains a rule, nor is it what builds a legacy worth remembering.

“Are you suggesting our King is comparable to Maegor, Grand Maester?” The Hand asked with an accusing tone

“I am suggesting our King has a choice to make,” Vaegon replied calmly. “How do you wish your own rule to be remembered, King Aemond? Will you be the King who ruled through fear and fire, or will you be something greater, something more?"

The room seemed to hold its breath as Aemond absorbed the Maester’s words. Maera watched her husband intently, seeing the subtle flickers of thought playing across his sharp features. The Conqueror’s crown upon his head caught the light, its ruby glinting like a drop of blood��a stark reminder of the path he could choose to take. His expression was unreadable, but Maera could see the depth of his contemplation, the weight of the decision before him pressing down like a storm cloud on the horizon.

Aemond’s fingers drummed lightly against the edge of the painted table, his single eye focused on the map of Westeros spread out before him. His jaw clenched, and Maera could see the tension in the set of his shoulders, the internal struggle between his instincts as a warrior and the wisdom his advisors were offering him.

Finally, Aemond spoke, his voice measured. "What else can be done before we strike King’s Landing?" His question was directed at the room, the words laced with the desire to explore all options before committing to the course of action that could define his reign.

The council exchanged glances, the tension in the room slightly easing as Aemond opened the floor to discussion. It was Lord Unwin Peake, the Master of Laws, who stepped forward, a gleam of determination in his eye. "Your Grace, if I may," he began, his voice steady and confident. "I volunteer to journey to Tumbleton. Prince Daeron and Lord Hobert Hightower need support in managing the Hightower host and ensuring the Dragonseeds remain in their place."

Maera turned her attention to her old friend from Harrenhall, her brow furrowing slightly with concern. "Are you certain, Lord Unwin?" she asked, her voice tinged with a note of worry. The idea of sending any of their key supporters into the chaos of Tumbleton, especially with the Dragonseeds’ brutality fresh in everyone's mind, seemed risky.

Lord Unwin nodded with a small, confident smile. "Your Grace, I assure you, I have ample experience in keeping power-hungry young men to heel. I will ensure that the forces there are disciplined and that any further… excesses are curbed. With proper leadership, the situation in Tumbleton can be brought under control, and our forces there can be better prepared for the final push towards King’s Landing."

Maera studied the Master of Laws for a moment longer before nodding slowly, accepting his offer. She glanced back at Aemond, who was listening intently, his expression contemplative. The King’s silence spoke volumes; he was weighing every word, every suggestion, against the immense responsibility that rested upon his shoulders. Eventually, Aemond agreed, and ordered preparations be made for Lord Unwin’s journey.

As the council continued to discuss the details of the plan, Maera couldn't help but feel a deep sense of relief that Aemond had not yet succumbed to the rage and impulse that had driven many of their ancestors to ruin. But the tension remained, a tightrope they all walked, and Maera knew that in the end, it would be Aemond who would decide which way they would fall.

When the meeting drew to a close and the councilmen began to rise, Maera remained seated, her gaze thoughtful, her posture poised. She took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts, and then stood, her movement deliberate and commanding attention. “If I may, I have one more matter to present before the council,” she said, her voice calm but firm, cutting through the murmurs of the departing men.

The councilmen paused, glancing at one another before looking to Aemond for his response. Aemond met his wife’s eyes, his brow slightly raised in curiosity. With a small nod, he gestured for the men to resume their seats. The room fell silent again, the anticipation palpable.

Maera stepped closer to the painted table, her gaze sweeping across the faces of the men around her before settling on her husband. “I do not need to remind you, Aemond, of your duties as King,” she began, her tone respectful but resolute. “You know as well as I do that your responsibilities lie in uniting and defending the Realm, ensuring peace and prosperity for our people.” She watched as Aemond raised a brow, intrigued by where she was leading the conversation, but he remained silent, allowing her to continue.

“Rhaenyra is now in a precarious position, weaker than she has ever been,” Maera continued, her voice growing more intense. “She has lost two of her sons already, and another remains our hostage. Despite her stubbornness, she is a mother at heart, and she will want to protect those she has left. Her position has changed since this war began. Her losses have made her more vulnerable.”

Maera’s mind briefly wandered back to the day of the Festival of the Mother, remembering how Rhaenyra had intruded upon her thoughts as she prayed in the Sept. It had felt like a strange and inexplicable moment, one that she had tried to dismiss at the time. But now, as she stood before the council, it all seemed to make sense, as though the gods themselves had planted that thought in her mind.

Her gaze swept the room, lingering briefly on the faces of the councilmen, her lips pressed into a thin line. She knew that what she was about to say might not sit well with some of them.

“I am fully aware,” she began, her voice calm but edged with a steely resolve, “that some of you may see my words as a sign of womanly weakness.” Her eyes darted briefly to Larys, the unspoken accusation hanging in the air between them. She let the moment linger, letting them know that she would not be easily dismissed or patronized.

“But I believe,” she continued, her tone unwavering, “that another path must be treaded before we resort to brutality. We are not conquerors seeking to destroy; we are rulers who must think beyond the battlefield. We must consider what kind of world we will be left to rule once the fires have burned out.”

She turned then to Aemond, her expression softening slightly as she met his gaze. “With your permission, Your Grace, I would like to write to the Black Queen and offer her one last chance to bend the knee before we launch an attack. Woman to woman.” Her words were careful, respectful, but there was an underlying firmness, a determination that could not be easily swayed.

As she spoke, she could sense the tension thickening in the room, the unease of the councilmen as they weighed her proposal. Maera had no doubt that many of them, perhaps most, preferred the decisiveness of a military victory. They were men of war, after all, and they had been conditioned to see strength only in the form of conquest. But she also knew Aemond, her husband, a man who balanced on the edge of rage and reason. She hoped, beneath the bloodlust that often drove him, he would recognize the wisdom in her words.

“If Rhaenyra replies and rejects the terms,” Maera added, her voice firm but tinged with a reluctant acceptance, “or if no reply is received at all, I agree that an attack must be made. But we must give her this one last chance. Not just for her, but for us, for what we hope to build after the war is won.”

She looked into Aemond’s eye, searching for any sign of understanding, of that keen mind she knew lay beneath his warrior’s exterior. His expression remained inscrutable, his sharp features betraying little of the thoughts swirling in his mind. But she knew him well enough to recognize that flicker of contemplation in his eye—a small, almost imperceptible glimmer that told her he was considering her words, weighing them against the fiery instincts that often drove him. The room was silent, the tension palpable as they awaited the King’s response.

Feeling uneasy, Maera reached for his hand under the table, her fingers brushing against his in a gesture that was both tender and desperate. She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice and switching to High Valyrian, her tone laced with emotion that she rarely allowed herself to show in public.

“Kostilus valzȳrys,” Please, husband, she whispered, her words carrying the full weight of her plea. “Īlva tala nūmo syt.” For the sake of our daughter.

She watched his single eye, searching for any sign of softness, of understanding. For a moment, Aemond’s gaze remained hard, his thoughts hidden behind the cold mask he often wore in council. But then, slowly, she saw it—the faintest flicker of something gentler, almost imperceptible, but enough for her to know she had reached him. He understood, she realized, why this mattered so much to her.

This wasn’t just about mercy for Rhaenyra or about proving herself to the council; this was about their daughter, about making the world a little better than it was before, so Aemara could grow up in a realm that wasn’t built on the ashes of their enemies.

Aemond gave a short nod, his expression softening just a fraction. “I will review your letter before it is sent,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Rhaenyra has until the turn of the moon to reply. If no response comes, or if she rejects our terms, then the attack will proceed as planned.”

Maera nodded, a wave of relief washing over her. “Thank you, husband,” she said sincerely, her gratitude clear in her tone. She squeezed his hand gently before releasing it, returning to her composed posture as she addressed the room once more.

The King straightened in his seat, his gaze sweeping over the councilmen who were still watching intently. “You have your orders,” he declared, his voice commanding, leaving no room for dissent. The men nodded in unison, the tension in the room beginning to dissipate as they rose from their seats, murmuring amongst themselves as they prepared to depart.

As the councilmen left the chamber, Maera rose from her seat, a determined look on her face. She leaned down to place a chaste kiss on Aemond’s scarred cheek, her lips barely brushing his skin. He turned slightly toward her, his expression softening, but before he could say anything, she was already moving away. Time was against her, and she knew she needed to begin drafting her letter to Rhaenyra as soon as possible. Every moment mattered, and though she held little hope that a peaceful resolution could be reached, the Greens had to be seen as offering a path to peace. It was a necessary step, however unlikely success might be.

The Queen hurried down the corridor, her thoughts racing as she considered how best to word the letter. As she turned a corner, she noticed a familiar figure slowly making his way toward his chambers. It was Grand Maester Vaegon, moving with the deliberate pace of someone who had long since abandoned the rush of youth. Maera hesitated, her footsteps faltering. She had done her best to avoid him, to pretend that he was just another advisor in the court and not what he truly was to her. But today, she couldn’t ignore the way he had supported her, the wisdom he had shared that had so clearly influenced Aemond.

Taking a deep breath, Maera increased her speed, her heart pounding for reasons she couldn’t quite name. “Grand Maester,” she called out, her voice echoing slightly in the stone corridor.

The old man stopped, turning to face her with a look of mild confusion. It was clear he hadn’t expected her to address him, especially not so directly. When she reached his side, Maera paused, catching her breath. “Thank you,” she said, her voice soft but sincere. “For supporting me during the meeting.”

Vaegon shook his head, his expression as unreadable as ever. “I was merely reciting the histories, Your Grace,” he replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

Maera nodded, a small, almost sad smile touching her lips. “It is important for everyone to remember the histories,” she said, “if Aemond’s rule is to be a great one.”

The old man looked at her for a long moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were searching for something in her face. Finally, he nodded, the barest hint of approval in his gaze. Maera dipped her head in acknowledgment, then quickly turned and continued down the corridor, eager to reach her chambers and put her thoughts to paper. She could still feel his gaze on her back as she walked away, but she pushed it from her mind. There was no time for lingering thoughts of the past. She had a letter to write, one that could change the course of the war—and the future of their house.

Notes: I know what you’re thinking. “Why is Blue posting so much?” Well my husband is sick, I haven’t gotten the D in a while, so I’m throwing all my energy into writing 🤣

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

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

[inkformyblood]

miss you when i see the sun (CWFKB #3)

Fill for "Sticky Kiss" for @codywanfirstkissbingo! Tatooine Husbands

The vaporater groans through another automated maintenance cycle, a flash of lights along the side flickering orange and then, regrettably, red. Cody twists the wrench round in his palm, the crack in the wooden handle cutting into his skin before he adjusts it, and crouches back down on his haunches. Sweat prickles along the nape of his neck, soaking into the hood he’s drawn up over his head as the suns crept higher in the sky, and there’s a scratch in his throat that’s been demanding to be addressed for nearly as long. He swallows, a click echoing in the confines of his thoughts like a blaster hitting empty, fired again and again and again, and—

Vaporater. The vaporater is broken. He is fixing it. Obi-Wan is in town and will be back soon. 

Cody isn’t at war, not anymore. 

He tugs the panel open once more, revealing a heavy network of gears, some slowly rotating in place but the majority are still, shuddering in their casing. A thin stream of smoke pools forth from one of the lower sections, the scent thick despite appearances and Cody coughs, smacking his hand against the control panel to turn the vaporater off. On the back of his tongue, the scent lingers, purely mechanical in nature, and it is that thought that bothers Cody more than having to be out here, a speck in a desert that still remembers it used to be an ocean and has been cultivating a resentment for an eternity. It had been a lifetime since Cody had first gone into combat, but he remembers the way a droid twitched when it fell, a splutter of sparks like a final gasp falling from the hole Cody had just shot into it. It smelt the same. 

Cody shoves the wrench against the sticking gear, rising up onto his knees to press his body weight against the thin lever, already a little broken, a little make-do and he should be more careful with it but his thoughts tangle up in the heavy footsteps of an enemy that’s been decommissioned for decades, and he pushes. The gear gives way, the crack in the handle widens, and Cody hits the control switch once more. The lights flicker orange then green. 

“Cody!”

Cody turns, a twinge of pain in his back, an answering echo in his knee, and shades his eyes. Obi-Wan raises his hand in greeting, lopsided due to the heavy pack balanced on his hip. He’s thrown his cloak back and his hair catches the sunlight, turning the silver brushed through his temples a deep golden hue. His grin is wide, unrestrained and beautiful, Cody’s heart stuttering to an abrupt halt and restarting when Obi-Wan reaches him, leaning down to wrap his free arm around Cody’s shoulders in a tight embrace. His skin is flushed and his breath is strained but he hums as Cody reaches up to squeeze Obi-Wan’s hand with his own. 

“Did you fix it?” Obi-Wan shifts his pack with a grunt, tipping his head to one side — closer to Cody, some strands of his hair falling free to brush against Cody’s forehead and he’s surrounded, comforted right down to his bones, worn thin as they are. 

Cody nods, flicking the panel closed and dropping the wrench back into the toolbox. The crack in the handle gleams bright in the sunlight, a dark line bitten into his palm and he curls his hand into a fist. “I think so. Temporarily at least.”

“Thank you.” Obi-Wan stands uneasily, bracing himself against Cody’s shoulder as he halts part of the way. His lip curls, his eyes wide and focused on nothing except the pain lancing up and down his spine. The moment passes, it always does, and Obi-Wan relaxes into his stance. There’s a ghost of his saber at his hip and his hand lingers before he adjusts the pack once more. “Shall we go inside? I have something for you.”

“You didn’t need to,” Cody says reflexively, every reaction braided into his genes rewired to the life he has found himself in, the space he had carved out a section of his skull and defected from his purpose to find. There’s something warm in his chest despite his denial, a ember he has carried and nursed ever since he’d turned on his heel in the sterile stretch of a command deck and bumped into the man who would be his General, his Jedi, his Obi-Wan. 

He’d never said anything, but, as Obi-Wan holds his hand out for Cody to take, perfectly in step with each other, even now, both older than they had ever thought possible, he doesn’t think he needs to. Obi-Wan knows, they both know. All that remains is the first step. 

“I wanted to,” Obi-Wan says. His hand lingers in Cody’s, the pads of his fingers rough and the calluses across the stretch of his palm catching on the topography of Cody’s skin, and he pulls away as they step across the threshold into their home. 

Cody sighs, peeling the sodden fabric from his head and scrubbing a hand over his head to try and knock some of the sand free as he lingers in the entryway. The hut is cool, dappled in shadow as Obi-Wan draws the slats back on the small window overlooking the huddled kitchen and shoulders his pack onto the table. The wood groans beneath the weight and Cody moves over, snapping the fastenings open. 

“There.” Obi-Wan points to the package resting on top of everything else. It’s small and lovingly wrapped in a cloth patterned with geometric lines crossing over each other. “I hope it isn’t squashed, I tried so hard to make sure it was safe.”

Cody nods, his mouth dry, his mind empty except for a distant ringing as he picks up the package. There’s a heft to it despite the small size and his fingers slip as he begins to pick at the knot, drawing the fabric free. Beyond him, Obi-Wan begins to unpack the bag, the gentle rustling of packages filling the quiet sanctuary of their home. The fabric falls free and Cody blinks up at Obi-Wan.

“Fruit?”

Obi-Wan nods, rocking back onto his heels, his hands clasped in front of him. His thumb worries over the knuckle of his opposite hand and he chews on the inside of his cheek before he answers. “Do you like it?”

Cody blinks past a haze of tears — he’s a soldier, he’s cut a chip out of his brain without anything in his chest except rage, and he’s mourned more losses than he could remember even with enhancements, but a fruit from Kamino in the middle of a desert is enough to break him completely — and nods, lowering his head. He raises the fruit to his mouth and bites down. Juice floods his mouth, escaping down his cheeks and onto the fabric and he chases after it, tasting a home he never thought he would know again. 

Sniffing, he glances up at Obi-Wan, carefully turned away at the sink, busying himself with the already clean dishware. “Thank you.” He chews, swallows, and presses his thumb to the edge of the bitten section, watching the flesh dimple beneath his touch, a rush of dark liquid flooding his nails. “Have you ever had this before?”

“I haven’t.” Obi-Wan places the cup he had been holding back onto the counter. 

“Come here. Try some.”

“Cody—”

“Please.” Cody holds out his hands, the fruit cupped between his palms and it is the same shade of blue as Obi-Wan’s eyes, just as beautiful as he was the first day Cody met him. Obi-Wan chews his way around a chuckle and walks over. He cups his hands beneath Cody’s and raises the fruit to his mouth, taking a small bite. It sounds wet and Obi-Wan raises his head, his mouth stained dark, and Cody leans forward to kiss him. Obi-Wan sighs, tipping his head to deepen the kiss, and it’s sticky with juice, tasting sweet and Cody should have done this so much sooner. 

[hd-junglebook]

Neutral

Part 5

word count - 3,753

You hover anxiously as Bellamy stirs, his dark lashes finally fluttering open. A relieved sigh escaped you. "Well, look who decided to rejoin the land of the living," you get out before he jolts upright, swearing under his breath.

Ignoring his body's protests, he demands hoarsely, "Where's Charlotte? Did you find her?" When you shake your head grimly, his fist slams a cargo crate so hard your ears ring. "Damn it!"

"Bellamy, you were unconscious, we had to..." His thunderous look cuts you off. With fire flashing in his eyes, he rolls his impressive shoulders and strides toward the hatch, determination in every hard line of his body. "Then what the hell are we waiting for? Let's bring her back while we still can."

“It’s not safe out there, especially at night!” you fire back, blocking his exit. “That mob was out for blood, they could still be hunting." He shoves past with an impatient growl.

"I'm going back out there at dawn, with you or without you. Before she dies out there alone." His jaw works, ladder rungs protesting under his grip.

You clench your fists, nails biting your palms. you follow him into the silent camp, the yawning night shadows beyond promising unknown threats.

…

You crash through tangled underbrush at Bellamy's heels, his voice a ragged bellow echoing Charlotte's name.

Bursting into a moonlit clearing, you skid to a stop beside him - there, crouched trembling against a mossy boulder, is the girl herself.

"No, please!" she shrieks as Bellamy lunges, scooping her flailing body up across his shoulder. Her cries shred the heavy air as he takes off running again, face carved in grim lines of purpose.

You hurtle after them, Charlotte's pleas and fists hammering Bellamy's back growing fainter as he drives on relentlessly through the woods away from Murphy.

Bursting from the trees near a rocky outcrop, Bellamy slows, swaying. In the distance you spy figures emerging from the woods - Murphy's gang.

As you brace for a confrontation, more shadows spill from the forest on your heels – Finn and Clarke emerge from the opening. Bellamy sets Charlotte down only for her to scramble in panic towards the cliff edge.

Murphy steps forward, face tortured. "Bellamy! You can’t fight all of us. Give her up.” he rasps. "We just want justice."

“Maybe not, but I guarantee I’ll take a few of you with me.”

He pulls Clarke against him, pressing a crude knife under her throat. "Back off and let us take the girl, or Clarke dies." Murphy roars. Finn rushes forward before Bellamy yanks him back.

“No, please. Please don’t hurt her.” Charlotte sobs. Charlotte's streaming eyes find yours as she teeters on the cliff edge. You inch toward her.

"Take my hand, Charlotte. I won't let them hurt you." Your steadfast gaze reflects the moonlight, shining with fervent promise.

“No! No, I have to y/n! this is not happening. I can’t let any of you get hurt anymore. Not because of me. Not after what I did.”

The girl's lips shape a silent "Thank you." As she steps back into open air, instinct drives you forward, fingers straining toward her fluttering hand.

But your skin only brushes her fingertips for a heartbeat before she slips away. Unbalanced, you pitch forward, a scream tearing from your throat.

Your flailing hand catches jagged stone, jolting you to a halt while white-hot pain lances up your arm. Suspended by one agonized grip over the fatal plunge, you gasp strangled breaths.

Willing your eyes open against the dizzying vertigo, you peer past swaying feet down into roiling darkness. There below lies Charlotte's broken body, framed by glittering rapids that promise no mercy if you relinquish your blood-slicked lifeline.

The roar of the rapids below fills your ears, drowning out all other sound as they beckon with their merciless embrace. "Oh god..." Clarke's horrified whisper reaches you, seconds before Bellamy's hard face appears over the cliff edge.

The rough texture of the stone bites into your palm, sending shockwaves of pain shooting up your arm as you cling desperately to your precarious perch.

Every muscle in your body strains against the weight of your own fear and the pull of gravity, threatening to send you hurtling into the abyss below with Charlotte.

Bellmay’s strong hands clamp your wrists, his fingers digging into your flesh with a strength born of desperation.

With a grunt of effort, he begins to haul you up, his muscles straining against the weight of your body as he fights to keep you from slipping away from him.

Finally, with one last herculean effort, Bellamy hauls you over the edge of the cliff, pulling you into a tight embrace as you collapse onto solid ground. Tears stream down your face unchecked as you cling to him.

For a brief moment you find solace in Bellamy's arms, the warmth of his embrace a balm to your shattered nerves. his expression darkens with anger, his features contorted with fury as he turns his gaze toward Murphy.

"Look what you did to her," Bellamy seethes, his voice a low growl as he advances on Murphy with menacing intent. "All of this... it's because of you. Charlotte. y/n." The subtle shift in his tone betrays the depth of his protectiveness.

Finn moves quickly to intervene, pulling Bellamy off Murphy before things can escalate further. But Bellamy's rage knows no bounds as he lunges at Murphy once more, his grip like iron as he lifts the man off the ground and holds him perilously close to the cliff's edge.

"If you ever come back to the camp," Bellamy snarls, his voice dripping with venom, "I will kill you." With Murphy cowed into submission, Bellamy releases him and turns his attention back to you, extending a hand to help you to your feet. Without a word, he strides ahead of the group, leading the way back to camp.

…

Upon reaching the dropship, you found Monty and Jasper huddled over a tangle of wires and circuitry, their expressions mirroring Clarke and finns. Curiosity piqued, you approached them cautiously, watching as they worked with feverish intensity.

"What are you four up to?" you asked, your voice tinged with both amusement and concern.

Monty glanced up, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "We're hacking the wristbands. If this works, we can talk to the Ark!" he explained, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

You pause mid-stride, skeptical gaze darting between their eager faces. "Come again?" Monty just waggles his eyebrows while Jasper grins.

Jasper nodded eagerly. "And we're about to make the final connection," he declared, his voice tinged with excitement as nudges your arm.

"Here - you wanna do the honors? That port right there Jasper.” Monty’s enthusiasm stirs an uneasy swirl in your stomach. Messing with your one fragile link to space seems risky, yet...

With a flick of a switch, Jasper completed the circuit, sending a surge of electricity coursing through the wristbands. In an instant, the devices sparked and fizzled, emitting a high-pitched whine as they shorted out.

The electrical surge hit your wristband, a jolt of searing pain shot through your arm, causing you to cry out in agony. With a gasp, you stumbled backward, clutching your wrist as the pain radiated through your body.

"Tell me that was supposed to happen," you rasp. Monty's grin falters a fraction at whatever answer he finds on your face, eyes darting guiltily to your injury. "Crap, I swear that wasn't-"

Before he can respond, Octavia bursts in. “What the hell?” Her query dies on her lips, eyes blowing wide at the smoking remnants.

Monty swallows thickly. "I was trying to signal the Ark, but... I think I just killed our only working wristbands." His confession lands like a blow, doubt and dread swelling to choke you.

In the fraught silence, Finn spins on his heel, storming outside without a word. After a weighted beat, Clarke follows

Octavia shoots Monty an amused look and goes to check on Jasper, leaving you alone with his shrinking form. Cradling your throbbing wrist, you level a pained stare. "Got anything to say for yourself, Prometheus?"

He scrubs both hands down his face, mumbling, “I just wanted to talk to my parents.” The broken admission elicits your unwanted empathy.

With a sigh, you nudge his hunched shoulder. "It's not your fault, Monty," you managed to say through the pain. "We just need to find another way."

Monty looked up at you, his eyes brightening with a glimmer of hope. "You really think so?" he asked, his voice tentative.

You nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "I know so," you replied, your confidence bolstering his spirits. "We just have to keep trying.”

…

You sit by the crackling fire, the warmth of its flames offering some respite from the chilly night air, the murmurs of conversation from the delinquents behind you drift into your ears. Their voices are a low hum, punctuated by bursts of excitement and speculation.

A chorus of shouts breaks through the night, and you turn to see the group of delinquents pointing skyward, their faces illuminated by the flickering light.

You rise from your spot and make your way over to them, noticing Octavia among their ranks.

"Bellamy!" she exclaims. “get out here.”

Bellamy emerges from his tent, adjusting his clothing hastily. Octavia gestures eagerly toward the sky, her eyes wide with excitement. "There!"

The delinquents exchange excited glances, murmuring amongst themselves as they watch the descending vessel streak across the night sky.

Bellamy listens to their chatter with a measured expression, his jaw set with determination. "We'll wait until morning," he declares, his voice firm with authority.

At his command, you reluctantly drag your eyes down from the intriguing void. But curiosity continues burning bright and restless within.

Octavias brow furrows in concern. "But what if the Grounders get to it first?" she asks, voice laced with worry. Bellamy meets her gaze, his eyes steely with resolve.

"We'll deal with that if it happens," he replies, his tone leaving no room for argument. "But for now, we wait until sunrise. It's too risky to go out there in the dark."

With a final nod of affirmation, Bellamy retreats back towards his tent, leaving the delinquents to ponder his words in the glow of the fire.

The camp settles reluctantly back to routine, you drift toward Bellamy near his tent. "Aren't you wondering what the hell that was?" you ask before he can disappear inside.

Bellamy scrubs a weary hand over his face, glancing toward the glowing embers in the sky. "Could be just space junk. I'm not risking lives on some wild goose chase in the dark."

You bristle at his nonchalance when potential salvation might await discovery. "What if they sent something down to help us?" Before he can scoff, you play a sly card. "Or it has medicine your sister might need. Still willing to wait?"

His sharp look warns you've struck a nerve. After a taut minute, Bellamy growls out. "We wait until sunrise."

…

You slip past the boundary of camp, the thrill of potential discovery overriding any hesitation at venturing out alone after midnight. Hope for a message or aid from your mother quickens your stride through whipping branches and shifting shadows.

Chest heaving as you trudge up a steep, muddy slope, you grumble out, “Sure hope Mom packed a plasma rifle in that pod." you groan out. "Some gift shop souvenirs would be nice too - maybe a 'My ancestors got blasted here and all I got was radiation poisoning' t-shirt.”

Breathless minutes later, you emerge from snarling brush into a rocky clearing. You creep slowly forward, squinting. light glints off smooth metal edges - a compact pod lies half-buried in loose soil. Hardly the massive shipment you pictured.

Circling warily closer, you spy a small window and lean to peer inside at a girl about your age, unconscious, dark hair spilling over her tan cheek.

You exhale sharply in surprise, your breath fogging up the glass. Before you can process the pod, a stick crackles under a heavy boot at your back.

You dive for cover as Bellamy walks over. His shifting eyes solidify your suspicion - something isn't right here. He begins prying at the hatch, muscles bunched, and face stormy. 

As Bellamy straightens from his fruitless efforts at entry you step out, schooling your face neutral.

"Got something to hide in there, Bellamy?"

He startles violently before scowling. "Hell are you doing here?" One hand slides almost protectively across the pod’s opaque surface, prickling your unease. You cross your arms, matching his confrontational posture.

"I could ask you the same question. Why so jittery about this thing?" You nod at the pod, his hand still braced on it almost possessively.

Bellamy bristles, jaw tightening. "That's not your concern. Now get back to camp before you lead something nasty back here." 

You stand firm, tilting your head. "Oh I don't know...seems to me whatever has the unflappable Bellamy Blake all spooked must be pretty concerning."

His answering laugh lacks any humor, a harsh bark in the stillness. "In case you forgot, I'm a wanted man up there." He thrusts a chin skyward. "So yeah, anything falling down makes me jumpy, okay?"

You shake your head, frowning. "No, I think there's more riling you up about this pod specifically." Taking a step nearer has him tensing, so you change tack. "Look, what do you want with it anyway?"

Bellamy works his jaw, glancing aside briefly with an unreadable expression. But he regroups quickly. "I need what's inside, that's all you gotta know. Now walk away and let me handle this - it's for the good of everyone here." 

His vagueness fans your skepticism into defiance. "What's inside - the girl? Why do you want her so bad?" You watch him intently for any revealing tic. "Who is she, Bellamy?"

The muscle in his cheek feathers from clenching his teeth. "That's not..." He breaks off, exhaling harshly through his nose before fixing you with a glare.

"You think you've got me all figured out. I'm just looking to protect my sister, like I always do. That's all you need to know." 

Bellamy wrenches open the pod hatch with a grunt of effort. As he digs inside, you peer closer despite his glower warning you off. To your bewilderment, he emerges clutching only a small radio device, lips pressed thin.

"We're done here," he snaps, storming off without explanation. You watch Bellamy stomp away, radio in hand, realization sinking your stomach.

A faint groan draws your gaze back inside where the girl shifts weakly. As her eyes flutter open, she fumbles off her helmet, spilling dark hair over weary eyes. She hisses out a pained breath, gingerly probing at her blood-crusted hairline.

"Crap...that's not good," she mutters, blinking sluggishly at her crimson-smeared fingers before noticing you hovering uncertainly. "Oh hey! Who the hell are you?" Her bluntness startles a wry smile from you.

"I could ask you the same. I'm Y/N. Welcome home."

Crashing foliage announces new arrivals. You both turn sharply to see Finn bursting into the clearing, Clarke on his heels. The girl's face lights up seeing Finn but any greeting dies on her lips as he sweeps past you.

Because Finn isn't slowing his headlong rush toward her. In fact, he looks downright crazed, eyes glittering with overwhelmed joy. "Raven!" he cries raggedly, pulling her into a crushing embrace.

You glance at Clarke, taking in her expression shuttering closed. Her slight nod answers the question in your widened eyes.

…

You, Clarke and Raven trail after Finn toward camp, pressing Bellamy's mystery. Squinting ahead, Clarke spots him and barrels forward. "Bellamy!"

He turns too slowly, fake casualness oozing guilt. Clarke gets in his face, demanding, "Where's the radio that was in the pod?"

Bellamy feigns confusion poorly. "No clue what you mean..." Trailing off, he notes Raven stalking closer, brow arched.

"Cut the crap," she snaps. "We know you took comms from my pod just now." Bellamy's surprise fuels her fierceness. "Yeah, I know it was you. Recognized your name from when you shot chancellor Jaha. They're looking everywhere for you."

You grimace sharply at her words as Bellamy flinches before recovering his defiance. Before threats turn to blows, you push between Raven and Bellamy's bristling forms. "Where's the radio Bellamy?" Priorities first - prevent him destroying your sole link to the Ark.

"Jaha deserved to die. You all know that." Smugness wars with steeling himself as Raven advances unrelentingly. She halts inches away, eyes ruthless. "Well congratulations. You're a lousy shot. You didn't manage to kill him after all."

Staggered silence meets her revelation. Clarke exhales sharply while dread claws your stomach. “Bellamy, don't you see what this means? You're not a murderer. You always did what you had to do to protect your sister. And you can do it again by protecting three hundred of your people. Where's the radio?”

…

With a resigned slump of his shoulders, Bellamy capitulates, nodding sulkily toward the river. Without another word, you wade into the fast current, the icy water sending shivers down your spine as you search for the waterlogged device amidst the rocky riverbed.

Each moment feels like an eternity as you comb through the murky depths, your fingers brushing against smooth stones and tangled vegetation.

Your hand closes around the familiar shape of the device you haul it up from the water, its surface slick with river mud and debris.

You hold it up triumphantly, a weary smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you turn back toward the shore.

When you resurface, Raven is practically hopping with impatient plans, her eyes alight with excitement before it drains from her face. "Oh fuck," she says disappointedly, “it'll take half the day just to dry out the components to see what's broken."

Bellamy's voice is thick as he responds, "Like I said, it's too late."

Clarke marches up to him, her eyes blazing with anger. "Do you have any idea what you did? Do you even care?!" she demands, her voice crackling with emotion.

Bellamy meets her gaze squarely. "You asked me to help. I helped," he states. Clarkes anger worsens. "Three hundred people are gonna die today because of you!" Clarke retorts with a trembling voice.

Before the tension can escalate further, Raven interjects with a pragmatic tone. "Hold up. We don't have to talk to the Ark. We just have to let them know we're down here, right?"

Finn nods in agreement. "Yeah, but how do we do that with no radio?" he asks frustratedly.

…

Back at the pod, Raven is a whirlwind of activity, organizing the delinquents as they strip the pod for spare parts to create makeshift rocket launchers.

"We need to launch those flares ASAP if we have any hope of saving those people. Finn, get that control panel to camp. You, pull out those fire circuits in one piece or they won't work.”

Clarke watches with a furrowed brow, her mind clearly preoccupied with other concerns.

"Will they be able to see the rockets from the Ark?" Clarke asks, Raven pauses in her work, casting a glance toward the distant horizon.

"Like the good book says, it's all about burn time and cloud cover." Clarke nods at her words. “I know your mom will be watching." she replies confidently, her tone leaving no room for doubt.

“I've never seen anyone love someone the way she loves you. You know that, right?"

As the others continue their tasks, you pull Clarke aside, "Hey, what happened last night with Finn?" you inquire softly. Clarke's expression darkens, her gaze dropping to the ground as she exhales heavily.

"We... we slept together," she admits unhappily, her words heavy with regret. "And now his real girlfriend landed on Earth."

You place a comforting hand on her shoulder, offering a wordless gesture of support as you both finish working together. You send a glare to Finn's back, watching as he kissed Raven before heading her instructions to take supplies back to camp.

…

Metal braces are secured in place, rockets carefully added and checked for stability. Anticipation crackles in the air like electricity as the final preparations are made.

With a chorus of cheers and shouts, the first rockets blast off into the night sky, leaving trails of brilliant light in their wake.

The sky erupts in a dazzling display of color, the flares painting intricate patterns against the backdrop of darkness. Gasps of awe and wonder ripple through the gathered crowd as they watch the spectacle unfold.

You find yourself caught up in the excitement, celebrating with Harper and Miller as the sky ignites with bursts of vibrant hues.

"Isn't this amazing?" Harper exclaims, her eyes wide with wonder. "Maybe they'll see them and send down a rescue team!"

Miller nods thoughtfully in agreement considering her theory, a grin stretching across his face. "It's possible," he concedes, "I've never seen anything like this," he admits, his voice filled with awe.

As the last of the flares fade into the night, leaving only the twinkling stars above, you catch Bellamy's gaze lingering on you.

For a brief moment, your eyes meet, and you offer him a small smile before turning your attention back to Harper and Miller.

…

Bellamy's voice cuts through the murmurs of the crowd, drawing Clarke's attention. "You think they can see it from up there?" he asks with genuine curiosity. Clarke gazes up at the sky, her eyes scanning the heavens for any sign of the distant Ark.

"I don't know. I hope so," she replies softly, a hint of wistfulness in her voice. "Can you wish on this kind of shooting star?" she adds with a self-conscious shrug, but Bellamy's odd look prompts her to dismiss the notion. "Forget it."

Bellamy's gaze drifts from Clarke to where you stand with Harper and Miller, a thoughtful expression crossing his features. "I wouldn't even know what to wish for," he muses, his eyes lingering on you for a moment before returning to Clarke. "What about you?" he prompts, his curiosity evident.

He follows her gaze, finding Raven and Finn nearby. A small smile tugs at the corners of Clarkes lips as Raven returns her glance with a reassuring smile of her own. "I'm not sure," Clarke admits cryptically, her gaze lingering on Raven and Finn before drifting back to the twinkling stars above.

…

[rising-volteccers]

Honestly after talking with some friends, this is the impression I get from them so have this silly meme. Oh and the what-if scene for HZ023, if you care.

All jokes aside, I genuinely had fun writing this! This is how I personally would love to see happen. I hope it'll be an enjoyable read haha!

Series: Pokemon Horizons

Characters: Friede, Amethio

Mild warning for description of character injury. And HZ022-HZ023 spoilers.

--

The loud screech that emanated deep within the mines stole his attention and halted the battle between them. Friede did say Amethio wouldn’t catch him looking away but his eyes automatically flickered to the source. What he saw emerging from the tunnel made his blood run cold.

Liko and Roy. Cap, badly wounded in Liko’s arms. Something big and angry chasing after them. 

“Charizard, Flamethrower!” Friede ordered almost immediately.

His trusted partner swiftly fired off a stream of fire from its mouth, hitting the Pokemon that looked like Moltres dead center. 

“Friede!” He heard Liko yell as the mine cart rapidly brought the kids and Cap away–hopefully towards safety. 

“Keep going! Take care of Cap!” 

Liko’s desperate scream of his name made his heart ache with guilt but Friede couldn’t afford to spare them any more attention, not when the flaming Pokemon turned its fury filled sights upon him. 

To his brief surprise, he zeroed in on the Ancient Pokeball grasped between its talons. So, this was one of Lucius’s Pokemon too? Like Rayquaza and Arboliva?

The Moltres lookalike once again screeched in fury, and Friede swore he saw fire-like aura emitting from it. All of them had to dodge the bevy of Air Slash crescents fired off from its wings, where some veered towards the tunnel where Liko and Roy escaped earlier. It swiftly caused that mineshaft to collapse. 

Ah, so more like Rayquaza than the gentle Arboliva then. Got it.

“Guess I made it mad,” he uttered, smirking nervously. While Friede enjoyed battling against strong opponents, even he knew better than to contend with multiple enemies at once. At least between the two in front of him, one could be reasoned with. Hopefully.

“Hey! Temporary truce?” Friede spoke to the still frozen Amethio. That snapped the teen out of whatever trance he’d been in.

“What? Why–”

“Look out! Flamethrower!” Friede ordered, to which his Charizard readily fired off another stream of flames towards the wave of dark purple energy targeting Amethio and Ceruledge. Chillingly, the Flamethrower passed through it so nothing stopped the attack from hitting Trainer and Pokemon head on. 

“Amethio! Charizard, go up close and use Dragon Claw!”

With a mighty flap of his wings, Charizard surged upwards with gleaming orange claws, rearing them back before striking at the furious Pokemon.

In the meantime, Friede rushed towards Amethio and Ceruledge. Both of them were flat on the ground, looking like they were struggling to get up. He didn’t spot any immediate visible wounds but their actions indicated that something was wrong still. 

“What’s wrong? Where are you hurt?” 

“Ngh… it’s like all my energy’s been sapped,” Amethio replied through gritted teeth. He had pushed himself onto his elbows, looking past Friede to stare at the Moltres currently engaged in an aerial battle with Charizard. 

An attack that sapped away at one’s stamina? If Friede looked closely, both Amethio and Ceruledge breathed out what appeared to be black wisps. Through his extensive knowledge of Pokemon and their moves, he was genuinely at a lost. He’d never seen an attack–outside of Ghost-type moves–that didn’t directly harm the user but drained their energy before. 

Charizard’s roar drew Friede’s attention to his flier. He saw Charizard swooped out of the way from that odd attack again but within the enclosed area, his room to fly around was pretty limited. The moment that Moltres get a good solid hit in, it was over. 

Friede swiftly checked his surroundings. Aside from the mineshaft that the kids emerged from and the one that collapsed behind him, there was one more that he vaguely recall Amethio coming out from. While he wasn’t keen on entering deeper into the mines, their priority right now was to get away. 

A small part of him bemoaned the loss of fighting against such a strong opponent but he couldn’t be selfish here. Not when he needed to get Amethio towards safety. He might be someone who stood against him but he too was painfully mortal, just like Friede was. It didn’t matter that they were enemies once that Moltres got its fury filled talons on their squishy bodies. 

“Right, we’re gonna head there. Return your Ceruledge and see if you can hold on,” Friede instructed, already in the process of looping one of Amethio’s arms across his shoulders.

“What are you–let go of me!” Right, why would this guy make things easy for him?

“Now’s not the time! Unless you want to take your chances with that thing, we’re getting out of here!” Friede hissed back, losing all traces of his playfully serious mood. From the corner of his eye, he saw how Charizard collided with the stone wall from one of its Air Slashes. His partner wouldn’t last that much longer.

Thankfully, Amethio finally took the hint. After returning Ceruledge, he quieted down even if Friede sensed the disgruntled air coming from him once he pulled the skinny teen to his feet, one of his arms looped around the other’s waist. Amethio did not walk unsteadily but it still took effort for Friede to support him without them swerving from the straight path towards the open mineshaft. 

Just as they reached it, a loud screech halted them. Friede risked a look behind, feeling his heart drop to his stomach upon seeing his downed Charizard. Now the Moltres had its furious sights on them again.

It curled its wings in, gaining an ominous sheen to it before the Moltres released another wave of Air Slashes towards them. Friede didn’t think much when he shoved Amethio inside the mineshaft while he rolled to the side. His ankle screamed at him when he scrambled to his feet, nearly buckling underneath his weight. The slashes barely missed him, though the ones that did connect started to cause the entrance to crumble. 

If he was to get stuck in here and get ripped to shreds, Friede wanted to at least return his Charizard to spare it that gruesome fate. 

Just as he raised his Pokeball to return Charizard, a purplish figure dashed out of the slowly collapsing entrance. Friede heard a call for “Phantom Force!” over the Moltres’s screech and the sound of his partner now safe in its Pokeball. 

Friede spotted Ceruledge emerging from its portal to slash at Moltres from above, effectively drawing its attention that he could stumble his way to the mineshaft, pushing through the fire that surged from his ankle. He just about avoid a fallen support beam, then fell past Amethio who quickly returned his Ceruledge. 

Another loud screech, then the entrance really started collapsing in earnest. Friede instinctively curled into a ball, arms going up to protect his head as earth and stone fell around him. After what felt like forever, it finally stopped.

It was quiet, the only sounds were his labored breaths, and the occasional creak of the settling wreckage. Friede tried to breathe slowly, to calm the rising panic within his chest but all he got was a mouthful of dust. He coughed and wished he had something to wash out the film lining his teeth.

Once his lungs settled down, Friede remembered that he wasn’t alone.

“You alive?”

“Unfortunately,” Amethio grumbled his response, coming somewhere from his left with a pain laced voice. Friede pushed himself up onto his elbows and tried to squint at the other through his still adjusting vision. He couldn’t see any visible wounds aside from the gash that sluggishly bled from Amethio’s forehead. At the very least it looked like he could move normally again.

Pushing through the sharp spike that came from his left leg, Friede army crawled a few feet away from the pile of rubble that temporarily separated them from that dangerous Pokemon still screeching in anger. Once he neared a tarp covered box, he used it as leverage to pull himself up into a sitting position, gasping from both exertion and pain.

With his legs spread out in front of him, Friede knew his left ankle was at least twisted, at worst outright broken. He supposed no good deed goes unpunished. 

“Why did you do that?” As if sensing his thoughts, Amethio hissed out. In the dim lighting, Friede just about made out his angry, somewhat confused scowl. “We would’ve made it. You foolishly got yourself hurt because you tried to play the hero.”

“A thank you would’ve been nice,” Friede replied, sporting a wry grin. He released a slow breath afterwards. “But to answer your question, don’t know. Body just reacted.”

He truly didn’t have an answer for it. Friede saw danger and his first reaction was to keep Amethio out of harm’s way. He’d likely do that for anyone, really. That was just his nature; to fiercely guard and protect those around him, which apparently included Amethio at that moment.

For a bit, no words passed between them. His silence was based on breathing through the pain while Amethio’s appeared cold, maybe contemplative even. The screeching had stopped for the time being so that Moltres probably gave up. Hopefully. Friede wondered if its rage would prompt it to cause the entire mine to collapse.

“...where are you hurt?” Amethio’s question caught him by surprise. Friede fought to mask it, instead raising an eyebrow at the cool gaze settling upon him.

“Left ankle. Probably twisted it,” he replied. Friede instinctively tensed up at Amethio’s approach, hand twitching to the Pokeball that held his injured Charizard. To his continued surprise, the teen crouched in front of his stretched out legs. 

“Hey, watch it!” Friede yelped at the initial touch on his boot, the slight jostle causing a flare up of pain. Amethio briefly paused, then continued to ease his boot out in a gentler manner. He didn’t think the other had it in him to be mindful honestly. 

Friede gritted his teeth through the careful probing. Even he could tell it felt swollen and tender, nevermind the pain that sparked up from the affected area. 

“This needs a splint,” Amethio spoke up after several minutes of silence. He stood up from his crouched position, making a brief sweep of his surroundings. “Those broken beams over there should suffice for now. The only thing left is some kind of cloth to wrap them around your leg and keep them in place.”

Friede considered Amethio’s words. He didn’t expect this level of cooperation but he supposed desperate times called for desperate measures. He shouldn’t look a gift Rapidash in the mouth so he dipped a hand into his pocket, pulling out a small pocket knife.

“Here. Should be able to use this to cut strips from the tarp covering this box. You’d have an easier time doing it than me right now,” he explained, handing the item to Amethio.

Amethio didn’t reach out to grab it, not at first. Friede found himself at the other end of a slightly incredulous gaze.

“What? My arm’s getting sore.”

“You’d hand me a blade that I can point at you?”

Well, considering their usual dynamics, Friede supposed he understood his confusion. He wasn’t too keen about it himself but he banked on what he knew of Amethio’s character from the various times they clashed. 

“I mean, I don’t think you’re the sort who’d stab a guy when he’s down. Too easy of a win for you, no?”

For a moment, Friede wondered if he messed up at the sudden shift in Amethio’s expression. He looked downright annoyed now, his right eye twitching ever so slightly. Did he incite the teen to actually stab him?

Before Friede could store away the knife, Amethio swiped it from his grasp. He sidestepped him to yank at the tarp, pulling it off the box. 

“Hold onto this corner and keep it taut,” Amethio all but ordered. Deciding to not push his luck, Friede did as he was told. Soon, they had various haphazard strips that should fit their purposes. 

Amethio dropped the knife by Friede’s side instead of nicely handing it back to him. A tad rude but hey, definitely better than fending himself off from angry stabs. Amethio soon returned to his side with a couple of broken support beams, roughly in the size they needed to make a temporary splint. 

Friede remained still while Amethio set about in placing the planks on both sides of his left leg. He sort of tuned out the entire process, mostly thinking about where Amethio got this knowledge from. Did he get injured often? As strong as Amethio was in battles, Friede was aware that he didn’t look that much older than Liko and Roy. 

Why was someone as young as him a part of the Explorers? He’d entertain that thought from time to time, admittedly. Whose orders did he follow that he’d chase them from Kanto? Friede was certain that he faced off a different Explorer back in Paldea. It just wasn’t Amethio’s style to resort to trickery and subterfuge. He could have easily went after Liko and Roy when they were separated from him instead of opting to battle.

“...there. How does that feel?” Amethio’s question drew him back to the present. Friede blinked, eyes glancing down at the makeshift splint. 

“Doesn’t feel too tight. Thanks,” he replied after carefully moving his leg. That should help keep his leg stabilized until he gets his ankle properly treated. 

Friede leaned back against the box, took a few deep breaths before looking up at Amethio's quiet gaze. He extended a hand towards the other. "Help me up? Don't know about you but I'd like to find a way out of here."

Amethio eyed his hand like it was something foul but he did grasp it. After a bit of awkward maneuvering, Friede got to his feet, putting minimal pressure on his bad ankle by leaning his weight against Amethio. Instead of shoving him off, the teen simply mimicked his earlier position by wrapping an arm around his waist while one of Friede's arms was draped across Amethio's shoulders.

"Guess our only choice is to go down there and hope it'll lead to an exit," Friede stated, vaguely gesturing to the path that wasn't blocked off by debris and rubble. 

"It'll lead to an open chamber with multiple paths. One of them is an exit," Amethio replied, already making the first move to get him walking.

"Huh." Friede would've asked where his confidence came from but then he recalled Amethio coming out from this tunnel earlier. He couldn't help but wonder for just how long the Explorers kept an eye on them. The very moment they landed in Galar? Friede wanted to keep a low profile by traveling on foot but that seemed to be a bust since Amethio found him all the way here. 

Initially, it took them a few tries to find a way where the height difference and Friede's awkward gait didn't impede their pace. Once they found a rhythm, thus began a slow yet steady walk down the mostly dim tunnel. His eyes had since adjusted, and after a few minutes, he spotted a pinprick of light in the distance.

"Oh good, looks like we're close. Usually people say 'don't go into the light!' but in our case, it's a blessing, yeah?" Friede chattered on, having done so for the past minute since he didn't like how the silence settled on his skin. 

"A head injury would be preferable if it gets you to shut up." Amethio didn't give him a response before but it seemed that he was really getting on his nerves now.

"Oof, a lil' harsh." There might be a hint of a pout to his voice but Friede got the message. He didn't know whether Amethio was above just dropping him like a sack of potatoes so he kept his mouth shut until their claustrophobic surroundings opened up to a larger chamber.

It looked similar to the one they were fighting in before with the same tunnels that led to who knows where. Amethio led them down to the leftmost one, presumably the mineshaft he came in from before. 

Friede couldn't tell how much time had passed. His entire body slowly became one giant ache as he hobbled along, hating the stiffness from the makeshift splint. The edges rubbed against his leg in a way that was noticeable even through the fabric of his trousers. He kept reminding himself that this was necessary even if he wanted nothing more than to get it off. 

Had he been a lesser person, seeing the light at the end of this tunnel would've reduced him to tears. At last, fresh air once they properly exited the mines. Friede wasn't the claustrophobic sort usually but seeing greenery and open space around him, not to mention breathing in dust free air nearly made him crash in relief.

Amethio led him to a nearby tree. Once Friede had a hand on the trunk, the teen swiftly released him like he couldn't stand being pressed close for even a second longer. He watched Amethio dust himself off, futile as it was. Both of them looked like they just crawled out of the ground.

"Don't forget to get that treated," Friede found himself speaking up, tipping his head at the now dried blood that caked Amethio's upper brow. 

He received a blank stare for that. "Duly noted. Take your own unwanted advice."

Well, he supposed that since they were free, all false niceties were off the table. Not that Amethio put much effort in keeping his disdain hidden. They had to work together under unexpected circumstances. Now that the threat no longer loomed over their heads, they returned to their previous dynamic of being enemies.

"I'd love to continue our previous battle but–take a rain check for it, yeah? Promise I'll give it everything I got next time."

There will be a next time. So long as Amethio chased after the pendant, they will inevitably clash. Such was the nature for them who stood on opposite ends. 

(Sometimes Friede did wonder how it'd be like if Amethio had been an ally instead. Perhaps they'd get along better, or maybe even be friends).

Amethio didn't respond. Instead, he turned around and released his Corviknight. 

"Huh, forgot you had that mon," Friede mused. Seeing their fiery opponent (both figuratively and literally), he supposed Amethio didn't want to pit his Steel-type against it earlier.

Friede watched as the teen swiftly got onto his Corviknight. Before his flier took off, Amethio briefly glanced back at him.

"Prepare yourself," was all he said prior to the Corviknight becoming airborne. Friede stared at the pair until they flew out of sight. 

With a deep sigh, he allowed his shoulders to slump. Exhaustion and pain weighed him down in different measures. He made a quick swipe at his face, took in a measuring breath before releasing his Charizard.

His partner was quick to growl its worry. The time spent in its Pokeball allowed the Fire-type a bit of recovery room but they wouldn't be winning any battles until Charizard got properly treated. 

"Hey, sorry for worrying you. I'm fine–well, I will be," Friede quickly amended at Charizard's pointed look to his makeshift splint. He gave his starter a few good scratches underneath his chin.

"Do you think you can give me a lift back to Motostoke? I think the kids would bring Cap there. Just take it nice and easy."

Charizard easily accepted his request. It turned around and lowered itself to the ground, much more than usual to compensate for Friede's current state. He winced from all the jostling but soon, he sat as comfortably as he could on Charizard's back.

Slowly, as if testing his wings, Charizard gave a few flaps. It became stronger, and then they were airborne. 

As Friede settled down during their slow flight back to Motostoke, his mind went back to the Moltres back in the mines. Seeing that it was likely connected to the Lucius, they very well couldn't leave it alone. Liko and Roy wouldn't want to leave a mystery like this unsolved, nor did he. 

Well Friede didn't plan on facing it unprepared. He might come back on crutches but he was determined to have the upper hand next time. He fished out his Rotom Phone, dialing a number until it connected. 

"Friede? What is it?"

"Hey Dot. So, long story short, I need your help in looking into something for me…"

[wow635]

Chapter fiiivee!! Not proofread. Enjoy😋

We're all in the boys tent, the excitement from the quidditch cup earlier it the day still there.

Everyone's goofing around in the tent when we hear screams outside

our laughter and conversations suddenly comes to a halt as we hear faint yet unmistakable screams echoing outside. We exchange concerned glances, unsure of what could be causing such commotion.

Mr. Weasley rushes out of the tent first, his instincts as a father and seasoned wizard kicking into gear.

The rest of us are not far behind, our hearts racing with fear and worry. As we emerge from the tent, the sight that greets us is like something straight out of a nightmare.

Tents are on fire and there are death eaters all around and more marching down the hill, panicked witches and wizards scatter in every direction. The air is thick with smoke, sparks, and screams echoing through the night.

The world around us seems to have transformed into a battlefield,

“George grab your sister, guys stick together I'm going to help!” Mr Weasley says running off

Harry, Ron and hermione run towards the forest together and George grabs Ginny's hand following them

I look around rooted in place and feel someone grab my wrist “come on” Fred yells to me over the screams of others

“No Fred wait” I say stopping

“We can't just leave them, look!” I say pointing to a little muggle girl and muggle boy no older than six or seven being spun in the air

The death eaters under them laugh as they spin them upside down mercilessly like marionettes on invisible strings

“Fred… please we have to” I say holding his arm in my two hands, pleading with him.

I can see Fred hesitate, his eyes filled with horror as he watched the two children being cruelly spun in the air. The terror and desperation in my voice snap him back to reality, and he knows that we can’t just stand by and watch.

He nods firmly, his grip tightening around my arm as he whispers "Alright."

We run toward the scene “Expelliarmus” I shout at the death eater controlling the boy and his wand goes flying. The spell on the boy breaks and he starts to fall. I slide on my knees in the grass and catch him.

He sags in my arms unconscious. I hold him tightly as the death eater lunges at me. “Ascendio” I shout, The Death Eater is hurled into the air, his body hurled high above the commotion. As he soars and then plummets back to the ground, I knew he would be out of commission, at least for a few moments.

I gently cradle the unconscious boy in my arms, ensuring he is safely held against my chest.

Fred quickly races to my side, a look of determination on his face as he holds the crying young girl in his arms. With a protective stance, he stands by me as we survey the scene around us. The Death Eaters continue their rampage, terrorizing and torturing others, while some are being successfully subdued by ministry officials

The parents, tears streaming down their faces, approach us with heartfelt gratitude. They gather their children tightly, clutching them close. Between sobs, they manage to express their profound appreciation. "Thank you," they repeat, their voices filled with both gratitude and relief. "Thank you dear children, thank you," they whisper, their eyes conveying the depth of their appreciation and the weight of their thankfulness.

Fred swiftly grabs my wrist and pulls me towards the safety of the trees nearby. The sounds of spells and screams are muffled to some extent and the darkness offers a brief sense of seclusion. Panting slightly, Fred looks around, his eyes sweeping the area to assess our surroundings.

As we stand there, catching our breath, a sudden sound catches our attention. It comes from somewhere within the trees, deep in the forest.

Fearing the worst, Fred immediately takes hold of my hand and begins running deeper into the woods. The thick foliage and shadows makes it difficult to see, but Fred leads the way, his instincts and survival instincts guiding us. My heart races with every step, my hand tightly squeezing his as we flee into the unknown.

Gasping for air, we finally reach a relatively secluded area, hidden beneath the dense trees. We both stop, panting heavily, our lungs burning as we try to catch our breath. My heart pounds fiercely in my chest, and my body trembles from the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I lean forward, resting my hands on my knees, desperate to regain some sense of composure.

The silence around us is deafening, broken only by the sound of our labored breathing.

"Think we can wait here till it all blows over?" I look up at him

Fred looks around scanning our surroundings, searching for any signs of danger lurking nearby.

After a moment, he turns to me and nods, his expression filled with a mixture of concern and relief. "I think we should be safe here for a while," he replied, his voice reassuring yet cautious. "It's secluded and the foliage will give us some cover. We'll wait here until things settle down."

I nod and sit down. I lean against one of the big trees behind us, and bring my knees up to my chest as Fred settles down next to me.

We sit there for a couple of minutes when I break the silence. I turn my head to look at him "Are you scared?"

Our gazes meet, and the world seems to pause for a fleeting moment. The question lingers in the air, heavy with meaning and vulnerability. A soft smile played on his lips as he meets my eyes, his expression filled with a mixture of honesty and vulnerability.

"Yeah," he confesses, his voice carrying a rare tone of sincerity. "I'm scared, but not for myself-for you."

"Why?" I ask leaning my head on the tree and looking at him

His concern is evident , and his response comes quickly, genuine and heartfelt. With a quiet sincerity, he speaks, "Because I care about you. Because the thought of anything happening to you..." His words trail off, but his eyes hold an unwavering steadfastness. "It scares me more than anything."

I swallow hard. The tension me and Fred had, had always been there, but him admitting this here. And now felt surreal

Our eyes lock for a moment, our gazes conveying the depth of unspoken feelings. The air between us seems to crackle with something more than the tension of the moment.

I speak softly, my voice barely above a whisper, yet the weight of my words carried raw emotion. "I care about you too," I confess, my heart pounding in my chest.

The honesty in those words felt both liberating and terrifying, opening a doorway to emotions that had previously remained untouched.

A flicker of surprise and hope flashes in his eyes. He reaches out a hand to gently push a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered for a moment, grazing my cheek as he leans in closer, his breath mingling with mine.

I look at him. Shaking. I've never kissed anyone before, but I want him to be the first.

Then there's a rustle in the bushes next to us

Startled, I quickly turn my head in the direction of the noise, my heart leaping into my throat as adrenaline courses through my veins.

I pull my wand out holding it steady when the figures step out. My heart skips a beat as the familiar figures of our friends emerge from the bushes, their faces a mix of relief and concern.

Seeing them safe and sound brought an overwhelming sense of relief, like a weight being lifted off my shoulders. I lower my wand, feeling the tension within me subside as I realize they are alright. They gather around us.

I stand up and hug Harry relived but I was also sad that me and Fred's moment got interrupted. I wrap my arms around Harry, a mixture of relief and lingering disappointment settled within me. The moment with Fred had been interrupted, leaving a bittersweet taste in my mouth.

When I glanced over Harry's shoulder and met Fred's gaze, I could sense the same unspoken emotions mirrored in his eyes.

There was an understanding between us, a shared acknowledgment of the moment that had been disrupted. For a few brief moments, our eyes convey a quiet exchange of emotions, a silent conversation that speaks louder than words.

I turn away and pull away from Harry "You ok?" I ask him looking him over making sure he isn't hurt.

Harry nod, his expression a mix of exhaustion and contentment. "Yeah, I'm alright," he replies, his voice filled with a tinge of weariness. He looked unharmed, thankfully, and the fact that we all made it through the attack relatively unscathed was a small victory. I smile gently, relieved to see him safe and sound.

———————————

We all head back to the tent pack up and head back to the burrow

[scullysflannel]

if anyone’s looking for a show to watch while tv enters its strike era (good for them) here are some shows I love recommending. excluding the x-files because it’s a lifestyle. excluding alias because the streaming version has the wrong music and is therefore fake to me. excluding the sopranos because everyone already knows, except for a guy I met last night who was like “oh is that good?” (?)

reservation dogs - my number one most recommended. great for everyone.

evil - coolest show on tv I’m so serious

halt and catch fire - just don’t judge it by its first season. but you get to watch a show go from a bad first season to one of the most transcendent tv experiences of all time

severance - hot! when’s the last time a new show was this exciting

somebody somewhere - lovely and warm, but with bite

pen15 - bodied me daily

dickinson - funny surreal anachronistic meditation on creation

mrs. davis - more tv should be bonkers

better call saul - obviously. one of the best to ever do it

the americans - same

the leftovers - same

[azsazz]

Shattered Me

Cassian x Reader

Summary: Anon Req: Could you please write the mate leaving them a cassian fic?

Warnings: Mentions of blood, gore, warfare.

Word Count: 833

Notes: Oh it’s sad boy weekend this weekend

_________________________________________

You can’t even look at him. Even if you weren’t physically nauseous by the mere thought of peeking up at him – bloodied and harrowed from battle – you wouldn’t be able to. The tears are too thick in your eyes, a constant stream that hadn’t stopped since you’d caught wind of what he’d done.

Your mate, your consciousness whispers savagely. The male who’d abandoned his people in their time of need, who’d sent his troops in to slaughter them all…

No, you really couldn’t bear the sight of him. 

Especially not with all of the innocent blood on his hands.

He’s frozen to his spot, just inside of the tent. The canvas door flap slaps loudly against itself from the forceful gusts of freezing mountain air, and it’s the only sound in the room except for your sobbing. Cassian’s mating bond is ice cold, burning in his chest so deeply he doesn’t dare breathe.

He’d felt the wave of fear and hatred when he’d made his appearance in the makeshift home. You’d shrunk away from the sight of him, like he was going to hurt you. But he would never do such a thing, couldn’t even imagine doing so.

His boots had fused with the cold ground beneath his feet, they must have because when he tries to lift his foot to take a step towards you he can’t, no matter how hard he tries.

And the primal instincts within him are screaming to be by your side, protect you from whoever hurt you so badly, pick you up from the frozen ground and cuddle you close…

He didn’t realize for a single fleeting moment that he was the reason for this.

“(Y/N),” he says, and even the soft scared nature of his tone has you curling in on yourself tighter. You’re gasping for breath, clawing at your hair but you can still hear their screams–

“Don’t,” you gasp. Plead. Your voice is ragged, tight with emotion and tears and you can’t hear this right now, how he might defend his actions. 

“What did I do?”

The sobs halt in your throat and the utter truth has you lifting your head, mouth dropped open in disbelief.

“What did you do?”

Cassian flinches at the brashness in your voice, stumbles back a step from the terrifying fire in your eyes. Looking like you’d have all of the snowy mountain top the army is stationed on melting away in seconds.

He sets his jaw, a muscle jumps and you know he won’t repeat his question, catching onto your mood. If he knew what was good for him he’d turn right around and flee from the angry female before him, right through the tent flap that’s whipping the back of his leg and sending gusts of wind down his spine.

But you’re his mate, and every interaction the two of you have had since you’d first met flashes in his mind. When he’d stumbled into you at Rita’s, spilling your drink to the floor. Even that glare had been different from the one you were shooting him now, testing and flirty, not devastating and final.

“You killed those people!” You can’t help but scream, throat already raw that you nearly choke on the words. You point in the direction you’d run from, you’d been too late to do anything and the sight was too much. Your stomach churns as the memory resurfaces and you channel that into your anger, fuelling you.  “They’d done nothing and you ordered your troops to slaughter them all!”

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like that,” Cassian’s voice cracks and his knees give out before you. He wants so badly to reach out and touch you, wipe the tear rolling down your red cheek, hot with your madness. “It was a direct order from Rhys. It wasn’t me.”

“It was.” It’s a strain to stop the tears from leaking down your face. The pressure inside of your head from all of your sobbing is painful, but you bask in it, eyes tired and swollen and filled with the anger of a thousand suns. It gives you the drive that you know will cleave him in two. “And I can’t be with someone who’d take the lives of innocents by some bullshit order.”

His jaw slackens at your admission, eyes wide with fear and disbelief. Cassian knew that he was in the wrong but he didn’t think that it would be something as big as this is to you. Suggesting to break the mating bond, you couldn’t actually be serious.

But the look on your face is deathly so. Your shaking hands are curled into fists upon your knees and your breathing is shallow, not letting the hiccups and emotion waver your words.

“(Y/N), please, you can’t do this,” he begs as you push up to your feet, the Illyrian male looking like a terrified babe as he reaches for you. You step backwards out of his reach. “It’s done. I’m done.”

[afewproblems]

Warm my Cold and Tired Heart (Part One)

Steve slowly walks around the cluttered and dirty boat house, armed with an oar and reflexes honed from years of basketball and baseball practice. He ignores the irritable scoffs and doubting gaze that Dustin keeps shooting him from the sidelines as he prods the lumpy tarps draped over the single boat. Dappled moonlight barely streams through grimey windows, while the smell of gasoline and mold stings sharply in his nose. Steve tamps down the urge to rub at his face, it's not a pleasant smell by any means but it's not the fetid stench of the Upside Down, this one still holds notes of the living rather than the decay of the Otherworld.

In his periphery Steve watches as Robin moves towards the table that Max is standing by, he can hear the crinkling of wrappers and soft words. He closes his eyes at the loud sigh that Dustin makes again, god help him the little shit can be incredibly irritating when he wants to be.

“Someone was here,” Max says, a hint of urgency to her words as she lifts up a candy wrapper to the light of her flashlight. 

“Maybe he heard us, got spooked and ran,” Robin whispers, glancing back towards the dark shadows curling around corners; Steve catches her eye and tries for a small smile - something to ease her anxiety, not that his is any better. The boat house is giving him the creeps.

“Don’t worry, Steve will get him with his oar,” Dustin snips, his voice pitched with sarcasm, Steve rolls his eyes and continues to prod the tarps, the oar in question jams into the boat roughly.

“I know you think you’re being funny Henderson,” Steve huffs as he lifts the oar away from the boat, “but considering the fact that everyone in this room has nearly died a hundred times, personally - I don’t find it very funny-”

A sudden movement, the rippling of the tarp, a gutteral roar from the dark sends the party into a frenzy, Steve rips away from the dark shape ambling towards him, he moves in front of Dustin - pushing the teen out of the line of fire, a small gasp of terror tumbles from his open mouth as the creature crashes into Steve.

“Wait, wait, wait, wait!” cries Steve as his body is forced back into the wall of the boat house, a beam from Dustin’s flashlight chaotically spins around him and the person --it's a person he realises, shoves him backwards. 

Steve’s back collides with the corrugated aluminum and his head follows, the crack of his skull reverberates around the room, clashing with the screams from Robin and Max.

It’s Eddie, Eddie holding him against the wall, one hand on the juncture of his shoulder and throat while the other presses the edge of what feels like broken glass to his adams apple. Steve swallows down a whimper and holds up his hands, raising his chin away from the weapon but the glass seems to follow him, Eddie’s hand steady and sure in his grip of Steve. He can vaguely hear Dustin screaming, but the sounds are murky, the ringing in Steve’s ears is loud and lingering.

“-ddie! Eddie! Eddie stop!”

Steve chances a glance to the side, Dustin stands there, trembling, with his arms stretched towards them, Robin and Max stop short behind him. Robin has her own oar in her hands, her knuckles white as she raises the wood up like a sword, a nearly feral look blooms over her face as she holds Steve's gaze. 

Dustin keeps an arm in front of Robin to halt her movement. Max stands frozen, her face twisted into a terrified grimace, the hand holding her flashlight trembles slightly but she manages to keep it fixed on the pair against the wall. 

“Eddie,” Dustin nearly wails, “It’s me, it's Dustin!”

Eddie’s hand moves from Steve's throat to wrap around his shirt, bunching the fabric between sweaty shaking fingers. Eddie raises his fist until it rests against the wall, effectively choking Steve with his own shirt collar. Steve can feel himself shaking as he tries to lift himself up by his tiptoes to lessen the pressure from the fabric on his throat. it wasn’t the first time he’d been threatened with a weapon or even by Eddie himself. 

***

It’s a house party - his own house party, 1984. Steve is moving from the kitchen out to the backyard, through the patio door and onto the cool concrete of the pool area. The yard is bathed in blue shimmering light from the water, steam rises in undulating tendrils as the sun begins to set. Steve suppresses a small wave of nausea at the sight, he hasn’t set foot in the pool since Barb went missing last year, since everything began.

Someone brought the boom box from the living room outside, a soft slow song serenades the yard as people mingle.

‘You say I'm a dreamer, we're two of a kind

Both of us searching for some perfect world we know we'll never find’

There is no one in the pool, about ten kids have crammed themselves into the bubbling hot tub but no one seems brave enough to test the larger swimming pool in the cool evening air. The threat of snow looms in the soft breeze that rolls over the yard. Steve shivers lightly.

It feels strange, for the world to continue on as though there weren’t literal monsters running around their small town just days ago. Steve swallows a grimace and turns away from the pool, he’s close enough to the sliding door that he can keep an ear out for trouble both in and outside his parents house. Last thing he needs is another broken vase or hole in the drywall to explain away to his father. 

It’s been a few days since the incident with Billy, since the night of the Demodogs, a few days since Nancy called him Bullshit, their relationship Bullshit. She’s right, about him. He had thought they were good though, good together - he was trying so hard. Steve brings a red plastic cup to his lips and grimaces when the alcohol burns at the still healing split lip, it's more than he normally drinks, but hey what are parties for? 

‘So perhaps I should leave here

Yeah, yeah, and go far away’

The sound of a body hitting the side of the house and scuffling footsteps in the gravel catch Steve’s attention, along with a few other people in the tub and lounging on the patio furniture, their heads turn towards the darkened corner between the house and the fence before turning away once more. The laughter and conversation continue on unimpeded. 

Steve sighs, his breath billowing away from him, he begins to move towards the source of the commotion. Breaking up a fight was not something he had been looking forward to, especially with the injuries he was currently sporting, but Steve wasn’t about to just let some other kid get their ass handed to them in his own backyard, not if he could help it. 

‘But you know that there's nowhere that I'd rather be than with you here today

Oh, whoa, oh, whoa’

Steve opens his mouth to yell at whoever is behind the house but the words die in his throat. 

He halts abruptly at what he sees, Eddie ‘the Freak’ Munson. 

Eddie Munson, bracketing another man between his arms against the glittery stucco of Steve’s parents house. The sounds of kissing, sloppy and wet, muffled moans disappearing beneath lips and teeth. A pair of hands disappear into Eddie’s curly locks as Eddie steps further into the other man. 

‘Hold me now, whoa

Warm my heart

Stay with me’

Steve steps back, his foot crunches into gravel and dead leaves, startling the pair apart. Steve opens his mouth again but nothing, his throat feels tight and his face grows warm as he looks from one man to the other, no one moves for a moment.

Eddie Munson stares at Steve, with puffy lips, flushed cheeks, and wild hair draped over his shoulders. Eddie Munson, who looks as though he wants to hightail it out of there but not before punching Steve’s lights out. 

The other man, Steve recognizes from school, James, he was a year younger than them but had also been on the swim team with Steve. He was a nice kid from what Steve knew, quiet, but smiley. Perfect white teeth and dimples he’d flash at every swim meet. He was good looking in a casual way, effortless. 

Like James didn’t have to try the way Steve did, the way Steve fixed his hair each morning for an hour straight, the way he chose his clothes - picking from fitted polos and jeans that hugged his ass in the way he knew looked good. James was popular and well liked, people just seemed to gravitate towards him. 

And Steve? 

Steve, whose girlfriend said he was Bullshit, whose former friends had abandoned him the moment he called them out on the cruel things they had done, that he had done, who had been dethroned by Billy Hargrove. 

Steve, who had noticed that girls were also pretty in an effortless way, the same effortless way that James was. 

Steve, who pushed down these thoughts any time they bubbled up to the surface.

James flushes red and tears away from Eddie, he stalks away from the two of them without a backwards glance and disappears into the house. 

Steve, turns back towards Munson and is quickly slammed into the side of the house that James had been tucked against mere moments before, an arm catches him across the throat.

“What are you doing here Harrington?” Eddie snarls in his face, “come to make fun of the freak?”

Steve shakes his head, “No-no, I just thought I heard a fight,” he stammers 

Eddie’s eyes trail over his face, his grin sharpens, “Thought that would be a good idea didja? Cuz King Steve does so well in fights?”

Steve flushes, painfully aware of the cuts littering his face from where Billy had recently smashed him over the head with a plate, “yeah well, I don’t appreciate one happening in my house”.

Eddie barks out a low laugh, “Apologies, my liege, I didn’t realise King Steve was such a champion for the little people.” The laugh is light but there’s a fire in Eddie’s dark eyes as he steps closer and looms over Steve, his arm pressing further into Steve’s throat making it difficult to breathe. 

“If you tell anyone about this, it won’t be a fight you’ll win. I’ll kill you”.

Then Eddie is gone, ripping away from him and moving towards the open back gate, he looks back at Steve once before running out of sight. 

Steve breathes deeply, clutching at his throat, his airway no longer impeded. He takes one, two, three deep breaths each harder than the last as his vision swims with tears. 

Why is he even crying, he lifts a shaking hand and scrubs his face roughly. Because popular, beautiful James, better than Steve could ever be, also liked men? 

Steve falls against the house and slides down the rough stucco, his thoughts racing and tumbling after one another. Thoughts that had remained buried for so long, locked into the farthest corners of his mind.

‘Hold me now, whoa

Warm my heart

Stay with me

Let loving start

Let loving start, whoa’

And Eddie, Eddie who thought Steve had been there to humiliate them, to raise the alarm.

Why was it so hard to breathe?

Steve knows how he used to be, how Tommy and Carol still are, what kind of town Hawkins is. How casually those words could be tossed around, how easy it had been for him to call Jonathan a ‘queer’ and pick a fight last year.

Steve shuts his eyes and lets his head fall against the wall, the sharp slide of stucco grounding as it pinches and scratches his scalp.

He sits outside, alone in the dark, and watches as the sun eventually begins to peek over the horizon. Until his breathing evens out.

***

“This is Steve, he’s not going to hurt you, right Steve”

“Right,” Steve whispers, not chancing a nod with the unrelenting pressure of the broken bottle at his throat, “yup, yup…”

Eddie scoffs, his eyes never leaving Steve’s face, “Yeah, we’ve met, Henderson”. 

“Steve, why don’t you drop the oar?” Dustin says, the even tone betrayed by the volume and speed with which he speaks. Steve swallows again, his heart races against his ribcage. Drop the oar? The only thing he has to defend himself, not that he really stands a chance at this point. Steve looks towards Dustin again and catches the way the kids eyes are shining in the low light. 

He’s terrified. 

Steve breathes in slowly, Dustin has seen him battered and bruised, drugged, and concussed on two separate occasions; he really doesn’t want a third. 

Steve breathes out and drops the oar, the sharp slap of wood against wood seems to startle everyone, including Eddie who presses even further into Steve with his body and the bottle. Steve flinches and cries out as the glass manages to dig sharply into the delicate skin across his windpipe. Dustin, Robin, and Max all cry out in alarm.

Dustin’s voice carries out across the boathouse, “He’s cool, he’s cool!”

“I’m cool man, I’m cool,” Steve echoes staring at Eddie, he can feel tears gathering at his lashline from the pain and terror, “I’m cool,” the last syllable comes out as a whine.

“What are you doing here,” Eddie murmurs, his eyes locked on Steve’s own, his face blank betraying nothing, he’s still pressing into Steve just as he had years ago on that cold November night. 

“We were looking for you,” Dustin yells, his voice cracks, he sounds so young. 

Robin moves closer to him, her hands come up to grasp Dustin’s shoulders as she steers him away and eventually behind her, Max follows letting Robin lead.

“We’re here to help,” Robin says, her voice wavers just slightly.

“Eddie,” Dustin croaks, “they’re my friends, you know Robin --from band!”

Robin noodles a nervous tune into an imaginary trumpet, her hands shake and her eyes dart across Eddie’s face. 

Dustin then pivots to Max, grasping her by the shoulders, “and this is my friend Max, the one who never wants to play D&D”. 

Max raises her arm, gesturing towards herself in a parody of a wave.

“Eddie,” Dustin says softly, pleadingly, “we’re on your side, I swear on my mother, right guys?”

A chorus of yes's explode beside Dustin while Steve mumbles out a hurried, “Yep, on Dustin's mother”.

Eddie's impassive face twitches, Steve’s eyes flutter as the grip on his shirt collar loosens slightly but the press of the bottle remains constant, he thinks back to that threat, that Eddie would kill him without a thought.

“I never said anything, I promise you, I promise,” Steve whispers softly; he can see Dustin in his peripheral, craning his neck to try and listen in, “I promise, please…”

Eddie twitches again, his chin wobbles slightly as he releases Steve and steps back, dropping the bottle which bounces once and rolls into the darkness. 

Steve lets out a long slow breath as he doubles over, one hand comes up to his throat while the other lands on his knee to stop from collapsing altogether. Robin rushes to Steve’s side, her hands move towards him but not before halting with a jerk. 

“Steve, Steve can I touch you?” she whispers softly. 

Steve raises his face to see her, to catch her worried gaze and meet it with his own glazed stare, he nods once. 

“I need to talk to you,” he manages, the words almost catch in his throat. He vaguely registers Dustin speaking to Eddie in low tones, Max hovers beside them worriedly looking between Steve and Dustin.

“What?” Robin laughs out, nervous and stuttering, she reaches out and wraps an arm around his shoulder while her other hand clasps around the hand braced on his knee, “I think maybe we have a few more important things that we need to discuss at the moment”.

“Robin…please,” he grates out, the words are soft but something about the way he shudders seems to help her come to a decision.  

She nods, and helps him stand fully, her arm travels down from his shoulders to his waist, Steve leans into her warmth and breathes in the soft scent of lavender Robin always wears. It's comforting. 

“I’m just going to take Steve to the house, get cleaned up yeah,” Robin calls out brusquely before turning on her heel and leading them to the door. Dustin yells something behind them and moves to leave the boathouse but Max catches him by the arm.

Steve’s stomach churns at the thought of leaving two of his sprogs with an alleged murderer, a drug dealer who literally threatened Steve with death twice now, but Robin’s purposeful steps carry him forward, his body operating on autopilot.

Once inside Reefer Rick’s decrepit house, Robin deposits him on the nearest chair in the kitchen. 

“Okay? Spill dingus”.

Steve sighs, “Robin…do you remember when we escaped the Russians?” she nods sharply, face twists into a confused scowl, “and you told me about Tammy Thompson”.

Robin lifts her hands and swings them out, gesturing for him to continue, “so, what, you gonna confess your undying love for me again Harrington?” Robin grumbles at him, her blue eyes trace over his face as though scanning him for additional information.

“I…I never told you, I’ve never told anyone this,” his thoughts drift back to that cool November evening with music and laughter. 

“Robin, how did you know that…you liked girls?”

She’s silent for a moment, her mouth opening and closing before taking a deep breath and letting it out through her nose, “Steve, are you trying to tell me what I think you’re trying to tell me?”

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, folding his face into his hands, “I-I do like girls, I dated Nancy for almost a year for crying out loud, but…”

“But,” Robin prompts softly

Steve is silent for a moment, before dropping one hand from his face to his knee, the other hand slides into his hair and grips the strands tightly in a painful white-knuckle grip, “but, I do…I mean, I notice things about other guys”. 

Robin nods. She isn’t laughing, she isn’t sneering at him, he’s safe. 

“Steve,” she says slowly after a beat, carefully, “You do know that, it's okay to like both?”

He stares at her, all at once it's as though the oxygen has been sucked out of the room.

“Steve, it's okay, I think you need to breathe, come on breathe, Steve!” she shakes his shoulder a little as he gasps, gulping down breaths like a drowning man. 

“I’m okay,” he laughs out eventually, his voice slightly wet, if Robin notices she doesn’t say anything. 

Steve breathes in deeply and raises his eyes to her own, they’re shining in the low light of Reefer Ricks shitty kitchen, “do you still…”

She flings out a hand to catch him in the shoulder, “of course I still love you, you’re my platonic soul-mate, how could you even think that? Plus it would be pretty hypocritical”.

Steve laughs, “Didn’t even let me finish Buckley,” he stands up from the chair which creaks and groans at the movement. Stepping towards her, he draws Robin into his arms, the barest of smiles crawls over Steve’s face as her own arms come around him tightly, “maybe I was going to say, do you still think I suck?”

Robin snorts, and pinches his side harshly earning a surprised yelp from Steve, “Oh you definitely do, but not for this”. She steps away after one last squeeze and a final jab to his armpit that startles a squawk from him, he half-heartedly bats at her hands with a laugh.

“I’m glad you told me but, what brought this on?” 

The small smile on Steve’s face slips as his gaze lowers to his muddy shoes, he’ll have to hose them off before he gets home, the murmured threat loops around his head on repeat in Eddie’s gravelly voice. 

“Nothing, I just,” he looks up and meets her eyes, “if anything happens to me, I don’t think I could stand knowing I hadn’t told someone, and I’m glad it was you” 

“You sappy asshole,” Robin whispers as she launches herself towards him once more, he catches her easily, “you picked a hell of a time, but I’m proud of you”. 

Steve holds her tightly, letting himself bask in her warmth for just a moment. Though there were times where he wished they could have been more, Steve is thankful to have her in his life in whatever capacity she is comfortable with. 

In his opinion, the title of ‘Platonic Soulmate’ is more than he deserves, but he’ll take it and be grateful for it.

Three successive knocks rail against the door of the kitchen they have sequestered themselves in, Dustin’s muffled voice permeates through the thin glass window, “hey Lovebirds, are you done in there? Move your asses!” 

“Language” Steve shouts at the same time Robin screams, “Fuck off!”

***

It’s all downhill from there as they manage to pass through into the Upside Down. How quickly things deteriorate sets a new record in Steve’s opinion, he’s missing a significant amount of flesh and blood, he’s tired, sore, and dirty. This Upside Down bullshit is becoming a yearly occurrence and he still never feels prepared for it, for the violence and danger that Hawkins has become stepped in. 

The wounds on Steve’s sides throb in time with his pulse now, aggravated from so much movement, he feels hot despite the absence of warmth in this place. The bandages have helped with the sharp sting but not the dull ache inside his torso, he didn’t see how deep the bats had managed to burrow their way into his skin, he's not sure he wants to.

The red lightning flashes don’t seem to permeate the woods they’re travelling through, he can barely make out Nancy, Robin, and Eddie as they make their way through the trees in the grey twilight. 

Steve clears his throat and jogs closer towards Eddie, “hey man, uh, listen, I just uh, I just want to say thanks”. 

Eddie pauses his stride and stares at him.

“For,” Steve stutters, “saving my ass back there, you know,” he shifts on his feet suddenly wishing that vine would come back to claim him before he could say anything else. 

“Shit,” Eddie scoffs, shaking his head, “you saved your own ass man, I mean that was a real Ozzy move you pulled back there”.

“Ozzy?”

Eddie’s head tilts to the side, expression incredulous, “you know, when you took a bite out of that bat…Ozzy Osborn? Black Sabbath? He bit a bat’s head off on stage”.

Steve grimaces, the taste of blood and viscera still clings to his mouth, his tongue, “I don’t--”

“You know?”

“No,” Steve looks away into the trees, he’s not sure who this Ozzy person is, Steve hates not knowing things. 

Eddie scowls, but waves his hand down, “doesn’t matter, it was very,” he pauses and sweeps in front of Steve’s line of sight, “metal what you did, s’all I’m saying”.

“Thanks…” Steve says, trying to ignore the pleased grin Eddie shoots him, complete with dimples. Steve feels his face grow warm as he scans the treeline with his flashlight. 

Remember, he thinks to himself, this man hates you, has threatened you twice now. What do you care if he likes you? The voice sounds eerily like Robin, logical and irritated, he shakes his head slightly as though to dislodge it.

It’s quiet, the only sound is the rustling of dead leaves under their feet. The absence of crickets and cicadas, of owls, or even rodents in the brush is unsettling, the absence of life in the dark.

“Henderson told me you were a badass,” Eddie startles him, reaching out to prod Steve’s bicep with a rigid pointer finger, “insisted on the matter in fact”. 

“Henderson said that?” Steve whispers, surprise colouring his words. The light flush over his cheeks and ears spreads even further, though it's nearly impossible to distinguish in the lowlight.  Steve tamps down the urge to smile at that, biting down on the inside of his cheek, he can feel eyes on him as he steps over a particularly large fallen log and nearly trips on a hidden root. His arms flail out with the effort to remain upright, some badass he curses himself. 

A hand falls on the small of his back, steadies him. Eddie is close, very close all of a sudden, leaning over him. 

“Oh yeah,” Eddie huffs,“that kid worships you dude, like you have no idea, it's kind of annoying to be honest.”

Steve barks out a laugh, wincing at the echo that reverberates around them. Something snaps and skitters in the rotten undergrowth, Steve whirls around with the flashlight towards the source of the noise. 

Eddie stands frozen beside him, neither move for what feels like an eternity. The movement is gone, but the thundering of Steve’s heart against his ribcage beats a striking staccato, he can scarcely hear himself breathe.

“I-I don’t even know why I care what that little shrimp thinks, but uh I guess I got a little jealous, man. I guess I couldn’t accept the fact that Steve Harrington was actually a good dude.”

Eddie continues on, “Rich parents, popular, chicks love him, not a douche? No way man, no way, that like, flies in the face of all the laws in the universe…and my own personal Munson doctrine”

Steve glares into the darkness beyond the trees, of course Eddie would think that, it wasn’t as though he had done anything to disprove it back in his highschool days - the persona had been heavily encouraged in fact by himself and his friends. 

“I mean, I was definitely surprised after that party I crashed many moons ago, that come morning the whole town didn’t know about my little…indiscretion”.

Steve stops, nearly flinging himself back and away from Eddie, “I swear, I never told anyone, I swear--”

“Harrington, calm down, I know, that's what I’m saying,” Eddie says slowly, his voice lowered as he looks ahead towards Nancy and Robin. 

“I wouldn’t,” Steve swallows, resists the urge to breathe the toxic air too deeply, “I wouldn’t do that”.

Eddie raises an eyebrow as the corner of his lip turns up revealing the hint of canines, “Well, colour me surprised at any rate,” he turns and starts walking again, “I figured you just forgot or something,”

“I wouldn’t have forgotten something like that,” Steve mutters before he his brain seems to catch up to his mouth, “I-I mean, I just,”

“Re-lax Harrington, what is with you?”

“I…,” Steve’s legs are frozen, as though he’s been glued to the forest floor, as though the vines have crept over him once again to keep him there forever, “I want you to know, I wouldn’t just do that”.

Eddie’s eyebrows raise, cutting creases across his forehead in deep grooves underneath his curly mop.

“It wasn’t my secret to tell and,” Steve swallows thickly, his throat dry, “I’m not that kind of guy anymore…”

Eddie stares at him, his face shifts back into that passive neutral gaze that Steve is beginning to dread. 

“Yeah,” Eddie says after a moment, “I think I’m getting that.” He stands for a moment longer, his eyes roaming Steve’s face in the same way Robin’s does when she’s trying to analyse him. It’s decidedly more stressful coming from Eddie.

“Come on,” Eddie murmurs, clapping Steve’s shoulder, “we need to catch up”. He gestures to Robin and Nancy who have stopped just ahead of them, Nancy has her hands on her hips - the picture of impatience. Eddie grins at him before slowly jogging towards the girls, leaving Steve alone with his thoughts.

Steve catches Robin’s eyes, her head is cocked to the side, staring at the pair of them as Eddie comes closer and closer towards herself and Nancy, her expression is wary but curious. 

Steve sighs and shakes his head, imploring her to understand, ‘I’ll tell you later’.

By some miracle she does, answering him with a shake of her own that says, ‘You better dingus’.

***

It’s over. Vecna is finally dead.

Steve curls an arm around Robin’s shoulders as they stumble out of the Creel house with Nancy in tow. They stand around the burning corpse that had once been Henry Creel, white cinders spit and cascade into the dirt at their feet; after everything they’ve gone through, it feels like they can finally breathe again. 

Steve watches as Nancy steps past the body leaving him and Robin beside the dying embers, squinting through the black smoke that emanates in a putrid cloud.

“Steve! Robin, come on, we have a plan!” Nancy barks sharply over her shoulder, she continues walking with sure strides away from the nightmare behind them. 

Robin rolls her eyes, “Does she ever chill?”

A nervous laugh tumbles out of Steve’s mouth before he can stop it, laughter felt almost wrong in this place, even now, “You don’t know Nancy Wheeler,” he says softly with a shake of his head. He tightens his grip on Robin’s shoulders and pulls her away from the corpse on the ground. 

“Yeah, no shit,” Robin scoffs, “who’d’ve thought Miss Nancy Drew would turn out to be John Rambo in disguise”.

A small lopsided grin spreads over Steve’s face as they make their way from the house and down the road where Nancy has stopped just ahead, but Robin suddenly freezes and tugs at his shoulder. 

“Steve is that…”

He stops, there is crying coming from just ahead of them, the sound reverberates down the empty street.

“Steve!? Robin!”

Nancy’s voice cuts through the air, an urgency he hasn’t heard since the day Steve found her and Jonathan with bloody palms and a pistol in the Buyers old house, gooseflesh breaks out over his arms at the sound. 

Steve steps towards Nancy, the sound of crying grows louder, clearer, he knows that voice…

He runs now, cursing the flimsy Nikes he’d worn a thousand times, the splitting soles never a problem before, nearly causing him to tumble into the cracked pavement. He can hear Robin take off, hot on his heels behind him.

It’s Dustin. Dustin screaming Eddie’s name. 

Steve skids to a sudden halt at the scene in front of them, his throat constricts at the sight of Dustin cradling Eddie’s head in his lap, the other’s large brown eyes are open but unfocused, the lids at half mast. His face is smeared with blood. 

Steve vaguely registers Nancy speaking, something about no pulse, a question about how long he’s been like this. Everything is muffled, its as though he’s underwater again, being pulled down by a twisted vine into Hell a second time. 

There’s so much blood, it clings to the air around them making Steve’s stomach roll and twist.

“Steve,” Nancy says fiercely, her voice cracked and scraped with stress, “Steve are you listening?”

Steve nods and steels himself, brusquely pushing past Nancy and Robin. 

He knew what to do.

He'd learned CPR during his Lifeguard days, it had been mandatory - and a no brainer the summer of 82, especially when a simple two day course allowed him the luxury of lounging around in the sun, rising with the social tide around him in his ‘King-Steve’ hey-day.

He shakes his head abruptly to toss the memory aside, focus dip-shit, his inner Robin snarls. 

“Dustin, give him here,” Steve says, voice smooth and cool, belying the nervous tremor that runs through his hands as he kneels beside his young friend. 

“No, what, what are you going to do?” Dustin whimpers as tears run freely down his cheeks, he clutches Eddie’s shoulders and face, twisting away from Steve with a wild look in his blue eyes.

Steve raises his hands, palms up, and leans back, allowing him space, “Dustin,” he repeats firmly, “I can help, but I need you to trust me, can you do that ? There isn’t a lot of time.”

Robin, seeming to understand, steps forward as well and kneels down to Dustin’s eye level, “I’ll help get him on the ground, Dustin just give him to us,” she reaches for Eddie’s bloody shoulder, only for the body to jerk away from her fingertips. 

“No!” Dustin shouts, the sound spills wetly from his lips as he bites back another sob, “no, I c-can’t,”

Steve opens his mouth to say something, his patience nearly at its end when Nancy suddenly stands to her full height, which isn’t admittedly much, and squares her shoulders. She steps into Dustin’s space, shushing him as she pulls Dustin’s arms away from Eddie’s still form, allowing for Robin and Steve to manoeuvre Eddie to the ground. 

Dustin’s yelling and cursing melts into the background as Steve hunches just above Eddie's face and places a hand on his chest before moving his hand to the pulse point on his bloody neck.

Not breathing and no pulse, okay…okay…he knew this, he could do this. 

Steve sits back up on his knees and places both hands on Eddie's chest, one on top of the other. He laces his fingers together and begins to press sharply down, keeping his arms steady and his hands directly below his shoulders. 

Steve begins counting, just under his breath, out of the corner of his eye he see’s Robin lift her watch to her eye-line. Good, someone should be keeping time --not that anyone was on their way to help them at this point…

Thirty compressions fly by, he quickly pinches Eddie’s nose and holds his chin still before bending down to press his chapped lips to Eddies. He blows two steady breaths into the other man's mouth before sitting up and continuing the process over once again.

“How long?” Robin asks faintly beside him, her eyes flick between her watch and Eddie’s face.

“Two minutes,” he breathes out in between counts. 

Dustin has stopped crying, allowing for Nancy to steer him to the side to let Steve work. 

Dustin limps as they move as a unit, unable to put his full weight on his left leg. Sporadic sniffling cuts through the sounds of Steve’s counting and the rhythmic pace of his compressions.

A thin bead of sweat rolls down his temple as he bends down to breath for Eddie, “Come on, come on Munson,” Steve whispers. 

He loses track of his breaths; has it been 10 sets? 13?

He feels lightheaded, his arms ache, but he has to keep going.

Robin shifts beside him, “Steve, Steve, come on, you’re going to make yourself pass out--”

“No,” Steve hisses sharply as he sits up once more, “not another one, I swear to God Munson if you die on me I’m going to kill you myself!”

Something cracks below him, Steve flinches at the sound of shifting bone, oh god, oh god, his class had been warned that this could happen, the pressure and the depth of the compressions could cause ribs to break. 

“Steve?! What the fuck?!” Robin screeches as Dustin shoots to his feet at the sound and immediately crumples with a pained yelp. Nancy swoops an arm behind the younger boy, catching him before he can fully hit the ground. Dustin tries to limp towards Steve and Eddie, the curses and yelling renew themselves with interest, but Nancy’s arms hold firm around him.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers, horrified, “Fuck, I--”

A small groan startles the four of them into silence. Eddie groans again while his eyes flutter slightly. 

“Oh thank Christ,” Steve says, his arms burn from the exertion, his muscles twitch from phantom motion, but that does nothing to stop him from swiftly gathering Eddie into his arms and standing. The twin wounds on his sides throb in time with his heartbeat underneath his bandages, everything feels warm and wet underneath his gear, but he can’t tell if it's sweat or if he’s bleeding again.

 “This isn’t ideal, but we need to keep him stable and get him to a hospital,” Steve manages through a groan, he shifts Eddie in his arms to adjust the weight briefly, “Nance, lead the way.”

Nancy nods and turns away before heading down the road towards the open gate waiting for them. Dustin takes the opportunity to break free from her grasp and hobbles towards Steve, fresh tear tracks cut paths through the dirt smeared over his cheeks. 

Robin steps in front of him with her arms out, “Woah boy, steady, let’s just get to the gate. Gate then hospital, doofus,” she says with uncharacteristic softness. 

Dustin shakes his head wildly and attempts to step around her, but Robin holds her ground and catches his shoulders, forcing him to look at her.

“Now, Dustin, move it or lose it,” she growls, gently spinning him around and forcing him to follow Nancy as she loops a steady arm around his back to keep him steady. Dustin’s expression is mutinous but he says nothing; fatigue begins to win its battle with the adrenaline coursing through their collective veins. 

Robin looks back at Steve, eyebrows pinched together as she scans his face. 

He nods through the silent conversation.

“Later, Rob,”

“I’ll hold you to that Asshole.”

They don’t talk later.

(Will be posting this in parts, let me know if you enjoyed chapter one!)

Part Two Up Now!

Part Three Up Now!

[daddyhausen]

｡ ･ : ˚ : ✧ ｡ 「 UNDER THE DESK 」 ｡ ･ : ˚ : ✧ ｡

「 MASTERLISTS 」 | 「 AEW MASTERLIST 」 | 「 ADAM COLE MASTERLIST 」

「 COMMISION INFO 」 | 「 LIKE MY WORK? BUY ME A COFFEE — KOFI — DXDDYHXUSEN 」

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「 WORD COUNT 」 — 3k

「 GENRE 」 — smut

「 WARNINGS 」 — smut, 18+ [ minors do not interact ], teasing, oral sex [ male receiving ], throat fucking, choking, dirty talk, degradation, vaginal sex, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, male + female orgasms, multiple orgasms, squirting, vaginal creampie, internal cumshot

「 PAIRING 」 — fem!reader x adam cole

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「 TAGLIST 」 — @cosmoholic13 @thewrestlingbitch @omg-im-such-a-masochist @adamjf @wardlow @alexisquinnlee-bc @sammiejane22 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @omegasluvbot @melissahausen @writtingrose @drummergrl1310 @unoficialy-married-to-ace-austin @bonehead-playz @cherrytheeredheadmamaclaymore @crowleysqueenofhell @romanreigns-supreme @janetreader @thenerdybaker523 @sunshinevirus @nicoleveno14 @rubyred1980 @igncrxntripley @ripleyswhore @embermdk @thepalaceofmelanie @violetmacher @seeingstarks @kennysbadkitten @darkangelchronicles @ripleyswife @selena-tyler-564 @auburnwrites

「 BETA READERS 」 — @allelitesmut + @legit9thlunaticwarrior

「 COMMENT IF YOU WANT TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST 」

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the temptation was there, burning like a fire in the pit of your belly, a pulsating thrum between your thighs. feeling yourself grow increasingly wet as adam’s crotch was practically centimetres away from your lips. adam had not noticed you yet, for you had positioned yourself under his desk a mere ten minutes before he started streaming. it had been an hour and a half since he began. that’s all he seemed interested in now days. those stupid video games. although in all honesty, your thoughts weren’t truthful. you did not consider them stupid per say, you rather enjoyed them yourself on occasion. just now, it would seem that adam has become far too preoccupied with them, and quite frankly, you did not enjoy the lack of attention. 

with shaky fingertips, you outstretched your hand, hesitating for a moment, debating your actions. would it seem too obvious for his viewers? would they notice him getting all aroused and worked up? although adam was very competent in controlling himself. you peered up at him from beneath the desk, just catching a glimpse of those arctic blues, so fixated on the screen, lost in pure concentration. a small whisper of profanity left his lips, one of which he had caught himself, blinking awkwardly at the camera for a moment with a small chuckle following soon after.

slowly, you outstretched your hand further, fingertips gingerly toying with the ties to his sweatpants, allowing your skin to become familiar with the material, tugging slightly as the loops became undone. adam had now noticed the subtle movement beneath his desk, the feminine hand now resting delicately at the waistline of his sweatpants. he gave a small glare of warning, unnoticed to his viewers, but fully intended for you.

“don’t you dare…”

he muttered under his breath, pulling back away from his microphone just in case they were to hear. you halted your movements for a second, merely batting your eyelashes in faux innocence. the lack of attention left you needy, so needy in fact that not even masturbation could cure it, and by god you have tried countless times over the course of the last two or so months. 

your craved human contact, the feeling of his lips on yours, his fingers between your thighs, tongue as well. you missed the intimacy, the roughness, the warmth, the comfortable silence that followed moments after. you missed him. propping yourself up on your knees, finding your lover staring down between his thighs for a second too long, too enamoured but the sight of you palming his clothed cock that he had completely lost focus on his game, his character dying in the process. 

he peered up to his screen quickly, acting as if it were an honest mistake on his part. all the while silently cursing you in the back of his mind while trying to regain himself. you gave a toothy grin at your boyfriend predicament, carelessly pulling his sweatpants down, freeing his cock from the restraint of his boxers

you admired the sight for a moment, how hard and heavy he felt in your palm, the soft thrum of arousal that pulsed through his shaft, just begging to be tamed. doe-like eyes fluttered up to meet his gaze, although he was not fixated on you, but the screen once more. his knuckles were pale in comparison to the rest of his hand, turning bone white in contrast to the rosy pink hue of his natural skin tone, fingers contorted around the controller with a tight grip. 

you let your tongue roll out past your lips, your breath tickled the tip of his cock, the flat of your tongue licking hot stripes up and across the head, across the veins that littered his shaft, like small peaks in his skin. a soft grunt escaped his clenched teeth as he remained silent during a particularly hard portion of the game. the game wasn’t the only thing that was hard alright. allowing your fingertips to wrap around the base of his shaft, you slowly began to pump his length, lips wrapping around the tip of his cock, feeling the soft pulse against the inside of your cheek 

“angel…”

he warned sternly, words kept intentionally quiet, feeling himself slowly giving into the temptation. and by god as much as he wanted to fuck you then and there, make a mess of you on camera with thousands of his viewers to see, he refrained, simply enduring such sweet torment. your response to this warning was to simply take him deeper down your throat, effectively mocking his simple use of your pet name.

it was the most exhilarating feeling, knowing that thousands of people were watching, yet they were none the wiser of what was happening just a few inches below the lens. honestly it turned you on a lot more than it should have, adam can second that feeling, trying his best to remain calm with such arousal burning through his veins. 

he gave in for a moment, placing a firm hand on the back of your head, out of frame, pushing your head down, his cock sinking deeper down your throat, he gave a choked moan in pleasure, quickly silencing himself before his viewers became too suspicious. spit gathered at the corners of your lips, silently choking on his size, although you did adore the sensation, the tightness of your throat, the suffocating feeling of air being trapped in your lungs, the helplessness of it as your mind became cloudy with a mild dizzy spell

if the lustful torment prevailed any longer, you surely would have passed out. adam without diverting his eyes from the screes, wrapped your hair around his hand, reminiscent of a faux ponytail, tugging your head up, all the while you tried to subdue your chokes and sputters, albeit to no avail. he muted his microphone for a moment, leaning down just of frame. 

“my angel, why are you so needy at the most inconvenient times?” 

his question accentuated with a small cock of his left brow, the tattoo on his forearm barely visible in your peripherals as the grip on your hair tightened 

“maybe if you’d pay more attention to me than we wouldn't be in this situation”

a small sliver of a smirk curled in the corners of your lips, definitely feeling that you’d won him over, hoping finally that he’d be done with these stupid games for today and absolutely ruin you until the sun rose the next morning. 

adam’s gaze hardened, his lips pursed into a thin line, accentuated by the small quiver of his jaw, baby blues cold and pierced through your gaze like a dagger penetrating supple skin. the action was subtle but noticeable nevertheless. 

“just for that…”

he mentioned, drawing out his scenance to emphasise his words. 

“you can choke on my cock” 

his movements were now quick, forceful. pushing your head down once more, this time not relenting with the force once his cock was nestled deep in the back of your throat. he reammerged from under the desk again, his viewers commenting on the lack of sound, of which he retorted with faux confusion, stating that there had been a mild audio era on his end after unmuting his microphone. he kept a forearm form against the back of your head, still keeping your lips wrapped around his shaft all the while continuing to play his game. 

the sensation was pure heaven. the lack of air made your brain spin once more, vision cloudy and thoughts absent. nails clawing into the exposed skin of his thighs just above where his sweatpants rested. a defiant need for air, you forced your head up against his forearm, but he was not relenting. his hips thrusted upward suddenly, merely making it seem like he was adjusting himself in his chair. his cock forced its way into the back of your throat, layers of spit coating his shaft, seeping down your chin and neck.

“fuck…angel…”

he gave a muted groan under his breath, feeling himself near his end. adam’s palms grew clammy, a noticeable sweat began to settle at his hairline and his breathing became increasingly erratic. without warning, his spilt over, warmth flooding your throat with such euphoria, one of which had your eyes rolling into the back of your skull as he finally allowed you up for air. 

with shallow, breathless gasps, you managed to swallow what little of his seed had not spilled from your mouth. peering up at him through glossy eyes, cheeks tear and cum stained. he kept you wanting more, like an ever looming erotic curse that left you with the insatiable need for his cock. he apologised to his viewers, stating that he would have to end the stream early. he kept his bubbly persona up until the screen had turned black and the camera now turned off. 

he turned to you, a soulless express caught across his handsome features. he stood up, cock still half-erect, free from the waistband of his sweatpants. the grip on your scalp returned, a much stronger force than previously, it was as if the previous scenario had some kind of dominant awakening in him, nevertheless, it aroused you. 

“you got some nerve, my angel…”

his voice remained stern, far from the sweet charm adam’s voice usually held.

“you want my cock that bad huh?”

a frantic, almost impatient nod was all you could seem to muster, despite adam’s tightening grip. he made no effort to continue his little interrogation further, simply guiding his cock back to your lips, the veins atop his knuckles, were raised and bulging, faint blue undertones is his tanned skin. there was some effort made on his part, some force used pushing his tip past your swollen lips, glazing the puffy, petal-shaped buds with pre-cum. although he was met by some resistance on your part, still trying to recover and catch your breath from the previous assault on your throat. still, it did not deter adam’s motives, if anything it made him more determined, more aroused with the sound of gags and whimpers around his size.

“take all of it…be a greedy little whore”

adam grunted through gritted teeth, his size slowly disappearing past your lips and down your throat. 

his hips snapped forward roughly, suddenly, giving you no time whatsoever to adjust to his reckless movements. both his hands locked in your hair, the sensation of his fingers against your scalp, holding your head still as he fucked your throat raw. you simply could not describe it, it was a mixture of feelings, a cacophony of sensations running through you. it felt effortless on his end, the way he managed to slip into your throat with such ease, quite literally taking your breath away for a few seconds before allowing you to come up for air. there was a sting at the back of your throat, each time his tip hit there, not necessarily pain or discomfort per say, but it was strong, it had you gasping, begging though silent, teary-eyed stares, batting thick, wet eyelashes innocently awaiting seed. 

“my angel, you’re such a good little cockwhore” 

adam’s voice was a mere puddle of sound in your ears, melding with the wet, sticky sounds of your mouth, spit coating his shaft much as it did under his desk, the sloshing sound only adding to the dreamy entrancement . your eyes rolled back with the force of his thrusts accompanied but a harsh singular slap to your cheek. he knew your mouth could not take much more punishment, even in the short time between now and the previous encounter, and frankly, he had had enough of your mouth for one night, wanting nothing more than to fill your warm, dripping cunt with his size. 

“fuck…”

adam did not announce his orgasm, nor did he warm you. he freed your mouth from his size, large globs of spit and pre-cum dripped down your chin and onto your shirt, the stains making the fabric even more sheer, revealing patches of your pristine skin underneath. his hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, your spit an impromptu lubricant as he jerked himself off. his grunts and growls echoing around his office, bouncing off the thin walls with a low and guttural vibrato, one all too similar to that familiar thrum of lust between your thighs. 

he bit his bottom lip, teeth sinking into the supple flesh upon his release. his body felt weightless, bracing a hand upon his desk to stabilise himself. his cum met your skin in spurts of white, face glossy and glowing under moonlight. sticking your tongue out, greedily trying to savour every last drop of him. adam’s chest rose and fell slowly with heavy breaths, a slight quiver in his movements, having drained himself twice down your throat. with a shaky finger his directed you to sit upon his gaming chair 

“strip first…”

he mentioned breathlessly, leaning back against his desk for a moment. the arousal still continued to pool between your thighs, your panties definitely drenched at the sight of him. 

far too eager for his cock, you stripped with haste, quickly prying your now spit and cum stained baby pink crop top from your skin, revealing your bare breasts underneath, adam caught himself staring for a moment, like any other time he say you naked, having no shame in admiring the supple mounds of flesh. with a more seductive movement, you bent down in front of him, more methodically sliding down your panties, your cunt soaked and glistening under the ring light he had set up on his desk, knowing full well that adam was staring and definitely enjoying the view. you kneeled upon the seat of his gaming chair sticking your ass out and wiggling it playfully, supporting your weight by leaning slightly into the back of the chair, propping your forearms into the armrests, stabilising your movements.

in your peripherals, adam was still sharing, rather unashamedly at your ass and glistening cunt. a mere innocent chuckle left your lips, arching your back so he could gain a better view. 

“are you gonna stand there and stare at me all night or are you gonna fuck me?” 

your claim was rather bold considering your submissive nature, adam rarely expected any sort of back talk or taunt from you. his eyes shot up to yours, quickly reasserting the dominance he had casually dropped for a second or two. noticing his cock twitch in his palm, blood rushed to his now erect shaft, veins pumping in a fit of lust. he was methodical with his movements, simply positioning himself behind your, hands guiding your hips back, teasing your entrance with the tip of his cock, offering a rough smack to your ass just for good measure.

“you’ve got a lot to answer for, my angel” 

he pressed his hips against yours, his thick cock guiding itself into your warmth without so much as a warning. he held himself in your cunt, effectively cockwarming him. adam revealed in the pleasure for a moment, the soft thrum of your cunt pulsed around his cock in short intervals, making his senses spiral out of control, he wanted to draw this out, make you wait, beg and earn him. yet despite these urges, the overwhelming need to fuck some respect and obedience into was one he simply could not ignore.

he gave a single rough thrust, much like he had done when he was stuffed down your throat, holding himself in your tight cunt as you whimpered and begged for more, completely shredding any faux dominance you held previously. 

“you gonna behave, angel? gonna be an obedient little slut for me?”

you gave a small nod, barely noticeable if he were not looking, the sensation of his erect cock, lying still in your cunt made you swirl your hips back against his, just in desperate need for movements adam remained quiet, taking another fist full of your hair, the strand becoming knitted and tangled around his fingertips. he moved with brute force, skin rippling with the contact, the sound heated, filthy and erotic, it was the perfect scenario.

his mind was in a daze, as was yours, although adam still had some awareness, whereas your mind was completely void of thought, the only things on your mind were his cock, his cum and your inevitable orgasm.

“your cock is so fucking big, sir! it feels so good!!” 

your words muttered and muffled with spit and cum, face pressed into the headrest of his chair. your mind empty of all thought, just the way you, and most importantly, he liked it. a dumb little cockwhore is all you were. through mindless movements your hips shot back against his cock, taking each inch with more precision and each than the last. your screams were heavenly, it was as if he had died and risen once more. he surely knew the neighbours would file a noise complaint.

“take every inch baby, this cock is all yours…” 

adam grunted, fingertips of his left hand wrapping around the plump skin of your hips, tightening his grip as he pulled you back against him, small splotches of colour embedded where his fingertips laid.

“oh, fuck fuck fuck !”

your cries were met with an animalistic growl resonating deep within adam’s chest, your juices gushed around his size, dripping down the back of your thighs as your cunt convulsed and contracted around his shaft unannounced. adam did not care that his chair had effectively been ruined, he could always clean it or buy another if need be. he could not take his eyes away from your sweet pussy, still gushing sweetness down his shaft, it was purely intoxicating.

he remained silent, burying himself deep inside your warmth, emptying his seed into your tight cunt, draining himself for the third and final time tonight. 

“god your cunt feels so good full of my cum, baby…”

adam spoke breathlessly, admiring the way your thighs quivered, still coming down from your orgasm, barely managing to keep yourself up. 

“go get in the shower, my angel. i’ll meet you in there”

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[thetruearchmagos]

The Commonwealth Calls

An Excerpt: Steel Clad Coffins

Right, from the moment I posted that earlier blurb I knew I had some ideas for what comes next, but I've finally found the time to write it out!

Here's the previous excerpt, strongly recommend reading that before this.

Tagging @theprissythumbelina @oddcryptidwrites @caxycreations @hessdalen-globe @nerdexer

@vyuntspakhkite-l-darling @avrablake

Goyan’s hussars were getting their hits in while the sheer shock of their arrival let them, but it wasn’t long before that cover wore off.

A bright spark lit up from a second floor window, and another came from the first ridge, now behind them. “Contact, launchers!” came the cry over the net, and the squadron’s mad dash screeched to a halt. The building housing the first launch crew disintegrated under a salvo of 1st Platoon’s guns, and with its guidance suddenly cut-off it cartwheeled into the dirt. The second carried on, closing the distance rapidly and slamming against the shields of one of Second Platoon’s tracks.

A loud bang and black-and-red blast erupted from the impact. The shield failed, and a great blue arc streamed out from its turret-mounted projector to fill the air above it. Sparks flew from the turret, and an electric whine carried over the battlefield.

The vehicle’s comrades fired back in reply, and that crew didn’t get a second shot off either.

“Barker-Chief,” Goyan let out through gritted teeth, taking in the carnage. “Hang back with Two and sort out a repair with the Trains when they catch up. One and Three, carry on as planned, but keep an eye on Maladh while we’re still close.”

“Clear on, Lead,” came Schafer’s reply. “They’ll be about ten minutes, though, plus however long it takes to fix the shield up.”

“Then it’ll take ten minutes.” Goyan didn’t want to waste an armtrack she didn’t have to, or its crew. “Carry on, and keep an eye out on the town in case we’ve got any more lucky bastards.”

Third Platoon was already advancing under the cover of First, and as her Executive Officer parted ways Goyan followed. Jeong’s squadron was just beginning to emerge from the other side of the town, and along the main road through it rose pillars of black smoke to mark the fuming path of destruction he’d had left in his wake.

“This is Wheezer-Lead, we have neutralised Objective One,” Jeong soon called in. “Softskins, transports, and some equipment confirmed knocked out, but there might be some stragglers, Clear.”

“Understood Wheezer,” came Shah’s reply. “Carry on with Barker towards Objective Two. Gasper, begin clean up, Clear.”

“Clear on.”

Even before his reply, Goyan could see Osman’s sipahis crest the ridge amidst her target’s burning wrecks, dismounting troopers and taking prisoner anyone still alive. It’d be a while longer before they caught up with the main advance, but no one fancied another missile up their tail pipe.

[inlovewhithafairytale]

He was only 17

Cigarette daydream You were only seventeen Soft speak with a mean streak Nearly brought me to my knees. -Cage the Elephant

Summary: Yn tried to save Newt, but she wasent fast enough.

Warnings: Newt dies all over again.

This wasent meant to be part of the plan. Yn wasent supposed to be in the plane without Thomas, Newt and Minho. They were supposed to be there already.

The teenage girl sat inside the plane biting her thumb, a custom she had taken from Newt, worried for the boys.

The city was on fire and the plane was full of children. Thankfully Jorge and Vincent where there or Yn would have already been in the city looking for the missing gladers with Brenda at her side.

She had in her hand a vial of the cure for newt and with every minute that passed she grew more worried.

"Yn it's going to be alright they're going to get here" Brenda said trying to calm her down, but Yn could see that she was just as worried as she was.

"Yeah but are they going to get here in time?" Yn muttered and Brenda just gave her a gentle squeeze in her shoulder.

Yn was a handful of nerves waiting for her boys to come back. She needed to give Newt the cure. She needed him alive with her. Yn loved Newt more than she loved life itself and if anything happened to her boy, she wouldn't know what to do.

Out of nowhere two bodies seemed to run toward the plane and Brenda instantly had her hand on her gun, ready to fire if they were cranks, but to Yn's relief it was minho and Gally that came running toward them.

When yn saw that neither Thomas or newt were with them she let out a shaky breath and ran to meet them.

"What's wrong? Were are Thomas and Newt?" Yn asked minho as she put her hand in his arm. As a form of greeting.

"Hurry, get the cure we need to get it to newt, they're waiting for us" Gally answered before Minho could say anything.

Yn didnt waste time and ushered Gally to lead her toward Newt. Brenda closely behind her as well as minho who Yn felt sure was weak because of everything W.C.K.D had done to him. But right now she couldn't really worry about anyone else other than Newt.

She willed her body to go faster as she ran through the last city. They ran between cranks that had not yet past the gone but where just as mad as if they had. Yn felt the heat of the fire surrounding them, but the adrenaline in her blood made her block out all the sounds surrounding her and she had eyes only for gally that was infront of her. Then gally turned into an open piazza and suddenly halted. Yn ran next to him and then she saw Thomas with tears in his eyes look at her and then look at the ground. She looked at the floor and she wanted to die at the sight before her.

She felt her hands shake as she brought them up to her face in shock. She didn't even notice how Thomas had turned around ready to kill Ava Paige and take down W.C.K.D. she didn't notice how Minho stood beside her as she felt hot tears fall down her cheeks. She slowly walked toward Newts body in the ground. Her hand squeezing the vial that was meant to save his life. She saw his lifeless eyes staring to the sky and the knife that was sticking from his chest. She willed herself to wake up from this nightmare. But the pain she felt when she fell on her knees next to him, told her that it was real.

"No, no, no. C'mmon please, oh God no" she sobbed as she looked down at Newt dead body.

She felt a strong pair of arms surrounded her and held her as she shaked out sobs.

"NO!!! I was supposed to save him!" Minho had tears streaming down his cheeks as he held Yn. He knew Newt would want him to be there for her. The girl he loved more than life. Minho knew that Newt and Yn had loved each other since the first time they catched eyes. He had been the one who had pushed them to tell each other their feelings and was proud of how the two of them became inseparable. But he had never though he'd be the one to be holding Yn as she cried the death of one of Minhos closest friends.

"I was meant to save him, I was supposed to be here for him, GODDAMMIT!' Yn cried as she felt a peace of her heart being torn apart. She had promised him.

"Love we are going to save Minho that's the mission" Newt had gently whispered into Yn's ear sending goosebumps through her body.

"Well I'll make it my mission to save you" Yn told him pulling back and looking him in the eye. Her own sweeled with tears. "I CANT lose you baby. I can't."she whispered up to him trying to keep the tears at bay.

Newt had tears streaming down his face as he looked down at Yn who was trying to take the news on so bravely." You know I'd never leave you" he said wiping his tears away.

"Does everyone else know?" Yn gently asked him after a few minutes of silence. In which they stood. Holding each other's hands and yn resting her face against Newts chest.letting the silent tears flow.

"I wanted you to know first." He answered bringing his hand up and wiping Yns tears away." I know that when we go out there we're going to be so bugging busy and I wanted to spend more time with you.

That was was Yn needed most. More time. More time to be in each other's arms. More time to talk. More time to kiss. More time to grow old together. She couldn't imagine living a life where Newt wasn't next to her every morning. Without him to hold her at nights.

Her train of though would have gone on and on if Newt hadn't stopped her by gently bringing their lips together. The kiss was soft and full of grief, it brought back memories of their time together, the joy the sorrow, the intimacy they had shared through the 2 years they had found each other. Yn brought her hand up to newts cheek as newt brought his arms around her waist. Their lips moving in sync as they let all the feeling that they had for each other pour into that one kiss.

When they pulled back for air. Newt gently kissed her forhead with his slightly swollen lips. And took both of her hands in his.

"I know we have a lot in our minds, but would you care to dance with me the same way we danced back in the Glade?" He asked her with a small smile.

"You know I would dance with you anytime love" was her response. And putting one arm round his shoulder, one of newts securely around her waist, and bringing their intertwined hands together they began to dance to a random music they silently hummed.

" I promise you Newt. I'll save you." Yn whispered as she rested her head against his shoulder.

"You already have" he gently whispered into her hair. "Then I'll save you against stubbornly replied."you know I love you so."

After a while Minho knew it was time for them to go.

"C'mmon Yn we need to go" he whispered

"No, I can't. I can't live him." She cried pulling herself away from minho." I promised him. I promised him that I'd take him home. That we'd grow old together"

Miho turned to see Brenda and Gally crying as well. But buildings were falling and if they didn't get to the plane now, they'd die.

"Minho we need to go" Gally told him wiping his tears away.

Minho nodded and took yns arm.

"Yn we need to go. It's what Newt would have wanted you to do." He gently told the crying girl.

Yn seemed to have though it through because she stiffly nodded and stood up. Minhos arm around her. They began walking away. And before they turned a corner. Yn looked back.

"I can't live him." She said as she turned around. But Minho kept a firm grip in her arm.

"Yn listen to me. We need to go before the city comes crashing down on us." Minho told her gently but firmly.

"But you don't understand Minho" yn sobbed out " he was only 17"

Minhos eyes filled with tears again but he took Yn in his arms and started walking with Gally and Brenda toward the plane.

Yn fighted at first. But she soon stopped, her body shaking with sobs.

When they reached the plane. It only took one look at Yn and Jorge and Vince knew that Newt had died. Minho set her in a seat at the front and sat beside her. Holding her hand.

To Yn everything was a blur. She didn't know what was happening. She just sat there. Numb. With tears flowing constantly down her face. She didn't notice how she almost lost another friend as W.C.K.D's main building fell. Or how Thomas passed out from blood loss not to far away from her. But she noticed that she fell asleep at one point and she didn't really want to wake up.

But she did. She woke up in a small bed. Sunlight streaming down her face. And the smell of sea filled her senses. But what she noted wasn't that. What she noted was that there was an empty space beside her in the bed. And that there was an empty space in her heart.

That she knew would never be hole again.

So this is it. My first Maze runner imagine. I cried while I wrote this. It really hurt. But I hope you guys like it. And if it did hurt. If only a little. Please like.

[mthollowell-writes]

Day 19: Hunter 31 Days of Horror

It hunted at night so he slept during the day. At early dusk as the sky burned gold, he hunted for his meal. He caught a hare and bled it with care. He used his sharp knives to skin its tawny fur from the meat beneath and processed it into a stew, bulked with foraged roots and river water. He thanked God for his meal and supped by the fire until the sun went down.

He had to move. He threw dirt on the flames. Light attracted the beast that hunted him. He needed to walk away from the moon. He trumped through the thicket of trees, twigs snapping under his boots. The owls hooted and the insects stirred. Their midnight chorus was a pleasant sound to his wearied heart. He has not known a human voice in ages. He’s been running for a while. He did not know how long. The ache of his bones was the only way he could trace time in his isolation. The stain of his sin ran too deep. He was once a hunter of great renown. His skills were envied and his services always in high demand. But on one job, he killed something he shouldn’t have. He remembered the green meadow where he found his forbidden bounty. In the middle was a young fawn whose pelt was a golden yellow under the light of the sun. His bow was true as it buried itself deep in its flank and it dropped dead without a sound. As he bloodied its innocent body to extract its fur as a gift to his king, a curse descended on the land. Brambles sprang from the ground and the fallow soil poisoned any potential life. On top of it all, he’s been hunted by the fawn’s aggrieved mother ever since. He heard humming in the distance and found himself following the melody. He stopped dead in a moonlit clearing bordered by a shallow stream. A red capped girl squatted by the water, catching her fill in a wooden pail. She hummed a sweet song, oblivious to his approach. He called for her, his throat coated in dust. Her eyes went wide when she saw him standing there. She screamed and ran into the darkness. The dirt drank its fill of the water she cast aside in her escape. Quiet blanketed him again. An unnatural one. The insects stopped their chatting and the animals halted their banter. A sick feeling overtook his back. He turned and met the many eyes of the monster. The grieving doe made a monster of herself to avenge her lost child. The hunter reached for the knife in his belt. The doe opened its long jaw and lunged.

[pinkpoweredpunk]

---

[ATTACHED: A video. Rotom is hurriedly following after Blake as they turn and dash down a dark city alleyway, King jogging along their side at an equal pace.

Before long, they exit the alley and arrive at a what looks like a long abandoned office building, the concrete foundation slowly falling into disrepair and moss crawling up its sides. Blake skids to a halt and pants at they catch their breath, eyeing up the structure like they know they've arrived at the belly of the beast. Rotom turns a little, and you notice a few Plasma Grunts stationed at the entrance conversing. Blake waves a hand towards Rotom and King, gesturing for them to follow, before they duck down behind the shelter of a nearby a crate.

"Huh?" You hear one of the grunts, and then two sets of footsteps as they come over to investigate. Blake and King slide further down to avoid detection, and you catch a glimpse of the guard's chest insignias as they draw close.

"Who's there?"

Blake is dead silent. You wonder if they're even breathing right now.

One of the grunts grows irritated, and begins to stomp forwards. "We heard you! We know you're here! Come out now!"

As soon as he walks within their radius, Blake strikes. They spring up, roll over the crate, and in one swift movement trap the guard in a headlock before pushing him onto the ground. The other one gasps, and quickly whips out a metal stick that'd been hanging from her hip. With press of her thumb to a switch on the side, the tip of the rod begins to crackle blue with electricity.

She holds the weapon over Blake's head, heading to swing it down on them, but is abruptly stopped by a pair of vines entangling around her forearm. Moments later, King comes slamming into her head, and the grunt tumbles sideways onto the ground.

The first grunt writhes in Blake's grip, managing to free his hand and reach for the rod his cohort dropped in her fall. Clumsily swinging the still crackling weapon backwards, he manages to land a hit on their shoulder. A guttural shout erupts from Blake's throat as electricity crackles through their muscles, forcing them to let the man go and scramble away in retreat.

With a smirk, the grunt manages to wobble up onto his knees, holding the rod over his head with intent to strike them with it a second time. Blake recovers quicker than he expected, though, swinging a fist up from their crumpled form on the ground and whamming it right in the side of his face.

The grunt shouts out in pain and falls over, dropping his weapon and slapping a hand over his bruised cheek. Blake grabs him by the collar just before he thumps to the ground, though, and drags him up onto his feet with them before slamming him back against the same crate they’d ambushed him from.

"I'm only going to ask you this once," Blake growls darkly, an almost animalistic sound rumbling from their throat. Something in their eyes burns dangerously, and you swear you see flashes of pale blue and red fluctuating in their irises. "Where is my friend's Munna?"

"Unhand me!" The grunt blurts, flailing about desperately like a Basculin out of water. "Unhand me or I swear, you will face the wrath of Lord Ghetsis!"

Just as he says that, you hear shouts coming from the direction of the building they’d been stationed in front of. Rotom whirls, and you see a crowd of grunts flooding out from the front entrance, Pokéballs and taser rods in hand.

Blake just rolls their eyes, dropping the grunt roughly and bringing a hand up to their mouth. "Everyone! Now!"

At their call, a Druddigon suddenly comes charging onscreen, breathing a stream of fire at the grunts' feet and forcing them to scatter. Not long after, a massive Milotic appears and joins in, blasting a jet of steaming water at the ground and making them scurry in the other direction. At the Milotic's side stands Autumn, and riding on the Druddigon's back is a another girl with long, violet-tinted hair flowing behind her, tied up in two pigtails on either side of her head.

"Iris, Autumn, you take care of these guys!" Blake shouts to the two. "I'm going in to look for-"

Suddenly, you hear something- or multiples somethings- whiz through the air. Autumn's Milotic and Iris' Druddigon suddenly screech out in unison, bodies lighting up with blue electricity before they both collapse onto their sides.

"Mother Hadal!"

"Jorax!"

"Shit-!" Blake curses under their breath, jumping to tackle King to the ground just as a dart comes flying over her head.

Rotom beeps frantically, floating to its trainer's side. A set of footsteps is heard, and it pans the camera for you to see a figure emerge from the shadowy depths of the building. You recognize him- the man that Musharna from one of Blake's previous run-ins with Plasma had disguised itself as.

The grunts snap to attention, and straighten themselves as he walks past. "Lord Ghetsis, sir!"

Blake grunts and slowly begins to lift themself off the ground, meanwhile Ghetsis stalks towards them, cape billowing in his wake and shoes clicking menacingly against the concrete floor. He stops just a couple feet away from them, and Rotom swiftly retreats behind Blake’s shoulder when it sees his intimidating, glowering frown.

Suspense hangs heavy in the air as he silently looks the young trainer and their Servine up and down, before clicking his tongue dryly.

“So you must be the one who’s been stirring up trouble for my knights as of late,” he huffs, disapprovingly. “For someone with so much renown, I must say, you don’t look like much.”

Their face scrunches into a scowl, which only brings an amused smile to the man’s face. “Yes, I know who you are. As most people do. To think the savior of Galar and Kalos has been reduced to nothing more than, what… a lowly street rat? Is that what you were going for?”

Blake curls their fists, but doesn’t move as he continues monologuing. “Quite the bold move to come storming into our little hideout like this. Unfortunately for you, Team Plasma is more than equipped to handle any fool who dares try and come stomping onto our turf.

“We’ll see about that,” Blake huffs. “The gym leader’s on his way here with backup. Whatever cowardly little tricks you fuckers have up your sleeves won’t save you.”

“Hm,” Ghetsis hums thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t be so sure. We have seemed to succeeded in dispatching your friends, by the looks of it.”

“Not for long,” Autumn rebuts, her Milotic shakily beginning to rise up behind her, static still buzzing across the gargantuan serpent’s scales.

“Those darts are strong enough to subdue a Hydreigon,” Ghetsis brushes her off, his smirk only growing when he flicks his gaze to Iris and her Druddigon, who seems to be struggling a significant amount more than Mother Hadal to recover. “We’ll be long gone by the time the paralyzing effects have worn off.”

“You’re not going anywhere until you give back my friend’s Munna, you bastard!” Blake barks, suddenly shoving themself back onto their feet and flinging a hand out. “King, go!”

The Servine is off like a rocket, propelling herself off the ground with a push of her legs and lashing her vines out, before whipping them towards Ghetsis with intents to ensnare him. The old man doesn’t move an inch from where he stands, allowing the vines to draw close.

VVWIP!

The vines suddenly fall limp, and so does King, falling through the air and collapsing like a ragdoll when she hits the ground.

“KING!” Blake cries out, falling to their knees at her side and hastily scooping the Grass-type’s crackling and twitching form into their arms. They pluck a dart from the side of her neck, tossing it aside and squeezing her close. “Oh no, oh no no no-”

A ferocious roar suddenly explodes from behind Blake, and they look up to see the shape of Mother Hadal arching over them, steam building up in her mouth as she prepares another scalding attack. She’s stopped in her tracks though when a second dart lodges itself into the base of her neck, and a third one that plants itself on her side. The giant Milotic lets out a shriek that quickly fizzles out into a weak groan as her long body starts to sway. Blake has to jump and roll out of the way just before they’re crushed under her massive form, and coughs from the dust she kicks up in her wake.

“We have to find whoever’s firing those darts!” Iris cries to the other trainers. “We can’t let Plasma get away this time!”

“Hah! You insolent children are already too late!” Ghetsis cackles. “Nothing you throw our way will be enough. Unlike you undignified trainers, we don’t rely solely on Pokémon to solve all our problems around here.”

“You won’t have far to run, now that we’ve chased you out of your little hiding place!” Blake warns.

“Tsk. You believe this to be our main base of operations?” Ghetsis chuckles lowly, gesturing to the crumbling, run down structure around him. “This was merely a temporary set up to keep tabs on our operations in Castelia. I assure you we have a far more exceptional headquarters than this sad wreck. Not that I will be disclosing the location of it to you, today.”

With that, he turns, barking out an order to his men. “Team Plasma! We’re done here. Roll out!”

“Yes, Lord Ghetsis!” The grunts all respond in chorus, and all start to scatter like mice, hurrying away into the shadows or around the sides of the building.

Ghetsis starts taking his leave as well, but pauses on his way out, breathing in a long, lungful of air. “Tell me,” he begins without turning around. “Are all of you aware of the legend of Unova’s founding?”

There’s no response. He continues anyway. “The black and white dragons appeared before a set of heroes, ones who sought to unite a warring people. One who pursued truth, the other pursuing ideals. These dragons shared their knowledge- and bared their fangs against those who stood against them. Together, the power of the Pokémon and their respective heroes brought unity to the hearts of the people, and that’s how Unova was formed.”

“I didn’t come here for a history lesson, bucko,” Blake grunts, looking like they’re half a second away from lunging at him themself.

Ghetsis simply casts them a glare over his shoulder. “We aim to bring those heroes back to Unova. In this, we will not fail. We will win the people’s hearts and mind, and we will create the world that I… Team Plasma desires.”

“Yeah, in my humble opinion-” Blake spat sarcastically, “-you’ve been doing a pretty shit job at that. I don’t think stealing people’s Pokémon is bound to win over anything, let alone people’s favor.”

“Mwhahaha! Speaking with so much fire, even when the odds are stacked against you!” Ghetsis lets out a cackle, and raises a brow at the young trainer, like he’s impressed. “Perhaps I was wrong about you. You carry a lot of grit. If anything, it’s entertaining. Very well then, I will submit your opinion to my fellow sages. And as a thank you for your time, I also leave you a parting gift…”

He raises a hand, and snaps a finger. “Shadow! Return the Munna!”

In the blink of an eye, a masked man with white hair appears before Blake, causing them to fumble back in alarm. The stranger gives them an icy, empty glare, before extending an arm out to them, Pokéball clutched between his paper white fingers. They eye his hand with caution, before reaching out and accepting it. The second the capsule drops into their palm, the man disappears in a shroud of black smoke.

“The connection shared between people and Pokémon can appear touching at times,” Ghetsis muses, turning his gaze up to the sky. “But, in order for true unity to be achieved, they must liberated utterly from foolish humans. By reviving the hero of Unova, we will accomplish this...”

Without another word, he strides away, letting the darkness of the abandoned building swallow him.

End video.

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