#twelve miles from the border | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nomie-11 · 3 months ago

Text

Chapter 18 - The Scrutiny of a Sorrengail

<- previous chapter | masterlist | series masterlist | next chapter ->

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

Flying for short distances, for Genevieve, is enjoyable. The feeling of the wind in her hair and the bite of the air is a comforting feeling. Flight maneuvers—if she's flying alone or with Xaden—are even more enjoyable.

The dips and dives that come with combat formations are a rush of adrenaline that never fails to send Genevieve into a state of exhilaration. The weightlessness, the sharp turns, and the roar of the wind in her ears make her feel alive in ways that nothing else can. It’s the closest she comes to forgetting everything.

But flying for long distances is a brutal reminder for everything going wrong for Genevieve.

The six hour flight for their prize for winning the Squad Battles might just kill her. The weeklong tour of the most out of the way outpost ever known to man would be fine, but the flight there and back would be the death of her.

“I’m pretty sure I’m dying.” Nadine bends over, bracing her hands on her knees.

“I feel that.” Violet says, every vertebra in her spine screaming as she stretches, and that hands that were freezing from flight only moments ago begin to sweat in her gloves.

Genevieve cracks her neck, trying to shake off the tension that’s settled into her bones from the extended flight. Her body aches in ways that are almost too familiar—the bite of cold in her extremities, the stiffness in her muscles, the gnawing exhaustion that feels like it’s leeching away her strength. The cold settles deep, despite being early april, reminding her of the toll her last burnout took, leaving her vulnerable in ways she hates to admit.

“You’re not dying,” she says to Nadine, though her voice lacks the usual bite. “But if you were, I’d say it’s a fitting prize for us winning Squad Battle.”

Nadine shoots her a half-hearted glare before turning to stretch out her back. Violet isn’t faring much better, Liam holds her hands as if he can channel his own body warmth into hers.

Gods, Genevieve groans. I miss Xaden.

“Welcome, cadets,” the commander says with a professional smile, interrupting Genevieve’s brooding. He folds his arms across the chest of his lightweight leathers, and he has the gaunt, tired rider look that any rider gets when they’ve been stationed at the border for too long. “I’m sure you’d all like to get settled and into something a little more appropriate for the climate. Then we’ll show you around Montserrat.”

Genevieve huffs, shifting her weight from one sore leg to another. It definitely is hotter here than it is at Basgiath, but she’s sure she’s not the only one still reeling from the cold winds above.

Rhiannon inhales sharply from beside her, her gaze sweeping over the mountains.

“You all right?” Violet asks, and Genevieve nods, her eyes asking Rhiannon the same question.

She nods as well. “Later.”

Later arrives in twelve minutes, where a still slightly cold Genevieve and a two very hot Rhiannon and Violet sit in the triple-occupancy barrack rooms. They’re sparsely furnished, only three beds, three wardrobes, and a single desk sit in the room.

Rhiannon is quiet the entire time they make their way through the bathing chamber, washing off the ride, and alarmingly silent as they dress in their summer leathers. It may only be April in Montserrat, but it feels like June.

“Are you going to tell us what’s up?” Genevieve asks, stowing her pack beneath the bed before making sure all of her daggers are safely sheathed at her hips and thighs.

Rhiannon’s hands tremble with what looks like nervous energy as she straps her swords to her back. “Do you know where we are?”

Violet mentally brings up a map. “We’re about two hundred miles from the coast–”

“My village is less than an hour away on foot.” Her eyes flicker between Genevieve and Violet with an unspoken plea,the emotion swirling in their dark-brown depths clogs Violet’s throat, and Genevieve’s eyes are solid with resolve.

“Ok, so we’re going.” Genevieve said firmly, her eyes meeting Violet’s with a strong gaze.

Violet blinks once, surprise evident on her features.

“What?” Genevieve asks, her own surprise at the soft disagreement now painted on her features. “You’re telling me that if you had a happy family, safe and waiting for you, an hour away, you wouldn’t go?”

“Ok,” She says, quickly agreeing. “Don’t tell anyone,” she whispers, even though it's just the three of them in the tiny room. “We have six days to figure it out and we will.”

“Let’s go, Second Squad!” Dain’s voice booms through the door, and the girls filter out, joining the others and Major Quade as they get a tour of the outpost.

The fortress itself is just four massive walls, filled with barracks and various chambers, turrets on each corner and a large, arched entrance that boasts a spiked portcullis that looks like it might fall at any second. On one end of the courtyard, there’s a stable with a blacksmith and armory for their company of infantry, and on the other is the dining hall.

“As you can see,” Major Quade tells them as they stand in the middle of the muddy courtyard. “We’re built for siege. In the event of an attack, we can feed and house everyone for an adequate amount of time.”

Ridoc mouths something at Violet that Genevieve misses, but she doesn’t miss the death glare Dain shoots at Violet afterwards. Awkward…

“As one of the eastern outposts, we have a full twelve riders stationed here. Three are out on patrol now, three wait, standing by in case they’re needed, and the other six are in various stages of rest,” Quade continues. The distinct roar of a dragon echoes off the stone walls. “That should be one of our patrols returning now,” Quade says, smiling like he wants the cadets to believe him, but can’t find the energy.

“So,” he says, clapping his hands together. “We’ll get you riders fed and put to bed, and then we’ll work on who you’ll be shadowing while you’re here.”

“Will we get to participate in any active scenarios?” Heaton asks, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Absolutely not!” Devera snaps.

“If you see combat, then I’ve failed as this being the safest place on the border to send you,” Quade answers. “But you get bonus points for enthusiasm. Third-year?” Heaton nods.

Quade turns slightly, and smiles at the three indistinct figures in rider black as they walk under the portcullis. “There they are now. Why don’t you three come and meet—”

“Violet?”

Genevieve freezes, she knows that voice.

In an instant, Violet is no longer beside her, but running full force at the familiar girl, who sweeps Violet up and hugs her like she’s never before.

“Mira,” Violet whispers, burying her face against her shoulder, and her eyes burn as she rests her hand on top of Violet’s braid as if committing every detail of her sister into her mind.

Mira pulls back just long enough to look Violet over, as if she’s checking for damage. “You’re all right.” She nods, her teeth digging into her bottom lip. “You’re all right, aren’t you?”

Violet nods, and it’s true, she is alright. But just because she’s alive doesn’t mean she’s the same person Mira had left at the base of the turret. They both know it.

“Yeah,” she whispers, pulling back Violet into another hug. “You’re all right, Violet. You’re all right.”

“Are you?” Violet says, jerking back to study her. “Gods, Mira.”

“I’m fine,” she promises, then grins. “You didn’t die!”

Irrational, giddy laughter bubbles up from Violet. “I didn’t die, you’re not an only child!”

“Sorrengails are weird,” Genevieve states, drawing a bemused look from Liam who stands next to her, arms crossed over his chest.

“You have no idea,” Dain says in response, his lips curved into a small smile that makes Genevieve want to hurl.

“Shut up, Aetos!” Mira barks, throwing her arm over Violet’s shoulder. “Catch me up on everything, Violet.”

—--------------------------------------

It’s early evening two days later, just after dinner, when Violet, Genevieve and Rhiannon sneak out of their first-story window and drop to the ground. Mira’s out on patrol, and Genevieve knows this is their only chance.

“We’re on our way.” Genevieve calls out to Tairn, giving him a warning.

“Don’t get caught,” He warns in response.

“That’s the plan.” the three girls sneak along the battlement wall, turning the corner toward the field—

Genevieve runs so hard right into Mira that she bounces backwards.

“Shit!” Rhiannon hisses as she catches her.

“Of course you would be sneaking out,” Mira says, her voice pointed at Genevieve. “When I saw you with Violet I knew you were a bad influence on her,” then she turned to Violet. “You should be staying away from people like her. You know better.”

“Me?” Genevieve asked, her jaw nearly on the ground. “You’re the one who stuck an innocent nineteen year old girl into a dungeon! You were the last face I saw!”

Mira’s face freezes, her eyes narrowing as she stares at Genevieve. “I had no choice. You were a prisoner of war, Genevieve.”

Genevieve’s jaw tightens, anger flaring in her chest, but Violet steps between them, her voice low. “Mira, this isn’t the time. We’re just—”

“Just sneaking out,” Mira cuts her off, eyes still locked on genevieve. “And dragging my sister along for whatever you’re planning. What is it, revenge? A mission? Are you planning to kill Violet while you’re off in the villages?”

“If I wanted to kill your sister I would have done it ages ago,” Genevieve bites, her pulse quickening at the accusation, her jaw clenching so hard it aches. “I don’t know if you heard, but I basically taught your sister how to fight and I protected her in situations I could’ve stayed far away from. But because I don’t care about family names, unlike you, I saw Violet for who she was past being a Sorrengail and protected her.”

Mira’s eyes flash, her lips pressing into a tight line. “Don’t you dare act like you’re doing her some favor. You’re still the daughter of a traitor. You’ve always had your own motives.”

“I was a kid!” Genevieve snaps, fists clenched at her sides, her entire body trembling with the effort to hold back as vines creep up her legs. “I didn’t choose this! I didn’t choose any of it!”

The tension between them is thick, and Violet shifts uneasily, her eyes darting between the two women as if trying to diffuse the situation.

“Mira, please,” Violet pleads, stepping closer to her sister. “We’re not doing anything dangerous. Rhiannon just wants to check on her family. That’s all.”

Mira doesn’t seem convinced. Her gaze hardens as she turns back to Genevieve, her voice as cold as the wind that had chilled Genevieve to the bone earlier. “And what do you get out of it, Hale? You always have an angle.”

Genevieve’s heart pounds, fury and frustration swirling inside of her. She meets Mira’s gaze without flinching. “Maybe I just want to help someone. Ever think of that? You don’t know me.”

There’s a flicker in Mira’s eyes, something that could be doubt, or maybe regret. It’s brief, and then she hardens again.

“I don’t trust you,” Mira says flatly.

“And I don’t care,” Genevieve shoots back. “I’m not doing this to prove anything to you, Sorrengail. I’m doing it for Rhiannon, and for her family. Because some of us still care about things like that.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Fuck me!” Genevieve exclaimed to Tairn, exasperatedly.

“Isn’t that what the wingleader is for?” He chuffs in response, laughing at her.

Mira cast a sidewards glare at Genevieve. “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll make you regret it for the rest of your natural life.”

“She means it,” Violet whispers.

“I believe it,” Rhiannon responds.

“You’re here two days and already breaking the rules,” Mira mutters. “Come this way, it’s quicker to cut down this path.”

An hour later, Mira and Violet are stretched out on the cushioned benches that flank both sides of Rhiannon’s sister Reagan’s house, watching Rhiannon rock her nephew by the fireplace, lost in conversation with her sister as he parents and brother-in-law look on from the nearby couch.

Genevieve sits alone on a chair, her body tense with what looks like… awkwardness. Violet has to stifle a laugh, and Mira knows that watching them reunite is worth everything.

Genevieve feels the warmth of the fire on her skin, but it does little to thaw the icy knot in her chest. Watching Rhiannon cradle her nephew stirs a deep, aching void she hasn’t allowed herself to dwell on in years. The joy on Rhiannon’s face, the way her sister embraces her with such ease and love—it reminds Genevieve of everything she’s lost, everything she can never get back.

Even Violet is sitting with her sister, laughing about something with her as if they were never separated. Genevieve is alone.

Her mind drifts to her mother. She could almost hear her voice, soft and comforting as she tucked Genevieve into bed on the cold winter nights in the mountains of Aretia. She used to hum lullabies when she thought Genevieve was asleep, a melody she’d give anything to hear again. A melody she hasn’t heard since the rebellion ended in flames, and her mother disappeared into the darkness.

And Quinn. Bright, caring Quinn who used to hold little Genevieve’s hand as they ran through the fields of flowers and forests, laughing as the wind whipped through their hair. She had said nothing would happen to her, that she would always be there. But she was gone, her death haunting Genevieve’s mind like a plague.

Her grandmother, though… everywhere Genevieve turned she saw her watching. The woman who raised her when her mother left and her father died. The one who knew every story, every song. Genevieve remembers the clear feeling of her strong hands braiding her hair, or rubbing in burn cream when her pale skin suffered the bite of the sun. But the sight of her face was slowly but surely disappearing from Genevieve's mind.

A lump rises in her throat, her chest tightening as she blinks back tears. More than anything, she wishes that she could be back with them again. Back in her grandma’s manor, feeling her mother’s embrace, hearing her sister’s laugh, smelling her grandmother’s floral perfume. But that world is gone, buried beneath rubble and blood.

Suddenly, Rhiannon is right in front of her.

“Do you want to hold him?”

Genevieve looks up, startled. Rhiannon is standing there with her nephew nestled securely in her arms, his tiny face soft and peaceful. For a moment, Genevieve’s heart stutters in her chest, the innocent warmth radiating from the baby pulling at the carefully constructed walls she built over the years. She opens her mouth, but no words come out.

“I don’t know if I should,” She finally manages, her voice hoarse, almost unfamiliar.

Rhiannon’s eyes soften, as if she can see right through Genevieve’s hesitance. “It’s okay. You’re in control now, you won’t break him.” She steps closer, her tone gentle but insistent.

Genevieve swallows hard, feeling everything crumble beneath her as her hands hover awkwardly in front of her before she relents, nodding slightly.

Rhiannon carefully transfers the sleeping baby into Genevieve’s arms, guiding her hands into position. The little bundle is light but warm, and the weight of him against her chest feels foreign, almost unreal. Genevieve stares down at the tiny face, the soft rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps, fully trusting that Genevieve will do no harm.

Everything fades. All she can see is the fragile life cradled in her arms. Something shifts inside her, a flicker of something long buried, something she thought was gone.

“Don’t even think about it,” Train’s voice booms in a familiar manner. “I’m too young to be a grandfather.”

Genevieve snorts, glancing at the baby in her arms and then shaking her head ever so slightly at Tairn’s comment. “Always so dramatic. I don’t even want kids,” she responds, but the humor fades quickly, replaced by the sudden rush of emotions that holding the child has stirred in her.

“Genevieve?” Rhiannon’s voice brings her back to the present. “Are you alright?”

Genevieve forces a nod, though her throat feels tight. She’s not alright. This moment—the warmth, the innocence, the tenderness—it’s all too much and not enough at the same time. She misses her family, but above all, being apart from Xaden for three days now has started to be painful over her dragon’s bond.

She can feel all the tension Tairn is carrying, being apart from Sgaeyl has been hard on him. She misses Xaden, too.

Rhiannon notices the shift in Genevieve’s expression, the fleeting vulnerability she rarely allows herself to show. “You can hand him back if you want,” Rhiannon offers, her voice understanding.

Geneiveve quickly nods, handing the baby back to Rhiannon.

Her thoughts drift again—back to Xaden. The bond between the two of them had been growing steadily stronger with every intimate moment they shared, every word they exchanged, and the bond between their dragons was infinitely stronger. Being apart from him now, even for just a few days, was harder than she anticipated.

“I need some air,” She muttered, quickly exciting the house past Mira and Violet, who looked on in confusion.

The cool night air hits Genevieve’s face as she steps outside, leaning heavily against the rough wooden door. The warmth of the fireplace and the emotions swirling inside had been too much. She couldn’t breathe in there.

A shiver runs down her spine. Scanning the dimly lit fields beyond the house, her heart skips a beat. Of course he’s come to find her. There, in the shadows by the edge of the tree line, stands a figure. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair nearly falling into his eyes. Xaden.

He strides forward, closing the space between them in long, purposeful steps. His presence is magnetic, pulling her closer even before he reaches her. When he does, the air around them seems to shift, growing heavier with the unsaid.

“Xaden,” she breathes, her voice barely above a whisper. The knot in her chest has loosened just from the sight of him.

He doesn’t speak, not at first. Instead, he reaches out, his hand slipping around her wrist, pulling her toward him in one smooth motion until she’s pressed against him, her head resting against his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath her ear, a grounding rhythm, that calms the raging storm inside her.

“I missed you,” he finally says, his voice low and rough, as if the separation had been just as hard on him. She can’t find the words to explain how much she missed him, how the past few days without him had left her feeling raw and unsteady. So, instead of speaking, she leans up and kisses him, soft at first, then deeper, pouring all the emotions she couldn’t voice into the kiss.

He responds immediately, his hands tightening around her waist, pulling her even closer. The intensity of their bond flares between them, the connection humming with the energy of their dragons, of the unspoken feelings they both kept buried.

When they finally part, both breathing heavily, Xaden’s eyes darken. “Three days. We couldn’t make three days,” he mutters, his voice laced with frustration and need.

Genevieve sighs faintly, her fingers brushing his jaw. “No,” she agrees, her voice soft. “We can’t.”

They stand there for a moment longer, wrapped up in each other, the world fading into the background.

“Mira’s going to be so pissed,” Genevieve says softly, her voice lighter than before now that she’s back in his arms.

“I don’t care.”

Neither does she, as she pulls him down again, kissing him deeper and deeper against the darkness.

—----------------------------------------

Genevieve was right. Mira was not happy to find her little sister’s best friend, who happened to be the daughter of a disgraced traitor, kissing the son of the man who killed her older brother. Nor was she happy to have him on base with her, but that was not Genevieve’s issue.

“So all we do is wait for something to happen?” Ridoc asks as the group all sit around a table that runs the length of the briefing room. He’s leaning back in his chair and putting his boots on the end of the table, and Genevieve can practically see the fire in Mira’s eyes as she watches.

“Yes,” Mira says from the head of the table, then flicks her wrist and sends Ridoc flying backwards. “And keep your feet off the table.”

One of the Montserrat riders laughs, changing the markers on the large map that consumes the only stone wall in the curved, windowed room. They all sit in this room, in the highest turret in the outpost, offering unmatched views of the Esben mountain range around them.

Second Squad plus Xaden was split into two groups for the day. Rhiannon, Sawyer, Cianna, Nadine, and Heaton spent the morning with Devera in this room, studying the previous battles at the outpost, and are now out on patrol.

Dain, Ridoc, Liam, Quinn, Emery, Violet, and Genevieve spent the morning on a two-hour flight around the surrounding area, with one extra tagalong—Xaden. He’s been the worst kind of distraction since arriving last night. Dain won’t stop glaring, Mira keeps watch on his every move.

All Genevieve wants is one moment of peace with this man before he’s ripped away from her again. But Mira doesn’t trust her yet, so every second she spends awake, Mira spends watching her, and once Xaden joins them, her eyes are split between the two of them. The two traitors.

“Whatever Violet said to get Mira off of Liam’s ass she needs to say about me next.” Genevieve huffed, glancing over at Liam, who was holding Violet’s hand comfortably. Then she glanced at her own hand and then at Xaden’s hand, before bringing her’s into her lap. She was not ready to be public like that.

“Consider this your Battle Brief,” Mira continues, side-eyeing Ridoc as he scrambles back into his chair. “This morning was about a quarter of the patrol we’d normally fly, so regularly we’d just be getting back about now and reporting our findings to the commander. But for the sake of killing time, since we’re in this room as the reaction flight for this afternoon, let’s pretend we’d come across a newly fortified enemy outpost crossing our border” —she turns to the map and pins a small crimson flag near one of the peaks about two miles from the Cygnisen borderline— “here.”

“We’re supposed to pretend it just popped up overnight?” Emery asks, openly skeptical.

“For the sake of argument, third-year.” Mira narrows her eyes on him, and he sits up a little straighter.

“What would our objective be?” Mira glances around the table, noticeably skipping Xaden and glaring at Genevieve. Last night, she’d taken one look at the rebellion relic on his arm and walked by without saying a word. And she hadn’t spoken to Genevieve since she left Rhiannon’s house in a flurry. “Aetos?”

Dain startles from where he was glowering across the table at Xaden and turns to face the map. “What type of fortifications are there? Are we talking about a haphazard wooden structure? Or something more substantial?”

“Like they had time to build a fortress overnight,” Ridoc mutters. “It has to be wooden, right?”

“You are all so fucking literal,” Genevieve groans, rubbing her thumbs on her temples. This has all been headache inducing. “Just say that they occupied a keep that’s already established. Stone and all.”

“Thank you, Hale,” Mira says, although it sounds physically painful for the name and the gratitude to be leaving her lips in the same sentence.

“But the civilians didn’t call for help?” Quinn asks, scratching her pointed chin. “Protocol calls for a distress signal this far into the mountains. They should have lit their distress beacon, alerting patrolling riders, at which time the dragons on patrol would have told all available dragons in the area. Every rider in this room would have mounted first as the reaction force and the others would have been woken from their rests, allowing the riders to prevent the loss of the keep in the first place.”

Mira scoffs and braces her hands on the end of the table, staring them all down. “Everything you’re taught at Basgiath is theory. You analyze past attacks and learn those very… theoretical combat maneuvers. But things don’t always go to plan, so why don’t we talk about the things that can go sideways, so you’ll know what to do when they do, as opposed to arguing that the keep shouldn’t have fallen?”

Quinn shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

“How many of you have been called out as third-years?” Mira stands straight, arms folding over her black leathers.

Emery and Xaden raise their hands, though Xaden’s is barely a gesture. Dain looks like his head is about to explode.

“That’s not true. We’re never called into service until graduation.”

Xaden presses his lips in a tight line and nods, giving Dain a sarcastic thumbs up.

“Yeah, all right.” Emery laughs. “Just wait until next year. I can’t count how many times we’re the ones sitting in these very rooms in the midland forts because their riders have been called to the front for an emergency.”

The color drains from Dain’s face.

“Now that’s settled.” Mira reaches under the table and pulls out a set of models, putting a six-inch stone keep in the center of the table. “Catch.” One by one she tosses painted wooden models of dragons at the group, keeping one for herself. “Pretend the other riders don’t exist, and we’re the only squad available to take back that keep. Think of the power in this room. Think of what each individual rider brings to the table and how you’d use those powers in unison to conquer your objective.”

“But they don’t teach that to first-years,” Liam says slowly from beside Violet, his thumb tracing patterns on the back of her hand.

Mira glances at the whirls of magic on his wrist, but to Liam’s credit, he doesn’t tug his sleeve down. It’s hard for Genevieve to remember that their third-years are the first riders who will serve with the children of the leaders of the Tyrrish Uprising—an uprising that could have left borders defenseless. Everyone in the room has become accustomed to Liam, Imogen, Genevieve… even Xaden. But those in active service have never flown with anyone marked by a rebellion relic.

Mira’s glare is hard, but it’s interrupted by Violet clearing her throat and shooting a look at her older sister. Her eyes widen ever so slightly at the clear warning on Violet’s face to back off, and she directs her attention back to Liam.

“They might not teach you this battle strategy as first-years because you’re all too busy trying to stay on your dragons. You had your first taste of strategy during Squad Battle, and we are approaching May, which means War Games start soon, right?”

“Two weeks,” Dain answers.

“Good timing then. You’ll need all the experience you get if you’re planning on surviving.” She holds Violet haze for half a breath. “This kind of thinking will give your whole wing an advantage, since I guarantee your wingleader is already assessing every rider for their own abilities.”

Xaden flips his dragon model in his hands but remains silent. He hasn’t spoken a single word to Mira since he’s arrived.

“So let’s do this. Who’s in command?” She glances around the table. “And let’s pretend I don’t have three years of seniority over even the highest ranked of you.”

“Then I’m in command,” Dain answers confidently, straightening his back as if an improved posture gives the illusion of power.

“Our wingleader is here,” Liam argues, pointing at Xaden. “I’d say that puts him in command.”

“We can pretend I’m not here, for the sake of the exercise,” Xaden sets his model dragon on the table and leans back in his chair, draping his arm across the back of Genevieve's, eliciting a glare from Mira. “Give Aetos here the position we all know he craves.”

“Don’t be a dick,” Genevieve whispers, nudging him.

“You have even seen me start to be a dick.”

Genevieve freezes, her head immediately swiveling to face him. That was his voice… in her head.

He turns, the golden flecks dancing in his eyes. She can hear him laughing in her mind, his lips tilted up into a small smirk.

“You’re staring. It’s going to get awkward in about 30 seconds if you don’t stop.”

Her gaze snaps forward.

“How?” She hisses.

“The same way you talk to Sgaeyl and I talk to Tairn. We both knew we could feel something in each other's mind, I just had to test if we could actually talk. Though I’m starting to wish I tried it sooner, the look on your face is priceless.” He winks and turns back to the table.

“You’re the wingleader.” Every word out of Dain’s mouth is agonizing, spoken through gritted teeth.

“I’m not even supposed to be here,” Xaden shrugs. “But if it makes you feel better, for the purpose of war games, you’d be getting your orders from your section leader, Garrick Tavis, which he’d get from me. You’ll be carrying out your maneuvers as a squad for the good of the wing. Just pretend I’m another member of your squad and use me as you wish, Aetos.” Xaden folds his arms over his chest.

“So what have you heard through this… extension of our dragons’ bond?” she whispered harshly.

“Why are you even here?” Dain challenges. “No offense, sir, but we weren’t exactly expecting senior leadership on this trip.”

“You’re more than aware that Sgaeyl and Tairn are mated.”

“Three days!?” Dain fires back, leaning in. “You couldn’t make it three days?”

“Lay off it, Aetos,” Genevieve barks. “Just because you can’t keep Violet underneath your thumb anymore doesn’t mean you have to take it out on me. Or Xaden. It has nothing to do with him, that’s up to Tairn and Sgaeyl.”

“I’ve heard just how much you miss me when I’m gone,” Xaden says, his timing impeccable.

“Of course you rush to defend him.” Dain hurls a glare at Genevieve. “I know I’m not wrong when I say that General Sorrengail gave you orders to watch him and report suspicious activity, not fall in love with him.”

“How do you know about that!?” Genevieve’s mind is reeling. She only told Xaden about her mission, maybe she mentioned once to Violet in passing. Oh my gods, Violet! Genevieve’s eyes could cut through metal as she stared so hard at the silver-haired girl, that Violet could swear she was looking right at her soul.

“Great job remaining professional, Aetos.” Xaden scratches the relic on his neck, and Genevieve knows damn well that stupid mark doesn’t itch. “Really shows those leadership qualities to their best advantage.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Genevieve sneers, her fiery gaze not leaving Violet’s, but the words are obviously pointed towards Dain.

One of the riders down the table whistles low. “Do you boys just want to whip it out and measure? It would be faster.”

Liam smothers a laugh, but his shoulders shake.

“Enough!” Mira slams her hand on the table.

“Oh, come on, Sorrengail,” the rider down the table whines with a wide smile. Both Mira and Violet look his way with sharp eyes. “I mean… the older Sorrengail. This is the best entertainment we’ve had in ages.”

Violet shakes her head, and looks around the table. “Mira has the ability to extend the shield if the wards are down, so the first thing I would do is send her to scout the area with Teine. We need to know if we’re dealing with infantry or gryphon riders.”

“Good.” Mira moves her dragons closer to the castle. “Now let’s assume that there are gryphons.”

“You want to do your job?” Genevieve says, a sickeningly sweet smile on her face. “I mean, how you can forget you’re the squad leader is beyond me.”

His hands clenched around the dragon he holds as he rips his gaze from Genevieve. “Quinn, can you astral project from the back of your dragon?”

“Yes,” She answers.

“Then I would have you project into the fortress to check for signs of weakness,” Dain orders. “And then have you report back. Same with Liam. We’d use your farsightedness to see if you can locate where the gryphon riders are and if there are any traps.”

“Good. The weaknesses are the wooden gate,” Mira notes as Quinn and Liam move their dragons into position, “And the Navarrian citizens they have captive in the dungeons.”

“So much for blasting the whole place,” Ridoc says.

“You’re an air welder, right?” Dain asks Emery. “So you can shape your dragon’s flames, lead them through the occupied parts of the keep without killing civilians.”

“Yes,” Emery answers. “But I’d have to be in the keep.”

“Then we’ll get you into the keep.” Genevieve says firmly. “My signet works the best when I’m on the ground-”

Dain cuts her off.

“You want him to go in on foot and leave his dragon?”

“Why do you think we get all that hand-to-hand training? Or are you going to leave all those innocent people to die?” Mira flicks her wrist and Emery's dragon goes flying out of his hand and into hers. She puts it in the center of the keep. “The real question is, how do you get close enough without getting you killed, since I’m guessing the others will be busy fighting off the gryphons that launch once the fireworks start.”

Genevieve sits back, rolling her eyes.

“What’s your signet, Aetos?” Quinn asks.

“Above your pay grade,” Dain answers, glancing around the table and skipping over Xaden, then making the rounds again, finally sighing. “Any ideas?”

“Sure.” Violet picks up both Genevieve’s and Xaden’s dragons and shoves them toward the keep. The figurines hover above the structure, a testament to Violet’s superior ability to use her lesser magic in the absence of a signet. “You stop ignoring that you have two of the most powerful signets at your disposal, and ask the Shadow Wielder to black out the area so no one sees you land, and send her, a Life Weaver” —Violet’s eyes lock on Genevieve— “to take out the threat from the inside out.”

“She’s not wrong,” Mira agrees, but her words are clipped.

“You can cover all that?” Dain begrudgingly looks at Xaden.

“Are you seriously asking me that?” Xaden retorts.

“Just wasn’t sure you could cover an area that—”

Xaden lifts a hand a few inches above the table, and shadows pour from underneath their seats, filling the room and turning dark as midnight in a blink. Genevieve’s heart jumps as her sight goes black, gripping her dagger tighter.

“Relax. It’s just me.” A ghost of a touch skims her cheek. “Want to put some vines up just to scare him?”

“I’m good, thanks,” Genevieve whispers, this is the first real time she’s been in his signet, and holy shit, it’s terrifying.

“Fuck me,” someone says.

“I can surround this entire outpost, but I think that might freak some people out,” Xaden says, and the shadows disappear, racing back under the table. Genevieve takes a deep breath, noting that everyone at the table, beside Emery and Imogen, who have no doubt seen that trick before, are slightly green.

Even Mira, who’s staring down at Xaden like he just took an attempt at her life.

“I hope you didn’t get any idea while we were in the dark there,” Xaden teases, and just like that, whatever fear Genevieve was harboring disappears into the air around her. He laughs, and she grits her teeth.

“Get him out of my head,” She throws at Tairn.

“You’ll get used to it,” He responds, not bothering to give her directions on how to reply.

“Is this normal with all mated pairs and their riders?”

“For some. It’s a great advantage in battle.”

“Well, it’s a pain in my ass right now.” She internally groans. Right now, she misses when he was far away and not in her head, listening to her every thought and concern. She thinks a lot, and it's nauseating to think he was listening to everything.

“Then shield him out the same way you do me—or start talking back,” Tairn grumbles. “You have the power to be a pain in the ass, too. You already are one to me.”

“And how exactly am I supposed to talk back at him?” She gives Xaden a heavy dose of side-eye, but he’s engrossed in the ongoing battle they’ve waged against an imaginary keep.

“Figure out which pathway into your mind is his. You only have two, narrow down which one is mine and which one is his.”

Oh joy. That should be easy.

The hypothetical operations are concluded, each of them using their powers to the best of their abilities, everyone except Violet. But when it’s time to take out the gryphons in air, Violet knows that she and Astrape trump everyone except Genevieve and Tairn.

“Good job,” Mira says, glancing at her pocket watch. “Aetos, Riorson, and Sorrengail, I want to see you in the hallway. The rest of you are dismissed.”

The rest of the squad rises, chairs scraping the stone floor as they file out of the room. Genevieve stays seated for a moment, her eyes narrowing as she watches Xaden, Dain, and Violet file out of the door behind Mira.

“Come on, Genevieve.” Liam’s voice snaps her out of her reverie, and she looks up to see him standing behind her, an easy smile on his face. “Let’s get out of here.”

Genevieve stands, brushing her hands on her pants. “Yeah, I’m coming.” But as she walks out the room, and brushes past Xaden, he gives her arm a light squeeze.

He tries to be reassuring, but there is too much on her mind. Too many things that apparently, he can hear too.

——————————————-

“There’s a drift of gryphons headed this way!” Tairn bellows, not even minutes after she’s gotten back to her triple dorm in Montserrat. It’s evident that the other riders have gotten the alert too, because as Genevieve runs back to the battle plan room, the others are there too.

“You have to go!” Mira says to Violet, pulling her into a hug.

“We can help!” Violet argues, but she’s being held so tight.

“You can’t. And if Astrape is using her power to keep you seated, then she’s diminished as well. You have to go. Get out of here. If you love me, Violet, you’ll go so I don’t have to worry about you, too.” She releases her, looking to Xaden as the squad pours out of the door above, thundering by as they run down the steps. “Get them out of here!”

”Let’s go!” Dain shouts. “Now!”

“Lieutenant Sorrengail,” Xaden addresses firmly, practically snarling at Mira. “Even if you don’t trust me, I’m the best weapon you have,”

“If what you say is true, then you’re also the best weapon Genevieve has, and gods only know what Genevieve might do if Violet gets hurt. As much as I don’t trust either of you, you’ve kept her alive this far and you need to keep her alive now. The other half of the squad will be here in moments, we have time. Go.” Mira’s eyes shift to Genevieve. “Violet will follow you if you go.”

Xaden grumbles, grabbing Genevieve by the wrist and motioning for Liam to do the same to Violet. He’s practically tossed her up on his shoulder, as Violet struggles against his grip.

“No!” She fights, but there’s no point, Liam outmatches her by so much. “Mira! What if you get hurt? Astrape’s speed could be the only thing that saves you. Tairn’s speed could save you! At least let us stay!”

She looks over her shoulder at the doorway, but there’s steel in her expression. “You want me to trust you, Hale? Get her the fuck out of here and find a way for her to keep her seat. We both know she’s dead if she doesn’t.”

“Mira!” She screams, clawing at Liam’s arms, but he’s already halfway down the stairs with an arm clamped around her waist as if she weighs less than the swords on his backs. “I love you!”

“Liam, let us go grab our packs. She can’t run while I watch.” Genevieve says, following quickly in step behind Xaden’s long strides. It takes only minutes for Genevieve and Violet to grab their bags and Rhiannon’s since they’ve never unpacked, cramming their cloaks into the empty space. Once they return to the hallway, Xaden and Liam are there waiting, and their packs are suspiciously empty.

Genevieve doesn’t even want to think about what they’re leaving behind in order to get them out safely.

Violet doesn’t even bother looking at them, marching for the door, but Genevieve grabs her elbow and spins her around. “Nope. We can’t leave the fortress walls. We’re going up.” Liam grabs her waist and all but hauls her to the nearest turret. “We’re climbing.”

“This is bullshit!” Violet yells at Genevieve, uncaring that the other members of the squad also climbing the turret can hear. “Astrape could help them!”

“Violet, your sister is right. You have to make it out, so we’re going. Please just climb.”

“Dain,” Violet says, realizing he’s right in front of them.

He turns around and takes Rhiannon’s pack, slinging it over his own. “I don’t like Genevieve all that much, but she’s right. It’s not just you we have to get out, Violet. Think of every other first-year.” The plea in his eyes shuts Violet’s mouth. “Are you going to sentence an entire untrained squad to death? Because I’ll make it. Dianna, Emery, and Heaton will, too. And we all fucking know Riorson will. But what about Rhiannon? Ridoc? Sawyer? Genevieve? Do you want her death on your hands?” He asks, his words choppy as they race to the open door.

They burst onto the roof as Emery mounts his dragon, who is precariously perched on the thinner-than-quadrant wall. Violet pales, and Genevieve knows that she will never be able to mount Astrape at this angle.

“Ridoc and Quinn are already in the air,” Liam tells them as Emery launches skyward, where Cath, Astrape, and Deigh hover, their winds beating the air.

“Violet can’t mount at this angle!” Genevieve whispers harshly to Liam. “Get her up on that dragon!”

He nods, pulling Violet in towards her, his hand cupping his head as he gives her a quick kiss, before lifting her up for Astrape to grab. She’s fighting the whole way up. The rest of the squad is in the air and safe. Genevieve can fight. But they won’t let her.

Liam goes to mount next, crumbling the masonry with the force of Deigh’s landing, and Liam takes off down the narrow walkway toward the large Red Daggertail.

“You next, Aetos,” Xaden barks, and Dain flicks his eyes to Geneveive.

“Gene-” He starts to argue.

“That’s an order.” There’s no room for argument here in that tone, and Geneveive knows it, especially when Cath takes Deigh’s place on the wall. Dain looks like he might fight, but ultimately he nods, turning to Xaden.

“Get Genevieve in the air as soon as Tairn arrives.” He says firmly.

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Xaden says, his words firm. “Now get on your dragons so I can get her on hers.”

Immediately, he turns and runs up Cath’s leg, mounting so easily that Genevieve is almost jealous.

“Where are you?” Genevieve calls out to Tairn, seeing the empty skies above her.

“Almost there. I was doing what could be done.”

“Let me stay and fight,” Genevieve says to Xaden, desperation evident in her every word.

Xaden turns sharply at her words, his eyes dark and stormy, stepping closer until Genevieve can feel the heat radiating from him. “You can’t stay,” he growls, his voice thick with frustration and something deeper— something raw that he’s been holding back.

“I’m not running away,” She snaps, her fists clenched tight at her sides, fighting against the pull in her chest, the one that keeps dragging her back to him.

“Damn it, Gen!” He grabs her shoulders, the force of his grip sending a jolt through her. His face is so close now that she can see the tension in his jaw, a battle raging in his eyes. “If you stay, you might die. And I can’t—” He cuts himself off, the unspoken words hanging between them.

Genevieve freezes, her breath catching in her throat. She’s fought her entire life. Fought for survival, for vengeance, for a reason to keep going. But this—this feeling tearing through her, the one he’s igniting—it’s different. She’s never let herself feel it before. It’s terrifying.

“I’m not leaving you,” she whispers, the words slipping out unbidden, her voice breaking with emotions she can barely hold back.

Xaden’s expression shifts, the anger in his eyes softening for just a moment, replaced by something fierce, something vulnerable. He steps closer, and before she can say anything else, his lips crash against hers, hard and desperate. The kiss is searing, full of everything he’s never said, everything they’ve both been holding back. It’s a demand, a plea, and a promise all at once.

Genevieve’s hands fly to his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket as she kisses him back with the same intensity, her heart pounding wildly. She can feel the tension in his body, the barely controlled restraint in the way he pulls her closer, as if he’s afraid to let her go. Her entire world narrows to this moment, to the feel of him, the taste of him, the way he’s pouring every emotion into this one kiss.

It’s like he’s trying to memorize her, to burn the memory of her into his soul. And she feels it too—that same desperate need to stay with him, to fight beside him, no matter the danger.

But even through the heat of the kiss, there’s something else. Something that trembles beneath the passion: fear. Not just hers—his. She can feel it in the way he holds her so tightly, in the way his breath hitches as he pulls away, just barely, their foreheads still pressed together. His hands remains on her, fingers digging into her shoulders like he’s fighting himself, fighting the urge to tell her to stay.

“I don’t want you to leave,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low, so quiet she almost doesn't hear it over the rush of wind and the distant roar of dragons. His forehead is still pressed against hers, his breath coming fast, the admission barely escaping him.

Her heart twists painfully at his words. Xaden—the leader, the warrior, the one who’s always in control—is admitting something she never thought she’d hear. The weight of it crashes into her, and for a moment, all she wants to do is throw caution to the wind and stay. To fight by his side, consequences be damned.

But they both know the truth. If she stays, she’ll only put everyone else at risk. Including him.

His lips brush hers again, softer this time, lingering for a heartbeat longer than before, as if he’s reluctant to let her go. “But you have to,” he whispers, his hands slide down her arms, reluctantly releasing her, but not before he presses one last kiss against her forehead.

Genevieve bites her lip, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill over. She hates it—hates that she has to leave him behind. But she knows, deep down, that if she doesn’t go, she’ll only make things worse.

Tairn’s presence thundered into her mind, a surge of power. “I’m here,” the dragon rumbles, his wings beating the air as he descends towards them.

Xaden steps back, his jaw clenched, watching her with an intensity that makes her chest ache. “Go,” he says, his voice hoarse, filled with an emotion he won’t let himself fully show.

With one last, longing look, Genevieve turns and runs toward Tairn, her heart breaking with every step. As she vaults onto the dragon’s back, she glances over her shoulder, locking eyes with Xaden one final time.

She doesn’t need words to know what he’s thinking—what he’s feeling. It’s written all over his face, in the way his hands are still clenched at his sides, in the way he watches her as though he’s afraid this will be the last time, even though they both know he will survive.

And as Tairn takes to the skies, lifting her higher and higher into the air, Genevieve swears she can still feel the imprint of his lips on hers, the weight of his unspoken words settling deep in her chest.

She doesn’t want to leave him. But she has to survive—for both of them.

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

Hey everyone! whats up? I'm unbelievably excited for the next chapter-omg. This chapter was chill, but I don't think it was particularly empty, you know?

i actually am very excited for chapters like 23, 24, 25 to be published because thats when more about quinn and genevieve's backstory gets revealed and its been so much fun to write.

also i have an extreme obession with kit connor in romeo + juliet, truly the only man i've ever been attracted to (thats a blatant lie-sorry to my ex boyfriends if you ever read this)

anyways, thats it! let me know if you liked it, and if you did leave a like, comment or kudo! see you all on saturday!

-------

taglist: @awkardnerd , @hannraumari , @minjix

#violet sorrengail #fourth wing #fourth wing imagine #fourth wing x reader #fourth wing xaden #liam mairi #xaden and sgaeyl #xaden riorson #xaden riorson x reader #garrick tavis x reader #the empyrean #the wounded healer

42 notes · View notes

elaratyrell · 1 year ago

Text

Misery {Annie Wilkes! Aemond Targaryen x Author! Reader}

*All images found on Pinterest*

Warnings: Dark! Aemond, stalking, language, mentions of murder Smut- oral (fem receiving), fingering (fem receiving), female orgasm

*Divider from Firefly Graphics*

Synopsis: You find yourself near death after being the victim of a car accident in a snow storm while working on the latest instalment in your bestselling Misery series. The man who found you, your self declared number one fan, seems innocent enough, but his dark past, and even darker intentions, soon become clear

With a sigh of slight relief, you placed the final page on top of the pile beside you, tying a rubber band around it and placing it in a blue leather case.

Another book finished to hopefully join the others on the bestsellers list.

You had written twelve other books, to be exact, and had now finished your first completed draft for the thirteenth.

The cursed number.

The unlucky number.

The number of misfortune.

But for you it was a blessing.

For years you had dedicated your life to the running series of books centred around a character called Misery. You'd published your first book at eighteen, becoming the new face of the romance genre. And as you had grown up, your books had matured as well, becoming darker, bordering on the thriller genre as well as still centering on the romantic aspect. It was a bold move, but seemed to pay off, as it had made you even more popular than before.

Yet, after dedicating your life to one character for an entire decade now, you knew you had to move on, take another path in a new series you were going to write. You knew some of your fans would be disappointed that this would be the last entry in the Misery series, but it had to be done.

It felt like a relief to you, that you could finally move on with your life. And you felt as though it were almost a weight being lifted off your shoulders as finished your usual celebration of a single cigarette and champagne. You rose to your feet to take the manuscript to your car with the rest of your belongings, departing from a small log cabin called Winterfell Lodge you always rented out when working on your latest novel. It was always calming to get some time away from the chaos of the city.

You pulled your coat around you tighter, the snow flurry thickening around you as you loaded your bags into the trunk of your car. Usually, you wouldn't drive in weather like this, especially as it seemed as though a snow storm was fast approaching, but you needed to get back to the city as fast as possible.

Quickly shooting your agent a message to let you know you had finished the initial draft and were on your way to get back to the city, you started the car and drove away from Winterfell Lodge.

You squinted slightly as the snowfall grew thicker still, trying to see the curve in the road as the wipers speed couldn't keep up with the snow that was now covering the road. You slowed your speed, maintaining control of your car, humming along to the song playing on the radio.

Maybe you should have waited for tomorrow.

It was already late in the afternoon, and the clouds darkened the sky.

You turned on your car's headlights, a small sign reading 'Curved road, next thirteen miles'.

You hit the curve no problem, turning the wheel with perfect control, keeping a steady speed as you continued turning the wheel, but suddenly one of the wheels skidded, followed by another as the car span erratically out of control.

And all you remembered was the car spinning of the road, followed by it slamming into a tree, doing a one hundred and eighty degree flip, landing on it's hood.

And then as you fell into the darkness, you heard the harsh sound of the radio static and the howling winds, and felt the blood trickling down the side of your face.

Followed by nothing. Only darkness.

When you awoke, you felt numb.

You skin was paler, and clammy with a feverish sweat that sent a slight tremble through you. You couldn't lift any of your limbs. They felt weighted down. You didn't even want to try and lift your head.

"You're awake."

The voice was male. It sounded calm, well spoken. Soothing, almost.

Approaching footsteps to your bedside soon brought the owner of the voice into your vision.

He looked around your age, maybe two or three years younger, around twenty five or six, perhaps. He had long silver hair tied half up, a strong jaw and a tall, well defined figure. One of his eyes was a vivid blue, like a sapphire, the other a cloudy white, a long scar running from his brow down to his cheek. Resting on the bridge of his nose was a pair of black rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a dark blue sweater, the white collar of his shirt peaking up above its neckline, and a pair of black trousers.

Your saviour was very handsome, indeed.

"W-where... where a-am-"

"Shush," He interrupted you, placing the back of his cool hand against your forehead, frowning slightly at the heat radiating on your skin from the fever. "We're just between Storm's End and Winterfell. You've been here two days. I was concerned that you were not going to pull through. I'm thankful to say that I think you will recover. You'll be okay. Thank the gods you'll be okay." He shot you a slightly relieved smile. "Oh, how foolish of me. My name is Aemond Targaryen, and I'm your-"

"Number one fan?" You murmured, your eyes fluttering closed from a split second before opening again to see him shooting you a rather bashful smile, his cheeks dusted with pink.

"That- that's right," He murmured. "I-I am also a doctor, fortunately enough." He added, gesturing to where you were connected to a drip before outstretching his hand and opening his palm to reveal two pills. "You need to take these for the pain," He said softly, lifting your head slightly to bring the pills to your lips and swallow them, his fingertips lingering slightly against your lips.

Aemond propped up the pillows slightly, resting your head back down. Giving you a better view of your room, you noted you appeared to be in a rather old cottage or farmhouse. Your room was rather charming; wood panelled walls, a large fireplace opposite the bed. From the window, you saw a view of the mountains.

"Shouldn't I be in hospital?" You mumbled.

"The blizzard was too strong. I didn't want to risk trying to get you there. I couldn't even call, the phone lines are down and I don't own a mobile, I'm afraid. I doubt you could even get signal out here with the weather like this."

"Thank you for saving me," You murmured, you eyes aching with fatigue.

"You are more than welcome. Now, you should get some rest. You nearly lost your life." He replied, stepping back. "I'll be back to check on your when your meds run out," Was the last thing he said before leaving the room, shutting the door behind him.

Your fever past after a few days in Aemond's care, but you were still incredibly weak. But Aemond promised you that things would get better.

"It's not going to hurt forever, I promise you."

"Will I be able to walk?" You asked.

"Of course. And your arm will be fine, too. Your shoulder was rather badly dislocated, but I managed to pop it back in there. But I must say, I am rather proud of what I managed to do with your legs, especially considering what I had around the house. In fact I don't think there's a doctor in the whole of Westeros that could do a better job."

And with a flourish of blankets, he made your legs visible to you for the first time.

From the knees down, you believed you resembled a mummy. Steel rods that seemed to be remains of aluminium crutches were used as splints with taping circled around them. From the knees up, your thighs were swollen and horribly bruised.

Upon seeing your slightly horrified expression, Aemond hastily added. "It is not nearly as bad as it looks considering the severity of your injuries. You have a compound fracture of the tibia in both legs, and the fibula in the left leg is fractured too. I could hear the bones moving, so it's best for your legs to remain immobile. And as soon as the roads open, I'll take you to a hospital. In the meantime, you've got a lot of recovering to do, and I consider it an honour that you'll do it in my home." He gave you a kind smile, once again leaving you to get some more rest until he had to administer your next round of painkillers.

And soon enough Aemond's visits to your room became more frequent and for longer periods of time. He didn't just stay to gave you your meds, but also to reassure you that the sweeling to your cheek would go down, and how you were still beautiful, and how much he adored your books.

"It was quite a miracle that you found me," You said one evening after Aemond had fed you your dinner. He let out a small, slightly nervous chuckle in response, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Actually, it wasn't a miracle at all. I... as I... in a way... I was following you."

"Fo-following me?" You stammered out.

"Well it isn't exactly a secret that you were staying at Winterfell Lodge, you know, considering that I am your number one fan, but some nights I found myself driving there, sitting outside and just looking at the light in your cabin, knowing you were most likely creating another Misery masterpiece. I'd try to imagine what the world's greatest writer was creating." He replied, his voice light and airy, as though it was the most simple explanation.

"Can you say that last part again? I didn't quite hear..." You murmured, trying to brush off the fact he practically stalked you. Aemond just shot you a small smile in response.

"The world's greatest writer." He repeated before continuing. "Anyway, the other afternoon, when I was on my way home, there you were leaving the lodge. I must say I was curious as to why an intelligent woman such as yourself would go for a drive with a storm such as that approaching."

"I... didn't know there was going to be a storm like that..."

"Well, luckily I did," He replied. "And, it was lucky for me too. Because you're alive, and now you can write more incredible books. I've read absolutely everything you've written. I enjoyed your three standalone novels at the start of your career immensely, but the Misery series... I must say that they are my absolute favourite. I-I know them all by heart, all twelve of them. I love them, they helped me through my darkest times... through any obstacle I've faced in my life, I've managed to find solace with Misery.

You couldn't helped but feel touched by the way he spoke so fondly of your work, how he constantly sang your praises whenever he got the chance. The man was socially awkward it seemed, and perhaps rather shy at times, but he was still surprisingly charming.

"You're too kind..."

"And you're too brilliant," He replied. "You must be to create such a wonderful character like Misery." As he spoke, he traced a finger down your cheek. The swelling was gone, and the bruise was fading. He cleared his throat, hastily pulling his hand away and rising to your feet. "I'll um... just wash these dishes up." He said, seeming rather embarrassed all of a sudden. "I'm sure the road will be open soon, which means the phone lines will be back up in no time. But until they are, I'll kept trying so you can phone your agent."

He stopped when he reached the doorway, turning away from you, his hand hovering over the door knob.

"Is there something wrong?"

"Oh goodness no. I-I was just wondering if I could ask you a favour."

"I'm sure it's the least I could do after you've shown me such kindness." You replied, mustering a small smile that made his expression brighten.

"It's just that I noticed in your case there was a new manuscript..." He trailed off, hesitating slightly.

"You want to read it?"

"If it's not too much trouble. I do not mean to intrude."

"I usually only let three people read my new work this early," You replied, making his smile drop slightly. "And that's my editor, my agent... and the person who was kind enough to save me from dying in a car wreck."

"I... thank you," Aemond smiled. "You have no clue as to the gift you've given me and the gratitude I feel to you."

You shot him a smile, but that soon changed into a grimace as you winced from the pain.

Aemond glanced at his watch, hastily placing your empty plate on the bedside table before reaching into his pocket for the painkillers.

"It's like clockwork, the way your pain returns," He murmured, pressing a glass of water to your lips to help you swallow the pills. "The pain will subside soon. It will be okay," He sighed, placing his hand over yours as your expression twisted in discomfort.

"What's the title of your newly finished book?" He asked, trying to take your mind away from the pain.

"I'm not sure yet," You murmured. "I usually come up with the title after the final draft is finished. Perhaps after you read it, you'll have an idea or two."

Aemond's expression brightened again. "I will do my best not to let you down."

Days past, and soon enough Aemond could move you from the bed to a wheelchair. Your arm was healing nicely, as were your legs, despite there still being some time until the latter were properly healed. Aemond never failed to update your over his progress of the manuscript.

"I read chapter one, it was one of your best introductions to a Misery novel I have ever read..."

"Page twenty, I've reached. It's incredible how you can engage with the reader so quickly in the novel..."

"Page thirty, I had to force myself to put it down..."

It wasn't until one day when he came in with your lunch that something seemed a little... off, about Aemond.

"I know I'm only forty pages into the book..." He began in his usual tone. "But... oh I cannot criticise someone like you-"

"It's fine," You replied. "I can take it. Believe me, if I can deal with the critics, I'm sure I can handle whatever my number one fan has to say."

Aemond softly exhaled, keeping his gaze fixed on where he was cutting up your lunch. "It's just..."

"Just what?"

"It is brilliantly written," Aemond admitted. "Although everything you write is brilliant. But... the swearing..."

You raised an eyebrow.

"The... swearing...?"

"Yes, the swearing. There, I said it!"

"It bothers you?"

"It is inappropriate. It has no nobility," He protested, sawing through the food on your plate.

"It is appropriate for the setting and background of the character speaking-"

Aemond stilled, his hands stopping from cutting your food for you. His head lifted to meet your gaze, his expression uncharacteristically cold.

"No. It isn't," He replied firmly, resuming to cutting your food, his gaze still focused on you. "What do you think people say when they go into the grocery shop in town. Give me a carton of those effing eggs and five slices of that bitchly roast chicken?"

You couldn't help but smile at his refrain from using the profanities, but it faltered as the cutting becoming more and more erratic.

"...And in the bank, do I tell Mr Lannister, here's one big bastard of a cheque, give me some of your darn money?"

You let out a nervous chuckle at his rants, but soon enough your ears were greeted by the grating sound of metal against china. He looked down, slamming the plate down on bedside table.

"There! See? Now see what you have made me do! These were my mother's plates! What she left me when she passed! And now, it's all scratched!"

His chest heaved as he closed his eyes, trying to calm himself down. When they reopened, his good eye was full of shame and embarrassment.

"Oh... I'm so sorry... sometimes I can get so worked up I... oh, can you ever forgive me? Here..." He pressed your pills to your lips before picking up the plate, shooting you a rather overly sweet smile.

"I hope you can forgive me. Oh, Y/N... how I adore you. I mean... your mind. Your creativity... that is all I meant."

Several days passed, and Aemond's previous disposition had returned. He didn't lecture you over the choice of language used in the book, but still seemed disapproving nonetheless. He still cooked and fed you your meals, brushed your teeth, gave you your pills, praised you every waking moment he was with you. The phones were still apparently out, but he had assured you it was only a matter of time before they were up and running again. He had even managed to convince you to autograph his limited edition copy of your first Misery novel, promising to cherish it for the rest of his days.

He still gave you regular updates on reading your manuscript. At page 185, he expressed his sadness at being over halfway through. At page 300, he branded it better than perfect, that it was divine. He said it was more beautiful than any tapestry adorning the Red Keep. He had then introduced you to his pet snake, Vhagar, and his cat called... Misery.

And you had found out more about him.

How he had graduated top of his class from medical school, and how his peers and his family were constantly consumed with jealousy from his success. How they would attempt to belittle and mock him for his eye, and how in his lowest moment, his fiancée, Alys, had left him, but you had saved him with releasing your newest Misery novel some weeks later.

He had told you about the neglect from his father, his older brother's alcoholism and his mother's untimely death. He stiffened when he mentioned his eye, but you quickly changed the conversation and didn't bring it up again, not wanting to upset him by bringing up possible past trauma. And you had listened to him, consoled him over the misfortunes of his past, and he had expressed his gratitude in return.

And then he had left you to rest while he returned to finish the manuscript, which he had entitled Misery's Child.

The slam of your bedroom door awoke you from your doze, your eyes fluttering open to reveal Aemond staring down at you, his face ashen and jaw clenched.

He must have finished the book, it seemed.

"You... she cannot be dead," He murmured. "Misery cannot be dead!" He then exclaimed, voice rising. "How... how could you do this to me?"

"Women in that age... it was tragically common for them to die in childbirth, Aemond. I'm sure you know that. But you know, she will still be alive in... in spirit..."

"I do not want her spirit! I WANT HER! AND YOU MURDERED HER!" He yelled.

"I... I didn't kill her..."

"THEN WHO DID?"

"Nobody she... she passed away and..."

"She passed awa- she passed away?! No, Y/N, you did it. You killed her. You murdered my Misery."

He picked up the chair by your beside where he usually sat with you with ease despite it's weight, rising it in the air as if to strike it down on you before turning and throwing it against the wall. It shattered immediately upon impact, breaking into pieces on the floor.

"I... I thought you were good," He murmured, tone suddenly soft. "But you're not good. You're just a dirty, untrustworthy woman. I don't... I don't think I should be near you for a while..."

He walked to the door, and stopped to turn back to you.

"And don't even think about anybody coming for you. Not the doctors, your agent, your editor... I won't call them. I haven't called them and I never will. Nobody knows you're even here. And you better hope nothing ever happens to me... because if it does... you'll die."

After the click in the lock of your door, followed by the slamming of the front door and the revving of Aemond's car as it pulls away from the house, you let out the breath you didn't know you had been holding.

You were slightly shaken from Aemond's outburst, but tried to focus on what needed to be done, shifting to the other side of your bed and reaching out with your arm. It had come out of it's sling several days ago, and was now bandaged in a cast. You managed to grasp ahold of the armrest and pull it towards the best, shifting your body closer to the edge of the bed. Your legs screamed in agony as you manoeuvred yourself onto the wheelchair, but you persisted nonetheless, managing to sit down in the chair and wheel yourself towards the door. Reaching into your hair, you pulled out a hairpin Aemond had leant you, pushing it into the keyhole and soon enough hearing a click. Turning the knob, you pulled open the door and wheeled yourself out of the room, looking down the flight of stairs that blocked your way.

Letting out a deep sigh, you gripped the banister with one hand as you slowly steered yourself to the edge of the staircase.

"What have I got to lose?" You murmured, before wheeling the chair down the stairs.

The chair turned on its side as it crashed down the last step, but you managed to hoist yourself up again. You immediately tried grabbing a phone, but it turned out to be fake. You then discovered the windows bolted shut and both of the front and back doors having a second lock at the top, which you couldn't reach due to not being strong enough to stand just yet.

You wheeled yourself back into the living room, looking at the photographs placed on the drawers against the wall. There was Aemond as a young boy standing with his siblings and mother, his eye unharmed. Another showed him graduating medical school, a proud smile on his face. The third was him with his mother. And the fourth... was you.

He truly wasn't lying when he said he was your biggest fan.

Between the two photographs was a crystal dragon ornament, and beneath that was an emerald scrap book. You lifted the ornament carefully and grabbed the book, opened it.

The beginning seemed fairly normal. More photographs of his childhood and teen years. The was a photograph of him at what seemed to be a formal event with a women you only assumed was Alys. She was dressed in dark green, matching Aemond's tie, and you were sure she was very pretty, but you couldn't see her face due to the black ink scribbled over it, almost cutting through the photo. The next page was work related. More photographs and newspaper clippings of his medical success.

But turning the page was a different story entirely.

The first page contained a page of the newspaper, what seemed to be it's headline emblazoned in large capital letters.

'Doctor Aemond Targaryen arrested for the murder of nephew Lucerys Velaryon'

'Doctor Aemond Targaryen was arrested this morning, accused of the murder of his nephew, Lucerys Velaryon. Targaryen, 20, pleaded not guilty to the death of Velaryon, 16, under the accusation he had simply acted in self defence after his nephew attacked him with a knife and caused the disfigurement of his left eye'

And it only got worse as you read the following pages.

'Targaryen trial postponed until December 10.'

Accompanying the headlines were photographs of him standing in front of the courthouse with his lawyer, Larys Strong, a stony expression on his face.

'Targaryen declared innocent by jury, claims he was a victim of a malicious attack.'

'Shamed doctor Aemond Targaryen resigns from King's Landing hospice.'

You slammed the book shut, a sick feeling brewing in your stomach as you hastily placed the book in it's position with the ornament on top.

Wheeling yourself to the stairs, you gripped the banister and you pulled yourself up the stairs. Your arms ached, the muscle burning and sweat beading on your forehead as you persisted, refusing to let go and crash back down to the bottom again.

In time, you reached the top of the stairs, moving the wheelchair as quickly as you could, taking the pin out and moving towards the bed, when a slam of a car door stopped you in your tracks.

Aemond was back.

You knew he would enquire about the now unlocked door, but you could just pass it off by saying you urgently needed to use the bathroom. You also knew that you didn't have enough time to haul yourself back into bed, and so you did what you could, and threw yourself out of the chair and onto the floor, pushing the wheelchair away from you slightly as the front door opened, the rustling of paper bags being put on the table before the creaking of the stairs. There was a slight falter before he twisted the knob and pushed the door open.

He knew it was unlocked.

"What happened?" He asked, voice laced with concern as he hurried over to you, lifting you into his arms and shushing your cry of pain as he placed you down in bed atop the covers. His glasses had been taken off, the brilliant blue of his good eye burning into you.

"I needed the bathroom, but I couldn't get back into bed I... I lost my balance and fell on the floor..." You lied, hoping that you managed to convince him that your story was true.

"You needed to use the bathroom?" He asked, receiving a nod from you in response.

"And you managed to get yourself on and off the toilet alright?"

Another nod.

He slowly nodded in response, and you let out a small sigh of relief, visibly relaxing at him seemingly believing your story.

"And... you managed to get down the stairs and into the living room without hurting yourself after picking your bedroom door lock?" He added, his tone still soft.

A little too soft.

"Aemond... I never..."

"And you managed to somehow drag yourself back upstairs into your room?"

"I... I don't..."

"The dragon ornament on top of my photograph album," He replied. "It was pointing the wrong way."

You opened your mouth to speak, but found yourself at a loss for words, you mouth dry and your blood running cold.

"It's okay," He murmured, running his thumb over your lower lip. "I shouldn't have scared you. I know I did. I frightened you, hm? Well for that I apologise. I will refrain from repeating that behaviour in the future." He added, leaning forward slightly. "You are so incredibly important to me, Y/N. I'm sure you know that. You saw the photograph downstairs..."

You tried to speak again but he quickly shushed you, the finger resting on your lip tracing down your jaw, your neck, across your collarbone. His pupil had dilated, his breath quickening slightly as his hand moved down to your chest, covered by one of his shirts he had given you, framing your body in a pale blue.

"You do not need to speak Y/N," He whispered, leaning closer still, one hand placed the other side of you, caging you against him. "You will only waste your energy..."

As he pressed his lips to yours, you knew you couldn't fight back. You were weaker with him even without your injuries, and with his erratic behaviour, and what you had discovered downstairs...

And so you let him deepen the kiss. You let him part your lips with his tongue. You let his hand wander down from fondling your breast to your waist, pulling the shorts you had on down to your knees.

You let him ever so gently part your legs, pressing a line of kisses along your upper thigh, and then pay the same attention to the other, his lips tracing your flesh that had been swollen with bruises the week before.

Did you even know how long you had been here?

Staring up at the same ceiling, being enclosed in those same four walls day after day had merged the days together.

And if you asked Aemond, would he tell you the truth?

You couldn't trust him, but you needed to stay alive. And if you had any hope of getting out of here alive, you needed to stay on his good side.

And so there you were, legs spread as Aemond lowered himself between them, his moans vibrating against you at your taste, his tongue circling your clit and sending a jolt of pleasure through you that was both pain and pleasure as your legs twitched slightly, a hand tangling in his silver locks.

You resented the way your legs squeezed around his head as he thrust two fingers into you, murmuring against you about how wet with want you were for him. Your body was betraying you, but you couldn't stop the way he was making you feel such pleasure. The mere curling of his fingers against your sweet spot, or the flick of his tongue against your swollen clit caused a string of breathy moans to leave you, and soon you found yourself coming undone. He drew his fingers out of you, replacing them with his tongue as he eagerly lapped at your release.

He sat back, lips glinting with your release. He reached forward, fingers parting your lips so you could taste yourself on him. He let out a satisfactory groan as you sucked on his fingers, allowing them to linger on your lips as he pulled away.

Pressing his lips to yours, he pulled your underwear and shorts back up to rest on your hips.

"I would love to go further with you, but I'll have to wait until you're back to your full strength. It may take some time... but I think I can manage with having your addictive taste on my tongue until I can truly claim you as mine. You'd like that, hm?"

"I..." You let out a deep breath. This man was unhinged. He'd break your ankles with a sledgehammer before letting you leave. You knew that your best chance to survive this, was to play along. Allow Aemond to believe that you were beginning to reciprocate his affections for long enough so he could let down his walls and nurse you back to health so you could escape.

"I would like that..." You murmured, looking away to feign embarrassment.

"It is nothing to be ashamed of, my darling Y/N." Aemond replied, looking at you with such fondness, you wouldn't have believed he was a murderer. He paused for a moment. "This may not be the best time, but I have a surprise for you. In the other guest room."

"Oh... okay..."

"If you want to wait another day, as disappointing as that would be-"

"No, I can see it now," You hastily replied as to not flair that nasty temper up again. He smiled warmly in response, stepping towards you as you reached for the wheelchair, but he instead lifted you into your arms bridal style, walking you away from the chair and towards the bedroom door. Instinctively, you wrapped an arm around the back of his neck, your head resting against his shoulder.

He pushed open the door with his foot, giving you another overly sweet smile as he proudly declared "It's your new studio. I set it up last night. I just needed to get the typewriter and paper, which are downstairs."

"But... w-why..."

"You need a place to work, after all," He interrupted you, placing you down on the desk chair. "All writers need a place to work."

"B-but... what would I write?" You asked.

Aemond smirked at you, walking over to where a trashcan sat in the far corner of the room. The clang as it landed on the floor echoed around the room as he dropped it at your feet, your manuscript discarded in it.

"You want me... to burn my book?" You looked up at him in disbelief.

"I know this may be difficult to you," Aemond nodded, reaching into his back pocket and bringing out a box of matches.

"I... I can't..."

"Yes. You can," Aemond's voice was firm. "You can do this. Do it. Now."

Your hands began to tremble as he pressed the matchbox into them, pouring lighter fluid into the trashcan.

"I know this is the only copy," He continued. "You always only write one copy at first. When you were eighteen, you wrote your first book and you didn't make a single copy. Because you didn't think anybody would take it seriously. But they did. And you kept that tradition because it's a superstition to you, and you don't want to make a copy in fear of it being rejected. I'm trying to help you can't you see that?" His voice was steadily rising as his agitation grew, making the tremble in your hands worsen.

"I just want to help you. Why won't you let me help-"

As he spoke, you hastily lit one of the matches and threw it in the trashcan, the manuscript exploding into flame.

And as Aemond lovingly kissed your forehead, murmuring how proud he was of you for being so strong, all you could do was stare at the flames consuming your work, your own masterpiece.

"Now you can go back to doing what you're great at," Aemond murmured, a hand resting on your shoulder. "You can write a new novel, your greatest achievement ever... Misery's return."

He knelt down by you, a finger hooking beneath your chin, turning your head to meet his gaze. "I know you didn't mean it when you killed her. And now you can make it right. You can even write it in my honour, as a thanks for saving your life and nursing you back to health." He leaned forward so his breath was tickling your ear, his hand now resting on your thigh. "Although there are also other ways you can repay that debt to me."

"And you... you expect me to write something up just like that?" You asked.

"I expect nothing less than a masterpiece from you," He replied reassuringly, pressing another kiss to you, this time on the cheek. "I have the upmost faith in you my darling... I know you won't let me down... and if you do... we'll just have to start again. And again. And again... you won't try to escape, will you?"

"O-of course not. I... wouldn't dream of it."

Aemond hummed in approval. "I know you won't," He whispered, kissing you on the lips before standing up. "No one will come for you. If they do... I won't let them take you. If they try to take you from you, or if you do try to leave..." He said, opening a storage closet and reached inside, brandishing a sledgehammer. "There are other ways of keeping you here... with me... forever..."

Masterlist

#Aemond Targaryen #Aemond Targaryen x reader #Aemond Targaryen imagine #House of the dragon #House of the dragon x reader #House of the dragon imagine #Spooktober

314 notes · View notes

thetempleofthemasaigoddess · 1 year ago

Text

When you touch me, I am where love is born

Young!Mihawk x reader.

This fic is part of the Beast in Black series.

*****

The man is attractive, if you like the burly type, with rough features and a full beard - which you occasionally do, even though you are slightly put off by the fact that your would-be victim, a former pirate who is now working solo as a robber, has killed twelve people, all of them but one defenseless civilians and including four children, to steal their valuables. Your grandfather, who put your first gun in your hand when you were only nine and taught you to use it, and a number of other firearms, to perfection, told you emotions are often a shooter's worst enemy, a cause of confusion and inaccuracy and worst of all hesitation, especially when the target you are shooting at has a weapon of their own; still, in your heart you feel satisfaction, even joy, and not guilt, at the thought that you will rid the world of this lowlife and protect his future potential victims.

Your target has no permanent residence and is notoriously proficient at putting pursuers off his tracks, but you were able to track down an accomplice of his who, for a small price, told you he would be in a certain island, on a particular day.

He is, and you are as well, having reached the island yesterday by ferry under the guise of a normal, innocuous tourist eager to enjoy the island's luxurious beaches and night-life. The truth couldn't be more different, and as you check for the twelfth time your gun is loaded and ready to shoot, you order yourself to keep your cool and stop your heart from beating twice as fast as normal. Yes, this is your first assignment as a mercenary; yes, you are still very young, and a woman, which would lead many of your fellow killers for hire to look down on you and doubt your ability; yes, you have never killed anyone before, which could make you hesitate once you will have to actually pull the trigger, not at a clay pigeon or another target prepared by your grandfather for your training, but at a living, real person.

But you can do it. You want to do it, because you have trained so much and so long for this, and that man does deserve to pay for what he has done, and you want to prove, to the world and more importantly to yourself, what you are worth, how strong and clever and resilient you are, beyond the family you were born in and the role you will take on one day. Your grandfather, an excellent gunslinger who had been a mercenary himself in his youth, expects you to put to good use everything he taught you and succeed, and your mother, while naturally worried for your safety, raised no objections and allowed you to begin a career as a killer for hire, knowing you felt the need to put yourself to the test beyond the comfortable, tranquil borders of your island. They both count on you, and you'd rather eat glass than disappoint them… and yourself, the harshest, least forgiving judge of all.

Also, if I don't kill that guy, he will probably kill me. That's also something I should keep in mind.

Having kept watch on the old barn, in the middle of the countryside, your target had spent the night in, you have seen him leave soon after dawn, the long sword he used to kill most of his victims as usual by his side, and set out towards an uninhabited corner of the island. You followed closely, careful not to lose him and, at the same time, not to be spotted, and three miles later you saw him reach an old abandoned mine; there is no sign of life for miles all around, which makes you suspect that, more than preparing an heist in a bank or a shop, or to attack an unsuspecting traveller to rob and then kill them, the man is meeting with an accomplice to organize an hit, or perhaps he has chosen the mine as his new hideout, to lay low for a while.

But all things being equal, the reason that has brought him here doesn't really matter; he might be looking for a safe place to store his stamp collection, or planning to transform the place in an ice cream shop for all you care. The only thing that counts is that you will kill him today, provide justice for all the people he has murdered, and begin making a name for yourself as a mercenary. You don't care about the bounty money, that you plan to donate to the less affluent families of your island (after, perhaps, you have treated yourself to a good dinner) and even becoming famous as a killer for hire is a side issue; you only want to do what is right, and prove yourself you are more than a privileged young woman, born with a silver spoon in her mouth and destined to a life of tranquility and power.

Even if it means risking your life.

Your target has reached the entrance of the mine, securely boarded up and surmounted by a large KEEP OUT sign; he walks back and forth, clearly nervous as he smokes a cigarette, fingering the hilt of his sword. Hidden in a small ramshackle building, perhaps the old foreman's office, no more than ten paces away, you look at him through a crack in the door, kneeling on the dirty floor; your heart is pounding, a feeling of tightness constricting your stomach, the hand grasping your gun (a good, reliable and lethal model; not the derringer you will one day receive as a gift from your father and that you will treasure for the rest of your days, but still perfectly up to the task) sweating. Despite all the time and effort you dedicated to prepare for this moment, you are a nervous wreck, which is not completely a bad thing, since the last thing you should do is underestimate the danger you are in. Your target is still alone, busy smoking and apparently unaware of your presence, but any moment you waste could be the one he decides to leave, or he is joined by someone else; after all he does look as if he is waiting for someone. You can't hesitate any longer.

You stand slowly, grimacing at the pain in your knees, retrieve a second gun from the bag you have left on the floor, to use should the first one jam, and slide it in the holster hanging from your waist; you have chosen comfortable clothing, for obvious reason, and soft-soled boots, that allow you to walk as noiselessly as possible… and, in turn, to make it harder for your target to hear you approach.

The man has turned his back to the shack, busy lighting another cigarette after the one he has just put out under his foot; it's your moment, you decide, and you waste no time in slipping out of the splintered door and take one step, and then another, towards him.

Years and even decades later, as the list of your victims grows longer and you get used to the tension and the danger your job entails, you will still remember this moment as clear and vivid as if it had taken place yesterday, down to the smallest detail. The glowing yellow-red of the sun barely raised above the horizon; the natural vegetation rustling in the gentle wind; the russet colour of the unsown earth under your feet; the expectant, charged silence broken only by the distant call of a carrion crow. You are only partially aware of your actions, your instinct and training taking over, as you take a third step, which brings you at maybe six from your target - more than close enough for a clean shot. Your gun is aimed, your finger already brushing against the trigger. You are about to talk, but the man, still turned the other way, anticipates you.

"I was waiting for you." he says, tense but calm, and the shock is almost enough to make the gun slip from your hand; you have been very careful to remain hidden, making sure he had no idea you were keeping a close eye on him, and you were absolutely sure you had succeeded, and would easily sneak up on your target. Apparently the truth is different… or at least so it seems for a moment, before the man finally turns, sees you, and goggles.

"What the… who the hell are you?!"

"I…"

"Where is Mihawk?" he insists, which is a question you have no answer for, but that at the same time is enough to dispel your doubts: he had no idea you were coming, and was actually waiting for someone else - perhaps an ally or an accomplice.

It takes your target half a second to notice the gun you are aiming at him. "What the…?!" he exclaims, letting his second cigarette fall to the floor and grabbing his sword.

It is already a full second to late.

"Jack 'The Tiger' Vespertine." you begin, mimicking the formal tone you heard your mother use so many times; you will decide to do away with the declaration of intents by your third assignment, like virtually all World Government-sanctioned mercenaries and killers for hire do, especially when the target is already aware of the danger they are in and armed, but since this is your first time you deem appropriate to follow the rules to the letter "You have been found guilty of twelve counts of murder…"

Vespertine's sword is drawn with a movement too fast for your eyes to follow, but thank all the Gods you are fast as well, and ready; a battle-cry fills the air, and half a second later, when the man has barely had the time to raise his blade above his head, your finger pulls the trigger, and the bullet explodes out of the gun's barrel, opening a hole in the middle of his forehead.

Vespertine is not an heavy man, but the thud of his body hitting the ground is deafening, the ground shaking under your feet. He doesn't move, and for a full minute you don't either; you stare at the body in front of you, your gun still pointed at him even though you know he is most likely already dead, as you push his sword away with your boot. You can't see his face, since he has fallen on his belly, so, for safety's sake, you shoot him again, in the back; the man doesn't move, which is proof enough for you.

Somewhere in the distance, the carrion crow cries again, a sound vaguely similar to an acid laugh; you glance all around you, making sure you are still alone and no one witnessed your actions, and then cautiously crouch down, using your free hand to turn the body on his back and look at it -at him- in the face.

This moment is the reason why you decided to do it like this. Up close, looking at him in the face and making sure he saw you and, within reason, knew you were going to kill him, instead of finding a safer way, hidden among the shrubs or from a moving vehicle or even at the third floor of a building, so that your target would have no way to know what was going to happen, and to defend himself. You had to let him know; not because you owed him (he was a killer, scum like that was entitled to nothing) but because you needed it.

"There is nothing wrong with aiming from a distance, and shooting at someone who doesn't expect it, at least if you're a mercenary and chasing a certain sort of people; in a fair duel, or when the person you are shooting at deserves to know what is going to happen to them, different rules apply." your grandfather told you one day, as you walked together in the fortress' gardens, at the end of yet another training session; he was an honourable man, your grandfather, but he was also smart and pragmatic, and he knew honour was something a person could not always afford to care for, and that when you didn't leave someone else to pay for your actions there was nothing wrong with running away to fight another day "We are not swordfighters; we don't duel for supremacy, for a grandiose title or so that everyone in the world knows our name. The gun is a weapon; if you want to kill someone, use it and it will do its work. It's not your friend, or a talisman that endows you with some arcane power; it is a tool that you need to learn to use, otherwise you will be the one getting hurt. It is a bloody business, a raw and practical one, devoid of heroics and ethics, but it can protect you and help you make your way in the world. It all depends on you. Just..."

"Just?"

Your grandfather had stopped, contemplating the rose bushes your mother tended to personally, and that ran all around a tiny plot of grass, where your family had enjoyed so many outdoor breakfasts.

"What I'm trying to say is that using firearms, especially for a deadly purpose like you mean to, is something you mustn't take lightly." he continued as he looked at you; he loved you dearly, but in that moment there was sternness in him, as if he were warning you against a terrible danger, or a grave crime you were about to commit. You liked it; he was the first person to treat you like an adult, years before you could even vaguely call yourself that "It... goes to your head; the power to kill with a simple press of your finger can make even the most rational and moderate person feel all-powerful. And the risk of forgetting it is people you are shooting at and killing, not clay pigeons or game to serve at dinner, is high."

You looked at him; he was probably the person you loved the most in the world behind your mother, and he was wiser than even her. You trusted him completely, and you knew he only wanted what was best for you; had he said bathing every day in olive oil would make you immortal, you would have believed him.

"And you think this could happen to me?" you asked, afraid of hearing his answer; evening was approaching, flames of red and purple painting the darkening sky above your heads "I... I don't want it to, grandfather; I only want to kill bad people, like you did. I don't want to become bad myself."

Suddenly he smiled, as he took your hand in his like he did when you were still so young you needed to be guided as you walked. "I have faith in you, (name); I know there is no kinder girl in all the four seas, and I am sure you will one day rule over our island with justice and mercy." he told you "But if you really want to become a gunslinger... you have to promise me something: when you kill a man, you have to look at him in the eyes; not necessarily before, as I told you, but at least after. Take responsibility for what you have done, and face the consequence of your actions. Especially the first time."

A sudden gust of wind passed over you; the evening was warm, but you suddenly felt chilled.

"Promise me, (name)."

"I promise, grandfather. I will do as you said."

And you do, contemplating the body of the man in front of you, now truly alone in that isolated corner of the world. You feel no guilt; rather, you are proud of yourself, and you know your grandfather will be as well, when you'll call home to reassure him and your mother you are all right. You have proved yourself, punished a vicious murderer, and given justice to his victims. All in all, a good day... even though you do feel a bit upset, even if you couldn't exactly say why.

You can't tear your eyes away from Vespertine -or rather, from his mortal remains- even longer than what your grandfather would deem necessary. The bullet you have killed him with went right through his cranium, but the hole it created is no bigger than a bean at the centre of his forehead, and his face is still perfectly recognizable... which is good, since you wouldn't be able to collect the bounty if you can't prove you killed the right man. You saw another body once, an inexperienced guard on your island, who had shot himself in the face with his service pistol as he cleaned it, and the bullet had completely erased his features, so much that even his parents couldn't formally recognize him...

Vespertine's old bounty poster, from the time he was still part of his old pirate crew, is folded in the inside pocket of your jacket; you take it out, open it, observe it carefully comparing the man in the picture with the one lying on the ground in front of you, and finally sigh, relieved. You had already checked it for the third time twenty minutes ago, as you waited for the right moment in the foreman's office, to make sure you had actually found the right man and were not about to kill an innocent who simply resembled him, but this is obviously the first time you can examine him up close and yes, this is undoubtedly Vespertine himself. You killed him... but your work is not over yet.

Still, you can't stop looking at him. His eyes, of the same colour of your mother's, are still open, a single drop of blood that slid down from the wound leaving a tiny blood trail along the side of his nose. He had had time to realize you were attempting to kill him, but his expression betrays neither fear, nor rage, nor the pain he must have felt as he died; rather, he seems... surprised, as if he really hadn't expected to see you, to be attacked, and that that quiet, still morning would be the last of his life.

I'm doing it, grandfather, you think; you will make sure to tell him in person once you're back home, to let him know you haven't forgotten what he had taught you, but for now, mentally addressing him is the best you can do. Just like you told me to. And now I know what you meant; I feel exactly as you thought I would. I killed him; and all it took was pulling a trigger. He wasn't a good man, and he deserved this and even more. But still... But still...

It is sudden and violent, like a punch (or a bullet) to the stomach; the bounty poster falls from your fingers, and you fall to your knees, your legs unable to support you. Your head swims; your heart beats fast enough to hurt; cold sweat covers your back, your arms, your whole body...

A disgusting sound (bleeeaarrggghh) escapes your lips, followed by everything you had eaten in the last twelve hours.

*****

You start feeling a little better fifteen minutes later, and thank all the Gods you have water and paper towels in your bag, which allows you to clean yourself at least a little bit.

After a brief rest, you get to work, retrieving other tools from your bag: a knife, a sturdy sack, the sort you use to store grain or flour, and a tinderbox. You bit your lip, ordering yourself not to feel sick again, as you cut Vespertine's head, sawing through skin and tendons and bone and separating it from his body; consequently, you put it in the sack. Collecting wood takes you only a few minutes, since the countryside abounds with fallen branches and twigs; lighting a fire is equally easy, since you have been taught to use flint and steel since you were a little girl. Dragging your victim's body over the (still unlit) pyre is the hardest part, since he must be twice as heavy as you, but in the end you succeed, and soon Vespertine's remains are burning and then reduced to ashes, leaving no trace of his passing that an eventual friend or ally could trace back to you. Unsure of what to do with it, you finally bury the man's sword near the entrance of the mine, digging with your bare hands since you don't have a shovel at hand and making sure it cannot be found.

You then place the sack containing your victim's head in your bag; the idea of carrying that thing around is more than a little disgusting, but doing the same with the entire body would be much more tiring, and your grandfather said it will be more than enough to claim the bounty, since a severed head is clear proof of a person's death.

Soon after, you set off. You haven't lowered your guard yet, in case Vespertine hadn't come alone or had friends and allies nearby, not to mention that watching your back will now have to become the norm, but you feel relieved you have completed your task, and you can't wait to reward yourself with a good meal, cash the bounty and return home to tell your mother and grandfather about your first success as a mercenary.

You have started whistling a popular song of your island, the warmth of the blooming day kissing your skin, when suddenly you are not alone on the road anymore; a tall man is walking purposefully towards you, and towards the mine... a man with a large sword hanging from his belt.

Shit. Vespertine did say he was expecting someone, and while you cannot be sure this guy is (was) a friend of your victim and would want to avenge his death, the best, safest thing you can do is to get away as quickly as you can, before he realizes what has happened and that you must be responsible for it. Is it cowardly? Perhaps - no, it surely is, and your grandfather did tell you the honourable man is very often the dead man as well, and you are a mercenary, not a warrior, you are not bound by a code of conduct and it would be very stupid to risk your life when you have nothing to gain from it, but...

But...

"Excuse me." you call to the man who has by now walked five or six steps behind you, turning to look at him and thinking back to your brief conversation with Vespertine "Is your name... Mihawk?"

The man turns, clearly surprised to hear a stranger mention his name. He is very tall, slim but strong, dark-haired, practically but elegantly dressed.

"Do I know you?" he asks after a moment he has spent observing you.

"No, but perhaps we have a mutual acquaintance. Did you know Jack "The Tiger" Vespertine? Were you meant to meet him today?"

You grimace, realizing you have used the past tense when this man -Mihawk- still has no idea Vespertine is dead. This is probably the stupidest, most dangerous thing you have ever done, a leap in the dark, because your gun is still charged and nothing would stop you from at least trying to kill your second swordsman of the day, but you could simply keep walking, and he would have no way to know what has happened, since there is no trace of Vespertine's remains and by the time Mihawk may suspect he had been killed, you would be long gone.

Still. Something in your heart tells you you are doing the right thing, because you are not a coward, and because this man will not prove to be a danger for you. You don't know why, but you are sure.

"Is he a friend of yours?"

Mihawk brings his arms to his chest; he is still staring, and there is something in his gaze that makes you squirm - in his gaze, or perhaps in his eyes, which are of a very unusual colour...

"Why should I tell you?" he asks in the end.

"No reason, actually." you admit "It's just... well, I hope you were not close friends, or related, because he is dead."

Silence. You tense, ready for whatever his reaction will be, but the man lets his arms fall to his sides, without touching his sword - a good blade, he will tell you in time, but still largely inferior to Yoru, that will not come into his possession for a few years still.

"You killed him?"

"I did. Less than an hour ago, at the mine he was waiting for you at."

"Are you a pirate?"

No, just the daughter of one, you are for a moment about to answer, before quickly stopping yourself. You have been sworn to silence regarding the identity of your father, for the safety of your family and your own, and you have never been tempted to break that promise until now. What is happening to you?, you wonder, feeling strangely numbed all of a sudden, why do you instinctively feel able, or even eager, to share your secrets with a man you had never met before...?

(You will understand it; in time. And you will be happy of it.)

"No; I'm a mercenary working for the World Government." you answer in the end, trying to pull yourself together; it is technically not the truth, at least until you cash your first bounty, but the Marines do have a number of killers for hire on call, and who knows, perhaps one day you will be part of that selected circle... "Vespertine left a long list of victims behind him, there is a bounty on his head."

"I see."

You wait for him to elaborate, to express rage or regret or joy at the news of Vespertine's death, but Mihawk is clearly not the loquacious sort, because he keeps his emotions for himself, and "Thanks for telling me." he simply says.

"No problem. Why was he waiting for you?" you ask again, cocking your head; you have no idea of how dangerous he is, even now that he is little more than a boy, but even if you knew, you wouldn't be deterred. You are curious... and fascinated, somehow, by this stern and hermetic young man.

Mihawk looks at you, clearly disapproving of your curiosity, but in the end he sighs, and finally gives you the explanation you wanted. "We were meant to duel, Vespertine and I. He had challenged me a month ago, and we were meant to meet this morning at the mine. I... am running late, unfortunately, because the ship I took to reach this island clashed against a larger one and for a while it seemed it would go under."

"Oh, that's... scary."

He shrugs, clearly unconcerned. "I would have managed, I am a capable swimmer. I was just afraid Vespertine thought I had decided not to meet him because I was afraid."

"He... was a capable swordsman?" you ask again, still eager to learn more; the only bladed weapon you have ever handled is the knife you use at the table and, now, the larger one you took with you from home to separate your victim's head from his body, but you have always been fascinated by the world of the swordfighters, bound by a strict code of behaviour, who often have to prove themselves before a more experienced fighter accepts to train them and among whom most serious duels end with the death of one of the two opponents. For them, the weapon is not a tool, of defense and offense; it is... an art. A cult, almost.

"Above average, from what I saw, which is not saying much. But he had challenged me, and refusing would have been a stain upon my honour."

Just like you expected. "I see. Well." you add, suddenly embarrassed "I'm sorry I took your opponent away from you."

Mihawk shrugs, marginally more inclined to chat. "If he let you kill him, it means he wasn't a worthy opponent." he reasons; he has no facial hair, but his sideburns are long and neatly trimmed, and while already tall he's still a few inches away from his full stature "I should thank you for saving me a futile effort."

You cock your head, an eyebrow raised. "Are you saying I am less capable a markswoman than you are a swordsman?" you inquire; you don't care if Mihawk will propose to see for yourselves and challenge you, forgotten is the guilt you felt for ruining his morning. Who the hell this smart-ass thinks he is, especially considering you must be the same age? You don't care how actually powerful he is, you wouldn't even care if he were the world's strongest swordsman, no one can insult you and get away with it "Is it because I am a woman? Or because I use a gun and not a sword?"

"No, I..."

"I'll have you know I've been trained by one of the most capable former mercenaries of the four seas, and that Vespertine didn't even have the time to attack me before I put a bullet through his head."

"I'm sure you are more than capable." Mihawk says, clearly aiming to pacify you but, fortunately, without sounding patronizing "Forgive me; I meant no disrespect."

He seems sincere - he is, he will confess to you years later, and deeply embarrassed for the gaffe he just made; it is rare for him to admit he had erred... but, he will confide you with the shadow of a smile, he is happy those words didn't make you hate him, then and in the years to come. Because of this you decide to forgive him, and

"If you want we can split the bounty." you propose, feeling generous; you intended to donate the money to someone who needed it on your island, but you can take another assignment soon "Or, you know, there is Verspertine's sword, I can tell you where I buried it..."

Mihawk shakes his head. "I can only take another swordsman's blade if I am the one who bested them; in any case, I doubt a man like Vespertine owned a blade I could be interested in." he points out "And I don't need compensation; you killed him, you deserve to keep the money. Well, I... I suppose I should go back."

"Right..."

Silently, you both set off once more, walking side by side along the only path towards the nearest village. You are still on edge, both happy for your first success and shaken by the fact that you have, after all, just killed a man, but soon you find yourself focusing on something else... namely, on the young man walking next to you. He is undoubtedly handsome, but it's something else that piques your curiosity... a depth, and complexity, unusual for one so young, and that you can perceive behind his apparently impassible façade.

"So." you begin conversationally after a while; you have almost a mile to walk to the village, and maybe chatting will make you reach your destination faster "Are you any good with that sword?"

Mihawk grunts, the tiniest hint of amusement in his voice. "I like to think I am more than good."

"Really? Are you famous?"

"I am... becoming famous. This is why Vespertine wanted to duel me."

"And you think you would have beaten him?"

"I know I would have."

He speaks matter-of-factly, as if describing an undeniable truth and without the slightest hint of arrogance or overconfidence; you usually appreciate humility, and you have no way to know whether he is as good as he thinks he is, but you like the self-assurance he carries himself with.

"So this is what you do? Go around, duel other swordsmen so that you make a name for yourself as a powerful fighter?"

"I do." Mihawk easily acknowledges "When I'm not too busy fighting the Marines and looking for a loot or another."

"You're a pirate."

"I am. A wanted one, in case you were thinking of claiming my bounty as well."

You smile, aware you are both involved in a game whose rules are still undecided. "Is that a challenge?" you inquire, and Mihawk shrugs, looking straight in front of him.

"If you want to consider it as such."

"I see. Luckily for you, I intend to cash Vespertine's bounty before looking for another assignment, so I will not challenge you today."

"Luckily for me..."

Silence falls between you, an unexpectedly companionable one considering you have known each other only for a few minutes. As you glance sideways at Mihawk, you can't help noticing his eyes, yellow like the ones of a hawk; you have never seen anything of the sort, but there is beauty in his gaze.

"What about you?" Mihawk asks "What has brought you to become a mercenary?"

"Are you surprised?"

"Women are a minority in the trade, those as young as you even more so. You are wearing clothes of good quality, which means you are probably not doing it for the money. Am I right?"

"You are."

Mihawk grins. "As I thought. So what? Are you following in a relative's footsteps? Or were you simply bored?"

"Both things, in a sense." you admit, walking leisurely along the mud-smeared path; the fact that a virtual stranger is able to read you so easily should upset you, but it doesn't, maybe because you can perceive Mihawk poses no danger to you, or maybe not "I... simply needed to test myself. Growing up, I never had to worry about money, or fear for my safety; I'm not saying I was spoiled, or that I spend my days idling without duties and responsibilities, but I feared letting things go like they were meant to, I would become indolent, content with what I had but unable to aim higher. I never needed to prove I was strong, and clever, and capable of taking care of myself; but I wanted to make sure I was anyway."

You are not sure your reasoning makes sense, especially to someone who barely knows you, but Mihawk nods in understanding - in approval, even. "That was brave of you. And clever."

"I just wanted to do what I thought was right."

Twenty minutes of sporadic but pleasant conversation later, you have reached the village, actually little more than a handful of houses and little shops and a tiny harbour, connected by a regular ferry service to a larger island from where you can easily catch another boat to return home. Perhaps, you reflect, you should think about buying a small ship of your own; experienced sailors are not lacking on your island, and you could ask someone to teach you...

"You want to join me for a meal?" you propose as you walk past a tavern; you know you and Mihawk are destined to part soon anyway and will probably never meet again, but he is the most interesting person you have met in a long while, and you like talking to him "After all it's breakfast time..."

Mihawk hesitates for a moment, taken aback by your offer. "I'd... like that." he answers, and you could swear that surprises him as well "But I need to depart soon."

"I see. Well..."

You are both standing in the village's tiny, almost empty square. This is good-bye, then, you're about to say, but impulsively you step closer to the man in front of you, who tenses. "What...?"

"Your eyes." you murmur without realizing. You were right, they are yellow, their gaze piercing and deep, intense albeit not necessarily cruel "They are... beautiful."

"... you think?"

"Of course; I had never seen anyone with eyes like yours! They make you look like a bird of prey. Like an hawk."

Something in your words makes the man in front of you smile; he is flattered, and still not as good at hiding his emotions as he will be in twenty years. "I've been told that before."

"Is it hereditary? Do you have a particularly sharp vision or...?"

"I... don't think so; no one I have ever met has them, and I see normally."

"Amazing..."

Silence again; you face each other, both still so young, full of dreams and ambition, unaware of what the future has in store for you - individually and not. Neither has any idea you will meet again, and how your relationship will change and grow, but in that moment, both of you are sure, a sort of quiet, clear certitude: you will remember that brief encounter forever.

In the end Mihawk takes a step back, both literally and metaphorically. "I should go." he softly points out nodding in the direction of the village's harbour "So... good-bye."

"Good-bye, Mihawk." you answer, intimately saddened for reasons you can't fully explain even to yourself; it is not like you to get attached to people you barely know, but there is something interesting in this young swordsman, something special, and you wouldn't mind having the time to discover exactly what...

A nod, the hint of a smile, and he's walking away. You look at his retreating figure for a minute, his dark hair gently swaying in the breeze, his hand elegantly resting on the hilt of his sword.

"Maybe one day we'll meet again." you call out to him, making Mihawk turn "Maybe I'll be asked to bring you in to the Marines."

He smiles; once again, amused, but not patronizing. "I look forward to it." he answers, raising an hand in farewell "What is your name?"

"It's (name). Lady (name)."

"I'll be seeing you then, lady (name)."

A minute later he has disappeared, hidden by the buildings across the square. You smile to yourself; something tells you Mihawk is destined to make a name for himself, as a pirate and even more as a swordsman, and you can only hope that, by your next meeting, you will have done the same.

Still, that could take years, and in the meantime you have a couple of more pressing matters to attend to: breakfast, since your stomach has started growling, and calling both your family, to let her know you're all right, and the Marines.

You decide to take care of that first, to get it over with. You glance once more at the tavern, hoping the coffee they offer is better than the one you drank on the ferry, retrieve your transponder snail from a side pocket of your bag, and dial the number you had learnt by heart before setting off from home. You could technically cash Vespertine's bounty in any Marine base of the world, but you decided to do it at their HQ, especially since it's your first time; you hope it will be easier to get noticed, and make a name for yourself as a capable mercenary.

"Good morning. Who do I have to talk to in order to claim a bounty? Vice-Admiral Garp? Yes, put me through to him, please..."

#One Piece #One Piece Live Action #OPLA #Dracule Mihawk #Mihawk #Dracule Mihawk x reader #Steven John Wars #Mihawk x reader #Steven John Ward #Theo Le Ray #Bellona's stuff

87 notes · View notes

mutable-manifestation · 2 years ago

Text

The Heart of the Matter Ch. 6

Chapter 1 (Parts 1-3), Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5

So this took forever. The whole ‘hey dude ur dead btw’ convo fought me something fierce. I deleted like three versions. RIP

***

As soon as they clear the ground into open air, Danny flies them - invisible and intangible - straight to the heart of Gotham.

He could more than likely make it to the Fenton portal fast enough to avoid being traced beyond ‘somewhere in Illinois,’ but the point of running isn’t to escape.

He wants the Green Lantern to follow.

He isn’t sure about Batman and his allies, isn’t sure where he stands on the Anti-Ecto Acts or if he even knows they exist, given the GIW’s relentless efforts to keep what happened - what still sometimes happens - in Amity Park buried.

He’s less sure after seeing the surety with which they almost sent Jason away to….

He shakes his head.

If they could be convinced to help, all the better. If they truly cared for Jason they’d do a good enough job beating themselves up over it later.

Not that he wouldn’t still be sending them Jazz’s way to have a talk about respecting boundaries in non-emergency situations rather than steamrolling them just because an ally or friend sounds like they know what they’re doing.

But before all of that, he wants a chance to get Jason up to speed first.

And to get some ecto in the guy, but given the way his core feels, the betrayal-fest he just phased in on, and his somehow near-complete lack of knowledge about what he is, he doubts he’s going to just accept eating mysterious, neon, glowing sludge without an explanation.

He zips through a Malmart and snags a large hoodie and sweats - he’ll pay them back later - and ends the flight by landing them in the bathroom of a crowded coffee shop.

No one should notice the two of them appearing out of nowhere when there are so many other people to draw attention, and hopefully the crowd will deter the Lantern - and the Bats - from causing a scene.

Or at least, a scene beyond the one that would already be caused by their mere presence in the place.

---------------------

Jason only takes his eyes off of Jordan when he’s jostled from a sudden drop. He looks up just in time to see batarangs sink into the wall just above space-ice-crown-guy’s head.

He follows their trajectory back to see Damian unsheathing his blades.

Nightwing and Black Bat are already airborne, and lunging towards them.

A strange sensation washes over him. Crown-guy doesn’t move this time, unbothered by the swinging limbs and grasping hands headed their way.

The pair pass right through them as if they aren’t even there.

Jason feels betrayed and furious and wrung out all at once; he just wants to leave.

And then they do, horrifying green baseball bat close behind as crown guy throws them straight at the ceiling.

They sink into-and-through the earth, and they’re in the sky far above the manor before Jason even has a chance to do more than take a shaky breath.

Then they’re heading for Gotham.

Wayne Manor is twelve miles from the city’s border.

They’re in the heart of Old Gotham inside two minutes - after stopping by an Upper West Side Malmart to…steal clothing?

He’d be concerned about Red Hood being seen flying around with some random meta - about being too much of an easy target in the open air, flying in a mostly straight line - but the two of them are barely visibly, mere outlines of twisted space, like the distorted air above the heat of a flame.

He can barely make himself out, and the people they paused right next to in the store had appeared to notice even less.

When they do stop, it’s in the bathroom of a crowded coffee shop that is - frankly miraculously - blessedly empty.

Crown guy gently but swiftly sets him on his feet - hand on his shoulder just until he’s steady - and shoves the stolen clothing into his chest with a simple ‘here’ before Jason has a chance to say anything.

Then a ring of light appears around his waist, splitting to slide both up and down like some kind of scanner.

Where it goes, crown guy changes.

His build, his facial structure, the cut of his hair - all the broad strokes stay the same. What changes are the details.

Lazarus green eyes are replaced by a vibrant blue that better matches the now-absent crown - it still feels a bit cool, standing near him, but he’s not sure he’d have noticed if he wasn’t looking for it.

Impossibly white hair becomes a deep black - now matching the unchanged eyebrows - and the ears curve where they’d once been pointed.

His skin is paler like this - like he’d spent most of his life indoors, hiding away from the sun - the freckles now a light tan. As though the colors had traded places.

He lands lightly on his feet as the transformation ends, standing just slightly shorter than Jason now that they’re on even ground, and his physique is lithe but muscular; a swimmer’s build.

His clothes are the starkest difference, in Jason’s opinion: otherworldly fabrics and colors swapped out for simple blue jeans and a contrastingly dark red shirt and shoes.

No sign of the cape.

No hint of that otherworldly glow.

Unless you count the sparkle in his eyes as he raises a pointed brow and coughs.

Jason mentally berates himself for staring so obviously. He knew how to be more subtle than that.

Outwardly, he points to his mask.

“Great plan with the clothes, no-more-crown-guy, but they won’t exactly cover this.”

The guy just smiles and shakes his head.

“It’s Danny,” he snorts. “And you can just shove the mask in a pocket or something. I already know who you are, Jason Todd.”

The guy - Danny - snaps his hands up in surrender the moment Jason reaches for one of his guns.

“Easy,” he says, voice still relaxed. Soothing. The aura of strength-safety-protection-calm unchanged. “You being Red Hood is none of my business. I’m not here for Red Hood, I’m here for Jason.”

“What, need an inside scoop for the next article on ‘Watching the Waynes?’ Or is this a ransom thing?” he sneers, hand firmly on his gun as he closes the distance to loom threateningly.

For all that he’s glad to be out of the batcave, that doesn’t mean this guy is an ally; he won’t be swayed by some meta emotional manipulation. Bringing them to such a crowded location could be as much a threat as it could a reassurance, given the knowledge of his vigilante nature - a building full of eyes to make Jason feel better?

Or a building full of hostages?

“No,” Danny denies calmly, matter-of-factly, expression unworried despite the sudden decrease in personal space. “Someone told me you were in danger, and I could help you, so I did. I can also help you with the fact that you’re starving-”

“I’m not-”

“-and I can tell you why you’re so scared of Green Lantern.”

Jason is very willing to hear him out at that. Maybe he shouldn't be. He wants to stay suspicious; he will stay cautious.

But....

He has to know.

He has to know what's going on before it drives him crazy.

Crazier, if you ask his 'family.'

And doesn't that just burn? How quick they'd been to ignore his feelings when he didn't have any concrete information to back them up. How it hadn't taken more than a promise of maybe help for them to trust Green Latern.

Help with something he'd already gotten mostly under control.

He knows it scared them; how much he'd changed when he came back. How long he'd spent letting his anger take the driver's seat.

But he died. And then he came back to find his killer was walking around fresh as a fucking daisy. Jason was entitled to a little anger, in his own humble opinion.

Maybe he'd gone a bit far, but things had finally started going back to normal. He'd almost started to forgive them for not avenging him. For replacing him. They'd even started working together again, more and more often with every passing day. Jason had worked on reigning in his anger instead of letting it take the reigns, controlling the Pit Rage instead of sinking into it.

It was a hard transition to make; hate cradles you, as they say. But he tried.

Maybe he had some relapses occasionally, some outbursts here and there, but he was making progress.

But they had been willing to throw him at the mercy of someone that terrified him for reasons he didn't understand the second they offered maybe a 'solution' to his 'green little problem.'

As if it wasn't mostly 'solved' already.

As if they hadn't been working on it for years now.

As if he wasn't capable of making his own damn decisions.

Mind made up, he takes breath, takes a step back, glances at the door - which he very quickly locks when he realizes how much they’ve been playing with fire - and drops the hand from his gun.

“Why bring us somewhere so crowded?”

“Your pals are less likely to attack us if we’re surrounded by civilians and not doing anything wrong. Plus, background noise. As long as we’re relatively quiet we’re unlikely to be overheard or bothered,” he answers, then points at the abandoned stolen clothing on the floor, a brow raised. “But if it’s all the same, I’d prefer to explain more when we’re not in a bathroom.”

Jason stares at him for another long moment.

Someone jiggles the handle and knocks.

“Fuck it.”

He throws on the baggy outfit, grateful for the drawstring - which is the only thing keeping the pants up - at least the excess fabric covers his shoes enough to be less obviously Not Normal (™).

He whips off the mask and shoves it in the pocket of the hoodie - which hits him upper-mid thigh.

Seriously.

‘This guy is pants at guessing sizes.’

It takes a lot of inner strength to avoid facepalming when he realizes his unintentional pun.

Once dressed, Danny wastes no time opening up the door to leave, and he follows him out and into the coffee line, ignoring the wide-eyed look on the face of the guy who’d knocked.

They grab coffee and snag an outside table - even more background noise with all the traffic, Danny explains as they sit.

---------------------

“So, Danny. Who, exactly, sent you to ‘help’ me?” Jason asks, leaning back in his seat.

Danny snorts at the theatrics, taking a sip of his own drink before he answers.

“He didn’t send me, he just told me you were in danger. I’m here because I want to be. But his name is Clockwork, the ghost that watches over the timestream.”

Danny sighs.

“We probably don't have a lot of time before Greenie and the Furries catch up, and they’ll need to hear a lot of what I have to tell you,” he says. “But, the basic - and more personal - details which only you really need to know-” he holds up a finger “-my parents have always been obsessed with ghosts and made it their life’s mission to open a portal to the afterlife - which they call the ‘Ghost Zone.’”

A second finger joins the first.

“They succeeded when I was 14, except they didn’t manage to make it turn on because they miswired an emergency off-switch on the inside to have an accompanying ‘on’ button that needed to be activated before it would work.”

A third.

“A friend dared me to go in and I, being a dumb kid, did. Then promptly tripped and hit the on-button and got electrocuted half to death. I say ‘half’ because in the midst of me dying the portal turned on, and the ectoplasm bonded to my living DNA and reached a sort of balance. This turned me into a halfa - a being that is half-human and half-ghost. Half alive and half dead. A human form and a ghost form.”

A fourth, Danny studiously ignoring Jason’s bewildered blinking.

“Halfa’s, due to the nature of our existences, are exceedingly rare. The first that I know of was created in an accident 20 years ago. I was the second. The third was already a halfa when she was created, being a clone of me - long story. The fourth, that I know of,” Danny leans forward, fingers curling back over to leave the hand pointing at Jason. “Is you.”

Danny can see the roiling mix of confusion-comprehension-horror-denial-fear-anger building up in him - anger the one that appeared to be winning - so he rushes to explain, holding his hands up placatingly - deja-vu.

“Clockwork only told me about you, like, an hour ago. He told me about how you didn’t know you were a halfa, how there’s barely enough ambient ectoplasm in this city to sustain you, that what is here is kind of garbage, that you don’t know how to get more - or that you need more. Or what ecto is - it’s like carbon for ghosts, I guess? Like living people are made of carbon but food is too?”

He squints. Shrugs.

“Ghosts are made of ecto and need it to be healthy. As halfas, we need both. There’s a lot more to ‘how to be a halfa’ but that’s the most important thing right now given I can literally sense how ecto-deprived you are. Your ecto-signature is literally so weak I could almost mistake you for a blob ghost, which is incredibly not-healthy. I nabbed a thermos from my fridge on the way here, so like. I know it probably sounds sus and your experience with green liquids-” he notes Jason tense back toward anger from where he’d been moving into confusion territory “-is probably historically bad, but I promise it’s safe. I’ll even drink some myself to prove it if that helps.”

A beat.

“Green liquids.”

It’s not a question, but Danny answers anyway, reaching into his chest to pull out the thermos, ignoring the strangled noise Jason makes and the aborted movement from where he’d begun to stand before crashing back down and staring as he uncaps the cylinder and pours a little of the ectoplasm into the cap before sliding the rest towards him.

“Ectoplasm!” Danny chirps, downing his like a shot only to find Jason staring, mouth slightly open in horror.

---------------------

Jason has known Danny for less than five minutes, and the guy has already said and done the most unhinged things Jason has ever seen anyone do.

In five. Minutes.

Here’s the thing; Jason hates everything he’s saying.

That Jason is still dead.

That he needs to start drinking lazarus water.

That there was some time guy out there stalking him (as if he needed another nosy bastard hanging over his shoulder. He was just starting to barely-kind of-sorta tolerate the ones he knew about).

That Danny died in his parents’ basement because they were experimenting with lazarus water.

Jason had barely begun to process the insane shit he said when the guy shoves his hand through his fucking chest.

For a moment, he was fully convinced he was going to rip out his heart or something.

Instead, he’d apparently just been using his chest cavity as a storage location for a thermos of lazarus water.

Ya know, as you fucking do.

In keeping with his general vibe of ‘one-insane-thing-after-another-without-pause’ he immediately pours himself a glass and downs it like a fucking shot.

It hasn’t even been 24 hours since this nightmare started and Jason thinks he might be going prematurely gray by now (no the white part does not count, he died when he was 15, Tim).

Finally, mercifully, the guy stops talking and/or doing things.

He closes his hanging jaw, noting the unchanged blue of the guys’ eyes.

Danny is still calm. In control. Unaffected by a bit of eau de lazarus.

Jason takes a steadying breath, bracing himself for the smell of decay and mildew and blood that the waters always carry with them…and gets something completely different.

His eyes snap down to the still-open thermos laid before him.

Looking closer, he notes the lack of bubbles. The color is the same, but the glow itself is somehow brighter. Softer.

It doesn’t smell like lazarus water.

It smells like chamomile tea. Like the lavender cookies Alfred used to make post-patrol sometimes, trying to incite them to go to bed sooner rather than staying up at all hours.

It smells delicious.

He can feel his mouth water, and his stomach growls loudly, suddenly.

He’d had that oatmeal less than two hours ago, but he suddenly feels like he hadn’t eaten at all.

He sips his coffee instead, staring down the container of pure temptation, straining against the urge to pick it up and chug.

Danny watches on, silent, patient. He looks hopeful, Jason thinks, but not expectant.

Not that he couldn’t just be a really good actor. And just because the lazarus water smells good doesn’t mean it’s safe. Doesn’t mean he should just go for it.

Even if it does smell like chamomile tea and lavender cookies.

Alfred’s lavender cookies.

Which he’d never been able to resist.

‘He drank some,’ Jason thinks as he picks up the thermos. ‘He’s still fine,’ he tells himself. ‘If he wanted to he could’ve just dropped me directly into one of the pits. If he wanted to hurt me he could’ve phased poison directly into my bloodstream, probably.’

The not-quite-lazarus water tastes just like it smells.

Jason wants to chug the whole canister, but he has enough self-control to take sips instead, letting the flavors play out on his tongue.

No hint of almonds.

No odd textures.

Just chamomile and lavender and bliss.

Three sips and a solid ten seconds in and he still feels fine - no feeling faint or frothing at the mouth. Instead, he feels lighter.

Warmer.

Calmer.

Ravenous.

He chugs the rest, tension leaving his body, nerves settling, the hunger he hadn’t known was there until the scent first hit him abating enough to be ignored.

He takes a moment to look at the empty cylinder and reflect on the fact that he just voluntarily drank lazarus water.

Except not really. Lazarus water is vile; even Danny had said the ‘ecto’ he’d encountered was 'garbage.'

'What, did Ra's forget to install a damn pool-filter or something???

He shakes the thought from his head and looks back at his…rescuer? Danny only looks relieved; noticeably more relaxed than the apparently false-calm he’d been projecting before.

Jason chews his lip in thought. Frowns.

“Okay. I have many questions, comments, and concerns about…everything that just happened, to be honest. But before anything else, I want answers about Green Lantern.”

Danny nods, expression grave.

“Let me tell you a story….”

***

Fun Fact: Ectoplasm smelling like wild stuff is fun, but also it’s everywhere in the zone. Ghosts have to live in it & smell it/smell like it all the time. Sooooo….

In this AU I’m going with: ecto smells like ranch 2 (lime & batteries) to humans bc they can’t process it properly.

To ghosts, ectoplasm smells like the thing they want the most at that moment. Right now, Jason wants home - as it was when it was safe - so the ecto smells like something that reminds him of that.

---------------------

Next time: Back at the batcave! If that scene doesn’t stretch too long, also reunion! Or at least Jason pov of being pissed when they have the audacity to want to talk!

Tags!

@skulld3mort-1fan @kyrianclawraith @jesimilu @bleuyellow93 @ocearnawrites @undead-essence @violet-catsarelife @sunsetdew0101 @tsukihimeyfan @the-legal-shipper @spideypoolalways @mariendall @jesus-camp-the-sequel @jotaroslooseeyebrowhair @akikoyuii @mrowsters @do3y @aikoiya @joaniejustwokeup @wwwwyamd @fox-sama97

#dpxdc #danny phantom #red hood #jason todd #long post #fic

211 notes · View notes

hayffiebird · 6 months ago

Text

Taste of Strawberries, chap. 45

Hayffie Post-Mockingjay Multi-chapter, Rated M

Summary: Four years have passed since the end of the war when Effie returns in to Haymitch’s life once again. An old friendship is renewed. Will it lead to something more?

Meanwhile Panem has entered a new era. The rebellion’s over, the borders are open but in the shadows, anger and mistrust are smoldering. Something that will affect Haymitch and Effie’s life in a way they never saw coming.

Chapter 45, Take me drunk, I'm home

He staggered through the rain, wetter than a shot of whiskey dropped into a mug of beer. Nothing but thick black clouds above.

No moon. No stars. You couldn't see anything but the path right in front of you. Nothing to guide your way but the distant lights of the district.

The duffel bag was lost. Probably in a ditch somewhere. Soaked and vile. Like its owner. Or maybe he just tossed the thing in some corner of the train, after he’d finished the last bottle. He couldn't recall.

Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered anymore. Now that Effie and the kids were gone.

Where were they now? Which district? Did she manage to get them to sleep on time or was she still on rocking duty? Exhausted. Alone. While the train added mile after mile between them.

Once his family had gotten onboard back in Eleven, he was supposed to just sit back and wait. Bags packed. Ticket in hand, until his own train pulled into the station.

But he didn't. Walking up and down that misty platform. The smell of damp concrete. Distant rumbling. The unforgiving sky, overrun by storm clouds as dark as the soul of president Snow.

He couldn't stand 5 minutes of it. Hell, not even one.

If he was going to wait, might as well do it on a bar stool.

One of the local pubs was just around the corner. Chaff told him as much. Back when they were passing a bottle between themselves, he described the way in detail. The shops. The landmarks. Which road to turn and when.

“We’ll go there someday”, he said, the last time they ever spoke to each other. “Bring the little lady. If we survive this blasted war, drinks are on me.”

The bell above the door gave a merry tinkle when Haymitch pushed inside, 10 minutes later.

Just like Twelve, he thought. The one Sae and Ripper put up at the Hob made the exact same noise.

In the end, he didn’t mount a bar stool. Place was far from empty, despite the bad weather. Or maybe because of it. He couldn’t sit and wonder which ones of them mourned Chaff. Or – worse – if no one was even left besides Pearl, still alive to do so.

“A bottle of wine please”, he said and set the duffel bag on the counter. “Red. Whatever looks good. Or better yet, make it two. And the amber one over there.” He gestured to the rows by the mirror. “No need for a glass.”

The barkeep recognized him. One glance told him as much. But then again, who didn’t?

Must be Bernard, he thought. Unless the owner of this place had changed since the end of the war. Lean fellow. Same skin tone as Chaff, but his hair was grayer by the temples.

At least he didn't tell him to get the fuck out of his pub. The man simply reached for the desired bottles and set them on the counter, one by one.

“Will I have my work cut out for me later?” Bernard’s voice – if it was Bernard – was neither merry nor hostile. Just practical. Matter-of-factly.

“No”, Haymitch said. “I'm not staying. Not for long.” He got out his wallet, handed over the last of the ruffled bills. “Keep the change. Can you remind me I need to leave in an hour?” He glanced at the wall clock. “Hour-fifteen minutes? There's a train I gotta catch. Can't miss it.”

“Sure.”

Bag clunky and heavy, clinking with bottles, he found his way out into the beer garden. Dumped himself by the first available bench. The moist which had collected in vast continents on the painted wood, instantly soaked through his underwear.

More of the stuff trickled inside the collar of his shirt. Tepid as a cup of tea, forgotten on the mantelpiece. Summer rain, the kind that made you sweat even more.

Whatever. Here he was alone. The leafy trees growing around him offered some shelter but still: No one dumb enough to loiter out here today.

He unzipped the bag. Twisted the top of the first bottle he encountered. Didn't even hesitate before he had the first sip.

What for? Effs and the kids weren’t here. Amy. Ian. God only knew when he’d hold them in his arms again. No. He couldn't think of one good reason why he should board his train stone-cold sober.

Just don't get too deep in your cups, you ass, he warned himself before the second mouthful. Or else they won't allow you on.

He had to go home. Couldn't – wouldn’t – embarrass June and Annabel in front of their friends and neighbors. He'd been enough of a pest whilst under their roof.

Talk about wearing out you're welcome.

Half a bottle. Then the train.

And so he drank. Watched by no one but a ruffled mockingjay hiding in the trees and the occasional pair of eyes through a window.

His recollections thereafter were hazy. Nothing but bits and pieces – the passage of time.

Birds like black confetti, high in the sky. A lone dog barking. The splatter of water through a downpipe. The aftertaste of wine. Fruity and sour.

But the barkeep must have kept his promise because hours later, in the dead of night, the mentor of District 12 staggered out onto his own soil once again. Tanked to the gills. Again.

Home.

Shoulders sagging, rain dripping down his hair, his hands, his eyelashes, he hardly ever looked up. No need. He could walk this way blindfolded.

The ground felt soggy, slippery under his clumsy feet.

Different district. Same downpour. He swore it followed him from place to place. Taunting him.

Not that he didn’t deserve it.

He staggered through puddles as deep as his ankles. Didn’t bother to swerve off his path much. Only mindful of people’s windows. Their vegetable gardens.

Last thing he wanted was to ruin someone’s future dinner or frighten the kids in their beds with the sound of his squelching boots.

Lights were on in maybe one in ten houses. The Goat Man, who had a history of insomnia. Delly Cartwright’s youngest cousin who couldn’t sleep without a night light. Bristel and her husband. Naked and tangled in bed perhaps?

Most were dark though. Doors bolted shut against the night.

Not all of them. Up ahead, he saw the open window. Just slightly ajar to let the air in, on a warm night like this.

Someone was awake. Golden light spilled through the curtains of the living room. As he approached, he could just make out the soft rattle of cutleries against china over the pattering rain. A cup of tea perhaps. Or maybe a bowl of soup.

Half-blinded he rubbed his eyes, his soaked face. A pointless attempt. More than a little round under his feet he made a slack fist and knocked. Once. Twice. Or, in his state, it was more like pounding.

Eyes downcast, the first thing he noticed when she opened the door was her house slippers. Woolly and soft in a quiet pink color. A birthday gift from Hazelle.

Hand against the handle, she wore the same simple robes her mother wore before her. His gaze lingered on the small baby blue flowers around the hemline and the hems of her wrists.

Effie’s work. She stitched them onto the fabric, back during that summer she spent with them after her overdose.

Peeta loved the details and Nella loved the very texture of the little leaves and blossoms. Used to follow them with the tip of her finger.

Forget-me-nots.

Throat choked up, his dull, blood-shot eyes finally met her gray ones.

Seam gray. Like the eyes of his mother. His brother. His son and daughter.

Sae gave a quiet smile. As if expecting him.

“You better come in”, she said. “Before you catch your death out here.”

Haymitch’s face crinkled up like a worn tissue. He couldn’t help it. Couldn’t hide it. Not from her. The tears he’d carried within, for hours and hours – just below the surface – finally welled up.

All at once.

His old babysitter spoke nothing further. Water soaked through her slippers, but she paid it no mind. Just stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

He tried to speak. Tell her how sorry he was about the hour, the fact that he was drunk, that he didn’t know where else to go – but no words came out. Only sobs.

The old woman held him. Her small frame so frail and yet so strong. She caressed the back of his head, just like when he was a toddler, speaking soft, soothing words in his ear.

And Haymitch clung to her. Like a child to its mama, while raindrops tinked against the sphere-shaped porch light.

#hayffie #haymitch x effie #the hunger games renaissance #haymitch abernathy #effie trinket #district 12 #hayffie twins #my fanfiction #post-mockingjay

8 notes · View notes

belladonnablue · 6 months ago

Note

WHERE ARE YOU FROM????

the town of Twin Peaks, five miles south of the Canadian border, twelve miles west of the state line. Never seen so many trees in my life. As W.C. Fields would say, "I'd rather be here than Philadelphia." 54 degrees on a slightly overcast day, weatherman said rain. If you could get paid that much for being wrong 60% of the time, you'd be working. Mileage is 79,345, gauge is on reserve. Riding on fumes here. I've got to tank up when I get into town. Remind me to tell you how much that is. Lunch was, uh, six dollars and thirty one cents at the Lamplighter Inn. That's on Highway 2, near Lewis Fork. That was a tuna fish sandwich, slice of cherry pie and a cup of coffee. Damn good food. Diane, if you ever get up this way, that cherry pie is worth a stop.

#girlblogging #girlblogger #twin peaks

11 notes · View notes

slitherinfest · 1 year ago

Text

Slither In Fest Masterlist!

A big round of applause and a heartfelt thanks to all the awesome people who have joined us for this year's fest! It's been an absolute delight to see each and every one of your entries.

Once again, special thanks to @dividawrites for letting us reuse her banner art.

Thank you all for appreciating Bottom Tom | Voldemort with us! We hope to see you all again next year.

Please see below the cut for a masterlist of all works!

A Total Absence of Light by @crowcrowcrowthing E | Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort | 7,535 words | Complete

My name is Tom Riddle, and I am the Boy Who Lived. Something happened to turn Harry Potter into the Dark Lord, and I will do whatever it takes to learn his secrets. I don’t care that he killed my parents. I don't care that he stole my childhood. All I want is to earn the right to call myself his apprentice.

chiaroscuro by @cindle-writes E | Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | 7,213 words | Complete

Immortal children are illegal. Harry makes one anyway.

Flinch by @applesbasketcaseart E | Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort | 5,082 words | Complete

"Tom, I want you to meet my friend, Harry Potter." There's something a bit odd about Mr. Potter.

Freedom from those Pages by @azuredreammira E | Tom Riddle/Voldemort | 9,417 words | WIP

It started out as a deal, selling his body in exchange for freedom. But Tom Riddle quickly became Voldemort’s advisor and lover, ensuring that the one who had created him years ago did not go insane.

He'd Love To See Inside by TrinisetteArcobaleno E | Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort | 5,631 words | Complete

Lord Voldemort has an important event to go to tonight. He obviously decides to wear his best suit. Harry Potter, a child that Voldemort took in after killing his parents, presented as an alpha the same day of the event.

In Perfect Unity by @i-dream-of-libraries E | Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort | 9,052 words | Complete

Harry has just begun his work as the only Priest in a small town when a man comes to confessional one night and traps Harry in the booth with him.

Tom walks in on purpose. He’s heard the warnings of the townsfolk some miles away from the border. They warn him against entering, against lingering, against taking an interest, but he is Tom Marvolo Riddle. He is in his prime, forever frozen that way, and he will conquer the world.

Like Calls To Like by TrinisetteArcobaleno E | Tom Riddle/Tom Riddle Sr. | 4,856 words | Complete

Tom Marvolo Riddle’s father found him before he had ever known about Hogwarts. Unbeknownst to Tom Jr., his father planned to visit him tonight.

multiplicity by @duplicitywrites E | Harry Potter/Tom Riddle/Harry Potter | 7,780 words | WIP

At the age of twelve, Tom is well on his way to having all of Hogwarts wrapped around his clever, crooked finger. Others are beneath him, unworthy of his regard—but for Professor Evans, Tom is willing to make an exception. When transfer student Harry Potter arrives mid-November, Tom is inclined to dismiss the older boy as another arrogant Pureblood who will treat him with disdain. Only, Harry isn’t like the others. Not at all.

Never Meet Your Heroes by @ujiin E | Salazar Slytherin/Tom Riddle | Voldemort | 6,960 words | WIP

Tom is in a little bit of a predicament. "Did you need anything else, Slytherin?" Tom manages to say without a single hitch or stutter, even though it feels so incredibly wrong to address a literal founder of Hogwarts this way.

Pitch Black by @kagariasuha E | Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Horcrux/Harry Potter | 2,403 words | Complete

The proximity of Horcruxes can influence anyone - especially Harry.

Tight Quarters by @maraudersaffair E | Abraxas Malfoy/Tom Riddle | 2,488 words | Complete

High off casting dark magic, Tom and Abraxas sneak into a cupboard and have some fun.

Wind Tunnels by @mrmxlemons E | Tom Riddle | Voldemort/Ron Weasley | 10,433 words | WIP

The locket holds Ron closer than anyone else has. He doesn't want to let it go.

#harry potter #tom riddle #voldemort #lord voldemort #bottom tom #bottom voldemort #harry potter fanfiction #hp fanfic #fanfic #tom riddle fanfiction #tom riddle rarepairs #slither in fest #update

48 notes · View notes

usafphantom2 · 1 year ago

Text

Russian cruise missile violated Polish airspace

Fernando Valduga By Fernando Valduga 12/30/2023 - 12:15 in Military, War Zones

On December 29, a cruise missile launched by the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation violated Polish airspace during a target attack in Ukraine.

The incident occurred at 7:12 a.m. local time, near the Poland-Ukraine border. According to the Polish Armed Forces, the missile re-entered Ukrainian territory after approximately three minutes in Poland's airspace.

Map showing the place where the Russian cruise missile would have entered Polish airspace on December 29. (BBC infographic)

In the X, the Operational Command of the Polish Armed Forces said that the object entered through the Ukrainian side of the border and was observed by the country's air defense system, penetrating about 24 miles into Polish airspace and disappearing after less than three minutes. He also stated that air defense troops were mobilized to identify and find the object.

The flight trajectory of the missile was continuously monitored by Polish and Allied radar systems. Polish air defense systems were in readiness and F-16C/D fighters were sent to patrol the area where the missile crossed Polish airspace.

In addition, to verify the radar data, ground forces, air forces and territorial defense troops were mobilized to track the trajectory of the missile on the ground.

President Andrzej Duda called an emergency meeting on security; NATO Secretary General Jens Stoltenberg released a statement on X saying he talked to Duda about the “missile incident” and said that NATO remains vigilant and monitoring the situation “as the facts are established.”

This incident was part of a major Russian attack involving twelve Tu-95MS Bear-H bombers, each launching Kh-55/Kh-555/Kh-101 cruise missiles, along with Tu-22M3 Backfire-C bombers that launched eight Kh-22/Kh-32 supersonic cruise missiles. More than 90 cruise missiles were used in the attack, with most allegedly intercepted by Ukrainian air defenses.

The Ukrainian Ministry of Defense noted that the combined Russian attack used more than 90 cruise missiles of the types mentioned, 36 Shahed-136 attack drones, S-300/400 anti-aircraft missiles in ground attack mode. In addition, five MiG-31K Foxhound fighters each launched a single Kinzhal ballistic missile launched from the air.

Ukrainian authorities said that at least 144 people were injured and that many others probably remained buried under the rubble.

According to the spokesman of the Ukrainian Air Force, Yurii Ihnat, Russia “apparently launched everything it had” against targets throughout Ukraine. Surprisingly, the attack did not seem to involve any Kalibr cruise missiles launched by ships or submarines, with long-range Russian bombers bearing the weight of the operation.

Tags: Military AviationWar Zones - Russia/Ukraine

Sharing

Fernando Valduga

Aviation photographer and pilot since 1992, he has participated in several events and air operations, such as Cruzex, AirVenture, Dayton Airshow and FIDAE. He has works published in specialized aviation magazines in Brazil and abroad. He uses Canon equipment during his photographic work in the world of aviation.

Related news

MILITARY

SPRINT: DARPA selects four companies to develop high-speed aircraft and vertical takeoff

29/12/2023 - 18:44

MILITARY

Iran reveals Karrar combat drones armed with air-to-air missiles

29/12/2023 - 13:30

MILITARY

VIDEOS AND IMAGES: How was the first flight of the ANKA-3 stealth drone from Turkey

29/12/2023 - 12:06

INTERCEPTIONS

NATO carried out more than 300 interceptions of Russian aircraft in 2023

29/12/2023 - 10:35

MILITARY

Japan starts sea tests of its second modified helipter carrier for F-35B jets

28/12/2023 - 22:22

MILITARY

New jet coach for the Russian Air Force

28/12/2023 - 17:00

10 notes · View notes

weirdestbooks · 5 months ago

Text

The River (Wattpad | Ao3)

requested by @grandmaash98

“I can’t believe you, NJ! After all of your fucking complaining about how York steals land from you and the whole fucking fight over the reclaimed land in Ellis Island, you decide to steal land from me in the same way!” Delaware yelled at his brother, who looked to be a mixture of confused and nervous.

“How do you even know the specifics of me and York’s fights?” He asked, most likely trying to avoid the question.

“One, don’t avoid the question. Two, you and York are free entertainment for the rest of us,” Delaware said. New Jersey looked annoyed but didn’t protest.

“Our border is in the middle of the river, except for the Twelve Mile Circle, where our border is at the shoreline. I’m not stealing land. Your territory is just water. I am, however, gaining more land for myself because I need it. You don’t need that little bit of water. Learn to share with your siblings,” New Jersey said.

“Oh fuck you, NJ. It doesn’t matter whether or not I need it. What matters is that you are ignoring my borders! After all your bitching about Yorkie, I figured I would never have to worry about that from you, but seriously? What the hell, man? All of my neighbors have tried to steal land from me.” Delaware said, throwing up his arms in exasperation.

“Well, unlike Penny and Mary, I’m not trying to annex you, so at least that’s something.” New Jersey said. Delaware crossed his arms and turned to leave.

“I’m getting Dad!” He yelled as he began to walk out of the room

“You’re gonna fucking tattle? What are you, five?” Delaware heard New Jersey snark from behind him.

“You rather me break your nose?” Delaware snapped, whirling around. New Jersey’s eyes widened, and he held his hands, shaking his head.

“Dad, it is then.” He said.

—————

“It’s the 21st century. I thought we’d be over having border conflicts by now.” Their father said with a sigh.

“At least our first response was to take it to court, and now we fight each other over it. No one has pulled out weapons!” Delaware chimed in, hoping to lower his dad’s annoyance and make him more willing to support Delaware.

“Not yet, at least. But I’m at least going to get ready for a fight.” New Jersey added. Their father sighed deeply, once that seemed very resigned.

“Thank you, NJ. That’s going to do wonders for resolving this situation peacefully,” he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

“Yeah, I know it really will,” New Jersey said cheerily, either oblivious to their father’s sarcasm or just ignoring it. It was probably the second one, although New Jersey would deny it. Their father sighed and put a hand on his forehead.

“Please just take it to court and leave me out of it.” He said.

“You aren’t going to be able to stay out of it because one of us is inevitably going to do something really stupid that’s going to force you to get involved. And just know—New Jersey started it and is going to start the fighting most likely, so I’m innocent, and you should side with me!” Delaware said, saying the last part quickly. New Jersey’s head shot up, and he glared at Delaware. His ears flattening against his head, he bared his teeth.

Their father just looked annoyed again.

“New Jersey, please don't attack your brother in any way. Just take this to court, and both of you show up,” he said before walking out.

“Yeah, Delly, make sure you show up in court.” New Jersey said. Delaware snorted.

“Please. You’re the one acting like New York did. If anything, you’re going to neglect to show up to court,” he said. New Jersey took a step forward, hooves clicking against the ground.

“Don’t compare me to the egotistical chicken!” he said, and Delaware looked at him offended.

“Hey, now, that’s an insult to chickens,” Delaware said. New Jersey paused and nodded.

“Okay, yeah, fair enough. I’m sorry, chickens. But fuck you, Delaware, you aren’t going to steal that land that I legally reclaimed.” New Jersey said. Red-hot anger ran through Delaware’s body at that.

“YOU RECLAIMED IT IN MY RIVER!” Delaware yelled at him.

“We share it!” New Jersey said with an eye roll.

“MY SECTION THOUGH!” Delaware continued.

“Actually you own up to the shoreline. I just helped it grow a little.” New Jersey said with a smug grin.

“I’m going to destroy you in court.” Delaware hissed out with a glare as he flicked his tail before turning away.

“You can try!” New Jersey called from behind Delaware, making him wish he was allowed to punch New Jersey’s stupid face.

It would be good therapy.

#statehumans #oneshots by weird #historical countryhumans #statehumans new jersey #statehumans delaware

3 notes · View notes

hassanatforusmk · 1 year ago

Text

“The Gaza Strip is in a humanitarian disaster, a man-made crisis resulting from Israeli policy. The lives of nearly two million people are at stake.” - Btselem report 2017

In 2015, the UN warned that without changes, Gaza would become “unlivable” by 2020. Since then, Israel has tightened its policies, and Gaza has been already unliveable for the following points:

The blockade of Gaza, separating it from the West Bank, has been ongoing since the 1990s. It restricts travel, imports, exports, and more, pushing Gaza into an economic recession and dependency on aid.

Gaza's economy has collapsed, with high unemployment and food insecurity. Infrastructure and public services were already deteriorating, with contaminated water, power cuts, and healthcare shortages.

Till Aug 2023, the Israeli occupation continued to raze farm land, demolish residential structures and industrial facilities, and seize buildings inside the strip.

Also, deliberate herbicide spraying and land destruction have further harmed Gaza's agricultural sector.

The healthcare crisis in Gaza was a severe and ongoing humanitarian issue.

The Israeli blockade, three devastating wars, has meant that the availability of medical services is seriously inadequate to meet the health needs of the two million Gazans.

Gaza's "no-go" zones near the border create a buffer zone and have always been a continuous threat to the lives of those who live and work there.

Israel's control over Gaza extends to its airspace and territorial waters, which it has maintained since occupying Gaza in 1967. This control has significant implications for Gaza's residents.

Israel's control of Gaza's airspace enables it to monitor activities on the ground, interfere with radio and TV broadcasts, and launch airstrikes at will.

The Oslo Agreements allowed Palestinians to build an airport, and accordingly, Gaza Airport opened in 1998, but then it was closed by Israel in 2000 and has remained closed since then.

In 2001, the Israeli Air Force bombed the airport's runways, and it was later used as an Israeli military base. Israel committed to discussing reopening the airport, but no progress has been made on this front.

Israel's control of Gaza's territorial waters is another aspect of the crisis. While there's no physical barrier along Gaza's coast, residents need Israeli permits to access the sea, with restrictions on how far they can go from shores.

In the Interim Agreement, Israel agreed to allow fishing boats from Gaza up to twenty miles from the coast, but in practice, the limit has often been set at twelve miles and then it was reduced later to only 3 miles!

The promise of a seaport in Gaza has remained unfulfilled. Despite initial infrastructure work, the project was halted, and Israel agreed in 2005 to cooperate in its establishment. But surprisingly, no progress has been made !

The situation in Gaza is dire, while Israel formally withdrew its settlers and military from the Gaza Strip in 2005,in

In practice, Gaza remains under Israeli occupation.

Hamas wasn't the only resistance group that defended Palestinian rights against the occupiers. The resistance started since the very beginning when Israel was declared as a state in 1948.

The "Fedaeyon" had started it all as a resistance,and Hamas still continues their legacy.

Resistance by all means,violent and nonviolent, is essential,and spreading awareness is a must to stop the atrocities committed against the Palestinians for years.

Colonization is a crime against humanity, and colonized people have the right to resist by any means necessary.

Vietnam's 9-year fight for freedom against France shows that resistance is never futile,even when faced with a much more powerful enemy. Calling similar movements "terrorism"is a conspiracy to silence legitimate dissent and perpetuate oppression.

And if people were submissive to colonization they will face the same destiny as the Native Americans, who were colonized and forced onto reservations, where their culture was suppressed and their children were forbidden to speak their own language.

So ask yourself: If you were Palestinian, would you see Hamas as a "terrorist" group or a "resistance" movement defending your right to live while the world has already turned a blind eye?

The disheartening reality that the security council fails to agree on a ceasefire appears much like what Franklin once said as "Demkcracy is like two wolves and a lamb voting on what's for lunch," revealing the fragility of humanity & democracy as the moral compass quivers.

Israel has been playing the US and the Western media and public like a fiddle for decades. They've mastered the language that resonates with Americans.

All that Israel wants is for the US to destroy another Arab nation on Israel's behalf & cause more destabilization.

12 notes · View notes

peakyfag · 2 years ago

Text

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅

ㅤㅤ𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐀𝐇 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒.

I truly have nothing else to do, and these two have been living in my head rent-free for the past few days. warnings: period-typical homophobia, a little bit of religious trauma and internalized homophobia.

ㅤ— The two met during adolescence. The first time they had seen each other was during a rendezvous between Thomas and Jeremiah; Finn was all but shy of twelve, and Isaiah was sixteen, bordering on seventeen. By that point, Finn would not unglue from Isaiah.

— For a long time, Isaiah could not bring himself to view the youngest of the Shelby's as more than a little brother; both due to the age difference between the twain of them, simple five complete years, and due to Finn's personality in itself: he was a sweet boy, indeed. Gentle, naive and soft-spoken.

— And so, he had made a duty out of protecting Finn. It was as though he was a fourth older sibling to Finn, whose vision could not be further from Isaiah's own. No, it truly could not be further, no doubt.

— At first, it was nothing more than a little, innocent crush of youth. A crush of which Finn cultivated ever since he saw the preacher's son—and one he long fought and fought to forget and to keep at bay. Really, at such a tender age, he was a good, catholic boy, raised on the very end-of-the-world that was Birmingham, at the time (even if it was mere 100 miles away from London).

— It would have been easier, he thought, should he have been in London. That was the portrait of whom, at the ripe age of thirteen, he had came to be: a paltry youngster, a boyish scant of Birmingham, always protected by his family and his brothers, the fucking Peaky Blinders—as they called themselves, seemingly taking all delight on it, and as others called them as well. When the sun shone, he rolled his eyes at such nonsense; yet, as dawn fell by the sky, he craved to be one of them.

— At last, he was a Shelby by birth. The only thing he carried of his family was the surname, but not their blood. He should have honoured the name which he was given. Indeed, he should have—at last, however, time did not wait for the honour of one, for it had a duty of its own, and such was to pass. Finn, despite himself and whatever reveries his juvenile and chimerical mind created, grew. He grew not into a sword, nor into a blade, but in a callow boy—against all odds he bet.

— Time was the hound of the mightiest jaw, and for that, it possessed metallic hands. As the claws of the clock got to him, he tried with all the might in himself to be involved with whoever was the poor girl that would have him, and hand to him a press of lips or two; a thorn of affection and a rose of wanting. Even then, there had been something wrong. Whatever was that thing, it wandered, walked by his entrails as does a spider. There was a certain element, a certain discomfort which overcame him as delicate, feminine hands (agreeable to all, but to him) enveloped his neck, in the manners of chains.

— Then, the excuses would come to him: the hour was bad, he said, none time did he had. By most, the girls could barely last a week—with luck, they could last for one and a half!—and he, in the circumstances of his birth, learned to saunter only through the shadows. Never would his steps reacb luminescence. But Birmingham perceived his ways, and, once more, he walked by obscurity, as though he was an aloof mouse. Still, he always remained by the side of Isaiah.

— With observant eyes, Isaiah watched as nature sowed Finn. The more he was sowed, the more Isaiah’s eyes dawned upon him, delineating every detail and feature they could soak in. At eighteen, Finn had been transformed into a certainly alluring little thing: he was a beauty, a man of pale skin, with and inviting and longish neck, reddish and well-contourned lips. And his eyelashes; they lingered through all, as did his eyes themselves, and were as long and flattering as the incarnation of grace.

— At nineteen, only one year later, he was a youth much mismatched to that of the rest of his own kin: with a slender silhouette and a frame sculpted and chiselled by the art of all thar was exquisite and flimsy, he had longish legs and fine hands. There was a hidden adroitness in the bounds of his body, a contained charm which contaminated everything he could do. Most said he was quite alike to his late mother, when the woman was the same age as him.

— He had not met Mrs.Shelby, but if she was as alike to Finn as said the bad tongues, then she was a woman of great beauty, indeed. Dwelling on these thoughts almost gave him the desire to have met her before God took her. And in the fullness of time, when the age of twenty came to him, Finn turned into a true and heartful, lovely youth; so beautiful. In all honesty, really. The mere way in which his lips enveloped the cigarette did more than enough to force Isaiah to look the other way.

— By great irony of creation, it seemed that Finn had been transformed into a grandiose portrait of his kismet; the rest of his life waltzed in him. Observing and observing, a particular notion about the youngster came to him, one of which he had never lingered upon: Finn was never quite there. Not quite here and not quite there, as though he was a zephyr, a phantom-like creature, always sauntering in the eyes of all but never truly appearing in light, only obscurity. He was as hidden as the agrestic. This notion, it seemed, solely served for them to be further close.

— But as aware of Finn as he turned to be, he took no act. He had met the boy when he was all but a child, a scarce little lad, and had watched as every moment of the world dawned upon him. He had been certain that he was nothing more than a fourth brother to Finn, as if three were not yet enough—Finn nurtured a meagre fraternal affection for him, no other could do. As it was, he had been by his side since he was a wight of twelve. The naviety and gentleness of that age seemed to have been lost in him, however.

— There had been a particular night, though: in a dark alleyway away from the Garrison, when the hour was gloomy and when the shades of evening had already stabilished rule through the city's aurora. There had always been an individual easiness between him and the other, where words were not made necessary, for the sky spoke for them. Between both, silence was as euphonic as the melody of a church's chore and, for all, it was easier to be with Finn when all was quiet.

— Whilst a caramel candy was the sole thing to dance around Isaiah's mouth, a cigarette, lightened by Isaiah himself, laid between Finn's lips. It was an sardonic image, yes, wrote out in even more sardonic stanzas. A definitive gleam shone through Finn's eyes when the lighter came to his mouth: a fiery glow, a haunting and golden luminescence in those hazel eyes. The flickering of the flame delineated all of the freckles in Finn's fair, lovely features. It was a derisive acerbity, that his flesh was so ivory in tone.

— He should not smoke, Isaiah remarked, and yet a venom remained in Finn's veins, even if it was as fine as a rabbit's hair. He was still a Shelby, no less—and venom was nothing if not inherited by the family's blood. And Finn, sweet, pretty Finn inherited the verses of his kin's serpent as well. He was gracious and sly, quiet and wily. Truly, he possessed the potential to be cunning. Even so, as the cigarette went out and Finn brought another one to hover between his red lips, Isaiah, in repeated motions, held out the lighter to set it aflame, but then—then, the mere look the other shot him was enough for him to abandon the object in his pockets, take Finn by the jaw and kiss him.

— The flavour of that caramel candy, which Finn had long observed by Isaiah's lips, shred its paths through his mouth, as he was certain that the taste of tobacco did by Isaiah's own. Hands, once in his jaw, wandered until one of them held his waist and the other held his hip. His own slender arms came to circle around Isaiah's neck, and his body was firmly pressed to the other's—with a tint or two of something he could not name, albeit as heavy as concrete, he saw that he ought to stand on tiptoe to equalize both heights. A glint shone by Isaiah's eyes; it was hunger that he saw in the man's pupils. And God, did he not kiss well?

— In a short and eventual period, encounters such as that turned into a trite remark for both. Way too trite, if the opinion of logic should be considered. All the rendezvous were always at dawn, where no eyes could pry and no soul would wander around, always strategically distant from any point where one could recognize the both of the two. They hid and hid as though they were rats in a a cathedral, distant from the sacred, hidden of the punishments for one's existant in itself. A man had once said, "my existence is a scandal".

— Where moonlight slips, an euology for a certain image is kept. And did the both had quite the visage to keep, Finn reckoned. Yes, they did—as sure as the sun rises day after day, and the crows keep on creaking dawn after dawn. One cannot be thought as blind, for when the eyes close, one can be merely blinking.

— Every suspicion was to be kept at bay, like a prisioner in gelid bars. If one did so much as dream that such encounters had been happening, when the only element to be seen was dawn—oh, heavens. The mere thought of it send a cold trail down his spine; he wore his fear as though it was a perfume of cruel aroma. Yes, they should be discreet—proper, even. The vision of Finn, with agitated eyes and agony in his every motion, looking to one side and then the other in disturbed attempts to find anyone in sight, turned into an usuality. An eventuality, perhaps.

— Isaiah was lying through his very teeth when he told him to calm himself, that both could not be seen; he knew that much. The other cultivated the same preoccupations as him, he was certain. His arrogance had never quite left him, no. In fact, one could say his gentleness and naviety had long been traded by that deep arrogance. Therefore, he dearly held the belief that Isaiah could not hide anything from him—so dearly he held it, so navietly. But when they were discovered (should they ever be, that is) his particular surname would not take him nor Isaiah out of the gallows.

— At night, one could say that his prayers only held one thing: that his neck broke when the rope was tightened, and that Polly was not there to witness. Cowards are sculpted by the laws of their era. For some time, a press of lips in the neck and a hand here and there sufficed for both him and Isaiah; and one may take notice that Finn could never be accustomed with anything for long. All he possessed, alongside his affections, was fear. Fear of discoverence, of whatever Thomas would do once those meetings came to his knowledge, of whatever Isaiah himself would do as the secret (for that was what it all was: a secret to be taken to the grave, where sentimentality lay the most) was told.

— Grandiose were the terrors to roam within the bounds of his bones. The sweet and tender have no enemy but time, that is certain; but in the dance of the clock, the roaring dread will either die in fire and powder or consume, as all greatness does. As it seemed, it just consumed, its teeth and claws as sharp as the verses of the Devil, devouring in motions most ardent. For all things sacred, he had tried to take no shame in whatever creature he was (for he was not human, not at all. He could never be; humans were not quite like him) and he had tried to murder his fear. Still, it took vengeance as its, and it repayed. To murder one's terrors, is to murder one's self.

— Finn was young, was he not? Younger than Isaiah, certainly.

— In a golden carriage, it came: the moment where Isaiah decided to confront Finn about it all. The distancing with no past clues to be seen, the very way Finn pretended not to know him when he was up to it, even if he kissed him so hard it could bruise when none were watching. And Finn—he had always had quite a temper, had he not? Yes, he had, and by himself, Isaiah should have realized that such was behind the motives of him avoiding confrontation. Firstly, Finn had the shame to deny that any terror could have ever crept upon him, and then, he all but kept the same speech: that both ought to keep appearances.

— Now, fuck off. It was not as if Isaiah was asking Finn to marry him. All he wanted was a simple little thing: constancy. Perhaps honesty, even.

— He could not tell he did not understand how Finn felt. He was a preacher's son, and as alike to Finn as he could be, he was raised as a catholic lamb; he appeared on every mass, he confessed every blasphemy which could ever come to dwell on his thoughts, and with prying ears, one could hear his prayers before bed. All in all, he purged every sin of his skin, and spent childhood and adolescent living in such a way.

— And there was a certain evening when he supposed he could not live like that, and acceptance came to him. As was evident, Finn still did not possess such understanding, and Isaiah could not be the one to guide him down a path he once followed. It would be, above all else, painful, and albeit he held the want to shepherd Finn, he could not stand to hold the hand of a mirror of whom he once was.

— In eventuality, both parted their destinies. The decision was agreed, and Finn did not have the opportunity to refuse.

This one got quite angsty, and much longer than what I expected. I still have more, though.

46 notes · View notes

hibewriter · 7 months ago

Text

Eyes to Welcome You Home

Masterlist Read it on AO3

Shadow & Bone | Darklina | 7.3K | E

Tags: Age Gap | Dry Humping | Car Sex | Stair Sex | Coach x Player Relationship

Logically, Ravka is just like any other country. Within its borders citizens in its largest cities mull about, going to and fro from jobs of a different caliber than the citizens of the countryside. Its roads are an intertwining bramble dictated by terrain and populace, a web when laid out on paper — all seemingly combining to a point at the country capital of Os Alta.

But the most important roads, the major ones that nearly every citizen found themselves on at one point or another, were the two cross-country highways. Like all major roads in Ravka, country-Way 270 and Country-Way 40 intersect at the heart of Ravka in a spiraling complex of ten lanes and confusing exits.

Most preferred CW-40, outside of the city at least. Once its lanes died down into a manageable system of three that traveled from the very highest point at the Fjerdian border to the very southernmost point of Shu Han. Few people minded the small airport along its route, for the traffic was rarely overbearing.

Yet, on CW-270, which stretched from the port coast to the intersecting border of Ravka, Fjerda, and Shu Han, many found themselves in a hate-hate relationship with the long stretches of construction, passing fields and fields of farmland only to transition into worn buildings of an industrial era long gone. But, should one decide to take the cross-country road trip, they might find interest in the passing exits of small towns. Isolated stretches of road that seemed to have slipped into an ethereal space, lone streetlights, and cracked asphalt that stretched to the very depths of darkness themselves.

It’s on one such road, two hundred and eighty-four miles away from the coastline, just before the final exit before the border crossing, was a foster home. Normally, one would not find a foster home on the edge of Ravka’s civilized society to be significant. One casually does not pay mind to the small town of Ketterdam, just twenty miles from CW-270. The old industrial buildings were covered in decades of salt and wind, brick weathered dull but still standing out vibrantly from the paneled homes and patched roofing across the town. Even less than minding the small town, people minded the downtrodden foster children. All of them were forgotten the second they were deposited on Ana Kuya’s doorstep, government checks were often “misdelivered” for months at a time.

But that didn’t stop the house from bringing a vibrancy often lost in the grey skies of Ketterdam.

“Malyen, get OUT .” A voice, high and sure rang through the crumbling four square. The chipped painting probably suffered from lead and other toxic materials that lined the walls, and cramped hallways with boxes full of various belongings. And currently banging on the home’s lone bathroom door, was a girl of five foot four, jet black hair swishing like silk down her back as her entire body moved with her fist.

“MALYEN, I SWEAR TO GOD IF WE’RE LATE DROPPING OFF ROSE I WILL BREAK YOUR ARM!” She swore, continuing her pounding as a girl, no older than twelve with blonde pigtails destroyed by sleep, peeked her head out of the door across the hall.

“Linka? I need your help with my hair.” The dark-haired girl, Alina Starkov, spun abruptly, eyes wide as she regarded her foster sibling.

“Of course, Rosie, why don’t you go ahead and get your bookbag together and I’ll grab your brush from the bathroom." She watched carefully as the girl rolled her eyes and slipped back into the room. As soon as the door softly clicked shut she spun on her heel, fire returning to her eyes as she accessed the door.

‘Malyen, you have to the count of thr–”

The door swung open, and she was suddenly face to face with her foster brother. Had it been years ago, and she was still idyllic with her little crushes based on physical appearance, and that alone, she might have been given pause at the shirtless boy in front of her. His build was bulky as muscles strained under his skin from years of football practice and eating more than his fair share during dinner as Ana Kuya looked the other way. But instead of being charmed by his lopsided grin, she pushed her way past him, furiously turning the water to begin brushing her teeth.

"Morning to you too, Alina."

She fixed her eyes to glare, not responding as she rushed. He merely chuckled, seemingly amused by her frustration. She wasn't sure what was so funny. They had fifteen minutes to get dressed, eat, and load into the car – least Rose, Alina, and Malyen get detention for being late. And none of them could afford that right now.

"Jush hurreh up Mal." She groaned around the brush in her mouth, trying not to rush through her process too much. This was her last year, she forced herself to remember. The last few months of struggling through mornings like this.

"Relax, Lina," he sighed, heavy feet padding down the hallway. "I'm driving today remember? Ana gave me the car for the weekend!"

She cursed, spitting the sudsy paste into the sink with fever, barely taking a second to rinse before she, too, was in the hallway.

“What?! I need it to get to work! And practice!” She yelled, ire building as she heard the deep laugh from the boys' door. Ana was taking Charles to daycare already, their caretaker often gone before dawn. How she found a caretaker to take the boy before the sun rose she'll never know.

"Too bad! Use a cab!"

She scowled, sure that steam would rush from her ears if the shockingly violent cartoons were accurate. But instead, her face just grew red. Splotches of anger dotting otherwise flawless skin, fist coiled by her sides. She didn't have the money right now. Not after –

"Linka, my hair!"

A lump swallow in her throat, closed eyes as she rushed through her calming. One, two, three –

"LINKA,"

"One minute, Rosie!"

It was going to be a long day.

She was right, of course. She sat through mind-numbing class after mind-numbing class. Notes were taken with a drying glitter pen – lines and loops not fully connecting but it didn't really matter. There was a good chance she would not remember a lecture about the industrial revolution in Ravka. What did it matter, when all it left in its wake was a crumbling building in Ketterdam where she listened to Mr. Botkin spew historical talking points from the country curriculum? Half the information needed was to be parsed on the single laptop Ana brought home when it was clear that the textbook – first written nearly a hundred years prior – would not do.

And if in the margins, where she should take specific notes on figureheads and notable politicians whose influence died with them, she doodled pictures of dark eyes that welcomed her home every night then…that was her prerogative.

Besides, as the hands on the old clock above the door ticked slowly towards two-thirty, she grew more and more restless. Even the bolt from the building to the gym, nearly a mile away, could not quell her anticipatory movements. Her pen tapped restlessly, her foot moving even faster as she lost the plot of whatever her professor said.

Ring .

Foot met the pavement faster than her teacher could scream after her. The bell doesn't excuse you , would not work. Not today. Not as she sprinted out of the two-story building, cracked sneakers hitting concrete, then asphalt, not even sparing a glance at the parking lot. Malyen and his friends probably didn't even stay after lunch, the old 4Runner long gone from its designated space.

One mile. Ten minutes. Part of her wished she'd taken cardio more seriously, her down days could've been spent on a treadmill (if Matthais was the one working desk at the town’s only planet fitness) or around the school's track. Even if there were cracks in the rubber walkway, sprouting leaves, and grass that the caretakers weren't paid enough to attempt to remove.

It was good, the necessity to move fast. She couldn't feel the wind, scraping through her thin jacket. December air at the base of the mountain, nearly single digits, and yet her windbreaker was her only source of warmth. The cutting edge of air as she attempted to avoid lateness. If she were late he would notice.

You didn't want him to notice your deficiency.

Her lungs felt like she'd been stabbed, the sudden exertion with no stretching (another thing he'd yell at her for, but the circumstances made it unavoidable). But she persisted, ignoring the weight of her backpack and gym bag slapping against her spine with each hurried step.

2:47 .

She attempted to slip in, unnoticed as she sprinted to the locker room. Thirteen minutes. Her limbs were a flurry of motion, clothes discarded for her practice leotard, (hand washed every night you didn’t want to waste too much water using the washing machine). Hands and feet powdered with a quickness that couldn't achieve proper usage, wrapped so quickly after she was sure there was probably a step she missed.

She refused to be embarrassed, however. Not as she slipped into the main practice area, her legs perhaps moving faster than normal to get to her stretching corner. She ignored the pointed looks from the redhead, normally so sweet, already in the middle of her stretches. Steadfastly pretended she couldn't hear the dark-haired girl, normally not-so-sweet, muttering about her timing. She could do this. Pretend everything was fine and it wasn't a million-dollar race to even get here. No matter if she was three minutes late.

"Starkov."

She winced, closing her eyes as she leaned into a split. He noticed. He always notices. Aleksander Morozov may have been an army captain, or a general, with his precision. The way he demanded perfection, and if you couldn't give it to him…well then what use were you?

"Yes, Coach?" She tried to feign confusion, slowly opening her eyes to see the man himself. Dark pools stared impassively into her eyes. Unimpressed. More likely disappointed. Not welcoming as she dreamed of them.

"Is the posted time for practice not in your email?" His voice, neutral in tone, still carried an edge to it. He could be laughing, speaking about his greatest joy, and she would still believe him seconds from brandishing a knife to stab her with. Maybe flay her and eat her.

"It is in my email, coach."

"Then do you simply not respect the time and sanctity of this gym?"

"I do, coach. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

His arms crossed, the black t-shirt straining against his biceps as he regarded her. She wished she could tell what he was thinking. What he wanted.

"Thirty laps after stretching. You'll work the floor today."

"But it's–"

"Bar is for people who show up on time, Starkov."

Silence. She could feel the eyes on her, other athletes waiting to see what she'd do. But seconds passed, her form unmoving as she looked into those eyes. She needed to practice the bar. It was her worst event, and she needed damn near perfection if she wanted to –

It didn't matter. She swallowed her fury, finally tearing her gaze away from stern eyes and leaning into her stretch. When has she ever been able to say no to him anyway?

"Of course, Coach."

Her legs ached. Thirty laps had crossed into thirty-five because five of those laps were walked, Starkov. Go again. Her floor routine was in shambles. Simple tumbles had fallen flat, final landings nearly causing her to roll her ankle.

It was two hours of failure. Two hours of his eyes on her. She felt them hovering on her – as if the other students didn’t need assistance. He didn't have to say a word. Nothing since she began but she fucking knew. The disappointment was evident when carved into stone, its edges sharper and more biting the more it sets. By the end, her mouth tasted like copper. Her breath came out in pants as she glanced at the clock.

Maybe if she could go one more time, fix her double axle… Her eyes tracked the empty mat, ignoring her fellow athletes leaving the space as she tried to figure out what was wrong with her.

"Practice is over, Starkov." No dice. She sighed, dropping her hands from her hips in an act of defeat. It was no use begging for more time. Time she didn't have before she had to leave. She was already cutting it close.

"I'm leaving, Coach. I get it." She muttered, not sparing him a glance as she slowly turned and made her way to the lockers. I wouldn't want to keep the disappointment in here either.

She was slower this time, peeling her leotard off in a daze. Her brow furrowed as she thought of every mistake. Sprung too early on the salto, fucked up the twists, and made it seem like a salto. Constantly fucked up the landing, her balance was practically nonexistent.

Her thoughts followed her in a haze as she jogged the next three miles to the city grocery.

Technically, the city had an ordinance on minors working. No teenager in Ketterdam was supposed to work past eleven-thirty, nor lift more than sixty percent of body weight in a work environment, and there were mandatory fifteen-minute breaks per four hours worked. But, working at Brekker Grocery had its…well advantage isn’t quite the word. But it did tend to help you skirt around the ordinances of the city. No official paychecks meant no logged hours, which meant that she could work as late as the store was open (until one in the morning, every night of the week except Sunday when they closed at midnight). It was the only flexible job in town. The only place that would hire her.

"Hey Kaz," she muttered as she strolled inside, past the only other cashier in the store. At least he didn’t have a choice. The son of the owner typically gets dragged into these things, whether they want to or not.

“Hey! My dad’s out of town so it’s just me and you tonight.” She had a feeling, not seeing the rusted pickup Mr. Brekker normally drove to the store outside. But, she merely sighed, switching into the red half-apron that was probably older than her. It’s not like she could turn around now.

“So what, did you not go to class today?” Friendly conversation. She could do that.

“Don’t need class when you got street smarts.”

She rolled her eyes, a huff escaping her lips as she walked away from him. Kaz was two years older than her, yet they were in the same grade. She didn’t want to chalk it up to days like this, where Mr. Brekker would disappear and force his youngest to take over. But when it was a constant, something she barely had to ask about, well. It made sense.

Shelves needed to be stocked, and she needed to spend the next…seven hours pretending she was busy. To be fair, she wasn’t certain she was necessary after ten, but who could say no to more cash at the end of the night?

Maybe, if she didn’t open her mouth so much, she would’ve been correct about a slow night. Then she wouldn’t be dealing with a sudden influx of students, out well past their curfews, barging into the store with less than an hour to closing. Where she was forced to stand at the register while Kaz “counted” the closed registers. She didn’t know what exactly he got up to back there. Just knew that her drawer was short once, and after screaming at him for nearly an hour that night, it was never short again. Mr. Breaker wouldn’t fire his son, not for simply skimming what was technically his profits. But he would fire the little foster kid from down the road.

And maybe she needed the job. Maybe she still did. Or maybe it was pride, mixed in her fury.

Either way, the kids in the store gave no reprieve to her night. The sun was long gone, and she could see the sky, opening like a flower in spring. Slowly, then all at once, white powder fell cautiously from above, as if afraid to touch the ground. Deep inhales, then a sigh as she watches it begin to accumulate. Her sneakers had a hole in the sole, something she’d meant to fix this morning before she was so late. Something that would bite her in the ass as she walked back. Ice would seep into her feet, the socks would grow wet, and she’d have to be careful about falling on the ice.

Little things in life provided much relief besides the approach of black grippy shoes, manager’s keys swinging from side to side accompanied by the carefree whistle of someone who lived two minutes from the storefront where they worked. A sound she was all too familiar with, eyeing the lone clock above the entryway. Only one-twenty-three in the morning. Maybe she’d get home before three.

“Alright, sunshine. Get out of here.” She was out of her apron before Kaz finished his sentence, ignoring the shake of his head as she nearly sprinted to get her bag. She could go to sleep, she could rest…

If only. Exiting the grocery store was a nightmare. While the snow fell around her, silent and bright on the dimly lit street, the wind raged. Drastic and powerful, her light jacket was little more than a sheet, wet and soaking mere seconds after stepping foot outside. She held her arms close, hoping beyond hope that her body would provide the barest warmth against the elements.

She walked along the main road for just a few minutes, the street lamps illuminating her path, though as she continued her march south, toward her home and shared bed, She found herself taking more and more steps between each light. Shadows seemed to follow her, clinging to her form with each crunch of her shoe.

The alley, her shortcut behind the town's only bar, was already layered with the week's trash, topped with fresh snow that did little to mask the smell. Her shirt, pulled up and over her nose, was not much better. But soon enough, the hazy blues and reds of The Fold's neon signs reflected off the fallen snow. A welcome sight as she stepped onto the frosted sidewalk.

"Starkov."

She froze, turning to face the bar awning. Or more importantly, the man standing underneath it. He hadn't changed since practice, the same black joggers and t-shirt adorning his body. But his voice was just as sharp, like a predator approaching prey.

Briefly, she wondered how he could stand to stand outside, the bar door firmly shut behind him. But the lit cigarette dangled precariously out his mouth, soft smoke floating like a stream past his face, and it occurred to her that maybe he was in a rush to get outside when he stepped out.

"Coach, I didn't see you there."

He stared at her, dark eyes roaming her underdressed form, the same bags, and jacket from practice on her back.

"You should be more observant," he said, pulling the cigarette from his mouth. " It's dangerous to be out so late."

"Yeah, well, not much of a choice these days," she shot back. She startled at her tone, eyes growing wide as she recognized the annoyance slipping into her words. She clasped her lips shut. Practice tomorrow would likely be torture, should he find himself in a bad mood. Silence stretched between them, encompassed by the air whipping around them.

She shivered, clutching herself tighter as she turned her head to look down the street. Just a few more miles until she was home. Her ears were on fire, reddened by the wind. Her hands tucked precariously into her armpits – a small shield from the growing storm.

“Where are you going?” His voice finally broke, cutting through the wind like a sheet of paper. She sniffed, turning to look back at him.

“Home,” her legs shifted, dancing from setting her weight on one side to the other. Maintain the blood flow, and warm yourself. It was only a few more miles. “Hopefully. Mal has the car and he went out of town. So I was walking. It might be colder than I anticipated earlier.” She paused, eyeing his patient face. It was almost expectant, how he looked at her to explain why she would be out so late, on a Friday, in the middle of a storm.

She bit her tongue, turning her head towards the darkness once more. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, I should go.”

“Stay right there,” he sounded so sure, dropping his cigarette and stomping it out. The bar door opened in a burst, a flash of movement and suddenly it was like he never even stepped inside. A heavy jacket and keys in hand as he approached her. His hand was warm around her arm, slowly taking her toward a black truck, one she hadn’t noticed before.

“I can walk you don’t have to leave your night,” she protested as he led her to the passenger side. She couldn’t see the face he made, the exasperated look as he opened the door.

“Get in the car, Alina.”

She scrambled into the seat, barely registering the door slam before the driver’s side was opened, the truck rumbling to life at the press of a button. She wanted to huff, but the heavy jacket was placed over her arms, her coach leaning over and pulling the seatbelt across her lap. She tried not to inhale him, the smoke – while fresh – took a backseat to the woodsy undertones of his body wash, still evident even after a long day in Ketterdam.

She watched as he straightened, turning the heat up before jumping out of the car again. The snow, piled on the windshield, slowly disappeared – brushed away with precision. A well-practiced movement, years of living in the mountain town honing skills she’d yet to master. It was almost calming, watching him prep the truck for movement, her body warming to the heat flowing into the cabin. The jacket provided a weight, a smell, that had her sinking into the cool leather of the seat.

“Do you need to tell Ana where you are?” His voice rang as he climbed back in, shaking flakes of snow off of his hands. She shook her head leaning back.

“Rosie is staying the weekend with a friend, so Ana doesn’t really care where I am.”

She felt him tense, the way most people do when they figure it out. She was just a second pair of hands to raise the kids, not a kid in her own home. She sighed, eyeing him carefully.

“It’s okay. Like I don’t mind it.” She tried to explain, tried to push away those feelings. She knew what it was, the pity, the confusion. Not knowing what to do when a teenager tells you that nobody cares. “It gives me a lot of freedom, ya know. Can’t get into much trouble when you’re always busy, right?”

She tried to laugh, but it was met with a furrow of his brow. And it was like he was looking right through her. Right through her words and into the insecurities she shoved deep down. As if he suddenly pieced the jigsaw together, even though he’d been on the edges of it for years. She’d just never let him close enough to see all the pieces.

“Do you do this often?”

“Do what often?”

“Walk home in the middle of the night.”

She could tell he was itching to ask something else. Anything else really. Something more personal, more accusatory of neglect, or how life was unfair. As if she didn’t already know that. As if being the only shu girl (in a town that, despite its proximity, did not seem to care for those over the border) didn’t already teach her this. But she just shrugged, noncommital as she looked out the window at the snow falling again.

She tried to feign indifference as the truck jolted, pulling out of the parking spot to go into the road. Braving elements she was ill-equipped to do on her own. Ignored the rumbling in her tummy as street lights began to change, the soft rumbling of the truck cabin caused her eyes to close, if only for a minute.

“Yes, I’d like to order a deluxe chicken sandwich meal and a ten-piece nugget meal.”

“And what will that be to drink?”

She blinked her bleary eyes awake, surprised at their sudden side adventure. The sleep shook from her bones as she cast him a curious glance. The light from the restaurant illuminated the lines on his face. Sharp edges fell into shadow as he leaned against his car door, speaking to the poor drive-through attendant.

What would it be like to touch the beard on his face?

She didn’t have much brain power, not as he pulled around, money exchanged for food placed on her lap. Drinks were placed in the cup holder. It wasn’t until he pulled into an empty space that she spoke.

“I thought you were taking me home?”

“I am,” he replied, pulling his sandwich from the bag. She looked at him curiously as he began rifling through their food, sauces laid between them as he began to eat.

“You didn’t have to get me anything.”

He swallowed his bite, turning to look at her with a skeptical brow raised.

“Oh, and when’s the last time you ate?”

She opened and closed her mouth, several times, before finally giving up. Honestly, it hadn’t been since she scarfed down that English muffin the morning before, in the sprint to school. Her cafeteria balance didn’t have enough for food this afternoon, and she couldn’t go off campus for anything. Unless she wanted to get stuck walking during lunch too.

Attention turned to the bag, and she tried not to immediately scarf down the hot fries and chicken nuggets. Eating in silence next to the man as he seemed intent on ignoring her growing uneasiness.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” She asked suddenly – after her last nugget was gone and she began placing trash back into the bag within which it came. He shrugged, taking a sip of his drink before slipping his own trash into the bag alongside hers.

“I’m not a monster.”

“You’re not nice either.”

At this, he laughed. Shrugging a bit before looking away from her, out the window at the continued snowfall. For a moment she wondered if he’d taken her to the fast food outside of town, an extra ten minutes away from everything else. It was closer to the highway, it stayed open later. Did he really just get this food because he was hungry? Did he feel bad?

“Demanding precision and dedication from someone with your skillset rarely correlate into niceness, Alina.”

“You called me Alina.”

He turned back to her, dark eyes boring into her own. Part of them made her want to shrink away, a growing darkness that could not only be attributed to the night filling his irises. But the other part of her, a part she rarely wanted to indulge in, was drawn to it. Wanted to explore, and see just why his eyes seemed to both push and invite her in.

“That’s your name.”

“You call me Starkov.”

“Professional context. This isn’t a professional situation.”

She blinked, mind numb at the thought. Non-professional. They weren’t friends. They rarely saw each other outside of the gym. She never thought he'd even want to see her in a non-professional manner.

"Of course, I do," Oh. She must've spoken out loud. "But I am your coach, that would be inappropriate."

She scoffed, shoving the last of her fries into her mouth before collecting their trash. Ignoring his amused brow as she unbuckled her seatbelt, switching positions with the trash. They'd been close before. His hands as they adjusted her legs, her arms. Holding her steady before a bar routine, catching her occasionally if she needed it.

But there was something about this – sitting close proximity in a car, fluorescent lights traded for the dim haze of his car radio.

"So because you're my coach we can't be friends?"

"No."

His voice gave no room for leeway. He was resolutely not looking at her, hands firmly in his lap as his eyes gazed into the darkness. She almost felt stricken, as if he'd hit her. Her face framed red as she felt the sting of rejection for something she hadn't even allowed herself to fully want until five minutes ago. Suddenly she wanted to hide – from him, from the snow-capped shadows that encased the car. A lump formed in her throat, a pit the size of her fist blocking her throat as her eyes began to sting with unshed tears.

"Why?" she begged. He shifted as if to lean away from her. As if to leave. Her hand flew out before she could stop herself, grasping his bicep. "I'm eighteen. I can decide who I can and can't be friends with."

He sighed, weighed by whatever plagued his thoughts. His eyes closed as he took a sobering inhale.

"You're only eighteen," he began, the tone of a father chastising a child that didn't understand just why you couldn't have ice cream for dinner. But she didn't want a father. She didn't want to be treated like a kid.

"Yes, I'm eighteen. I can make decisions for myself."

"That's not what the world thinks, Alina."

She bristled, shifting with ease. Fitting herself in the space between the steering wheel and his chest. His entire body tensed, unwilling to move a single millimeter. Her breath ghosted his nose. His eyes remained clenched. She wanted to smack him and force him to look at her if he was so intent on being a professional. If he was turning her away he better have the audacity to look her in the eye.

"The greatest of champions are not made because of society's expectations, but in spite of them." She stared at his face after she spoke those words. Eyebrows furrowed as he waged war within himself. Her hand came up without thinking, fingers drifting over the crease of his nose. She wanted to bask in the hitch of his breathing, the slight drop of his shoulders as he let her touch him. His hands twitched, indecisive, before her lightly grasped her hips.

"You deserve normal friends," his voice whispered as he shifted her further away. She almost pressed against the horn of the car before her free hand flew to rest on his chest.

"You're –"

"A thirty-five-year-old and an eighteen-year-old are not a normal friendship, Alina." His eyes opened, dark and obsidian as the night. There was an urgency in them. A pleading for her to understand what he was saying. "One of them always wants more than the other."

The pit in her throat returned, double in size as she stared back. She couldn't look away – drawn into his gaze and unable to look away. It was like how his mere presence drew all the attention in the room, but the room was just her.

"Do you think…" she choked on her words, blinking finally as she shifted in his lap. Trying to get right in the middle of wrong. "That you're the only one who wants more?"

His eyes closed again, and he leaned forward as he groaned. A pained exhale as he tried to maintain the rigid composure he had with her. For too long , she thought. Her hands rested on his forearms, eyes staring at the grey leather of the truck wall as his head landed on her chest.

For a moment, she was just there. Feeling his warmth seeping into her bones as he breathed. And it felt right – his hands on her hips, his breath on her chest. The tickle of his hair under her chin. And it was with sudden clarity, like a lightning strike, that she felt her resolve solidify. That she knew what she wanted. What she needed from him.

"Take me home, Aleksander." She felt him stiffen again, tension evident in him as he attempted to regain composure. Her hand flew to his hair, a soothing thread of her fingers on his scalp. "Your home. I want – please take me to your home."

She didn't move from his lap as he sat back. Instead, she allowed herself to follow his movement, tucking her head into the crook of his neck and shifting her hips closer to his. She relished the slow rumble of the truck, its shaky movements as it backed out of the parking space. Each foot shook the cab as he tried to carefully drive with a girl on his lap in the middle of a snowstorm.

But she didn't mind. Each bump and rumble brought her hips closer to his. Hardness pressed against her center with each movement. She bit her lip, clutching his shoulders as he navigated the streets (he did choose the fast food in town after all), but that could not stop the small whimpers she left with each rock of her hips. She barely noticed when they pulled into his driveway. Her hips still moved on their own accord, her whimpers no longer hindered as she mouthed at his neck.

In a flash his hands were back on her, increasing the pressure as he brought her hips down harder. His head flew back, giving her more access as she began to pant. She was encased in the smell of him, woodsy smoke, and a basic soap. Each roll of her hips was a push towards a cliff, the coil inside her tightening with each roll. But it was the sound of him, the low groan in her ear as she moved that sent her over the edge. A small cry left her as she did. The flood of relief filled her body as she clung to him, thighs shaking.

She panted, eyes lidded as she came down. Each limb seemed to come back to her separately. Her toes unclenched, and her fingers slowly released the fabric of his shirt. Each breath renewed her resolve.

"A-Alina," he breathed. He was still hard beneath her, clutching her as if he was afraid she'd run away. "Text Ana you're spending the night somewhere safe."

How he had the wherewithal to think of that she'll never know. And it was obvious that Ana wouldn’t care. But she did as she was told, slowly peeling herself away from his shoulder. She raised her hips slightly, reaching in her pocket for the phone she had for emergencies only.

I'm safe, Coach took me in when he saw me walking in the storm. I'll be home when the roads are clear.

She hissed when he turned the truck off, cabin lights blinding her. But he shifted her off his lap, opened the door, and climbed out. When he turned he offered her his hand, and she blushed as her eyes traveled past it, a noticeable bulge and a small spot of wetness staining his pants where her hips were. She wondered if she had the same stain on her jeans.

He had her in his arms before she could blink, snapping her out of her haze. She barely absorbed the home, another two-story four square. It was better kept than Ana's, even in the dark. Floorboards that didn't creek under the weight of both of them as he carried her – legs wrapped tight around his waist – through the front door.

Her feet were set on solid wood, a brief moment of clarity through the fog as he turned to close the door. A solid click of a lock. And then, his lips were on hers.

Soft, demanding. If she thought she was consumed by him before, this must be what it meant to be devoured. Hands, rough and calloused, cradled her face. His thumb was against her cheek, pulling her closer as if he couldn't get enough. His fervor, all-consuming and suffocating ignites her own. Her hands tangle into the hair at the base of his neck. Her chest pressed to his.

Their bodies moved as if possessed. Hands everywhere as they moved, lips only parting for seconds as shirts flew off with the wind. Legs moved on their own accord, strong arms pushing against furniture from his entire life – blindly leading her to the stairs. But as her ankles hit the first step she fell back, their kiss breaking as she lay on the carpet runner. His eyes were somehow depthless as he gazed at her, eyebrow cocked as she bit her swollen lips.

"We can go upstairs," he offered. She shook her head no, her hands drifting to the front zipper of her sports bra. His eyes tracked the movement like a hawk, an almost audible gulp forming in his throat.

"T–The living room?" Again she shook her head, her chest bared to him as he knelt. Finally, he was to feel the tightness in his chest, the same twisting feeling she felt in his presence. Breathless and needy as she unbuttoned her jeans.

"No," she nearly whispered. "Here."

His hands shoved hers aside, kneeling in front of her as he pulled at the fabric at her hips. Her jeans and panties disappeared in a flash. He was between her legs in a flash, the edge of the step holding her cunt to his eye level.

"Such a pretty cunt," he murmured, leaning forward. She blushed, raising her hands to her face before he looked up. He placed a kiss on her stomach, eyes fluttering as he began to kiss down. "Don't hide from me, malyshka . I've waited long enough for you."

She could barely get a whimper out before he licked a broad stripe down her cunt.

It was hard to believe, as he feasted hungrily over her. She hadn't known that she could feel sparks fly in her. That her entire body would arch off the staircase as he seemed on a mission for his tongue to find every nerve in her clit. There was no feasible way for her to contain the sounds she was making, even if she wanted to.

Her fingers threaded through his hair, tugging and pulling as a finger suddenly filled her. She felt stretched wide. Far more than she could attempt herself during muffled nights, attempting not to wake her sleeping foster sister as she fantasized about eyes darker than the shadows that held her.

And he took his time, working her into a frenzy as he slowly thrust that finger inside her. His tongue continued blatant teasing, almost torture as he pushed her closer and closer to the edge with each stripe. It was overwhelming, a plethora of senses coming together to wind her higher and higher with each passing stroke. She was hardly coherent when she broke, half sobs and moans flowing freely from her mouth as she thanked saints she no longer believed in for his tongue.

He barely let up. His fingers, before one was suddenly two, stretched her already overstimulated cunt as he rose to kiss her.

The salty tang of his mouth on hers, the juices from her that coated his lips, tasted like ambrosia as his pants met hers – discarded to the wayside as she felt a hardness against her side. Thick and hard as his fingers worked to bring her to that edge again.

"Please Sasha," she whimpered between breaths, hands uselessly clutching at his sides. His fingers found that spot, pressing against her front wall as she shook, ripping a moan from her. He made to pull away, earning him a whine and a pawing at his sides like a kitten when you try to take away their favorite toy.

"Gotta be safe, malyshka ," he murmured, attempting to get up again but she just pulled him back.

"Uh uh," she whined, adjusting so he fell right between her legs. His cock brushed against her oversensitive clit, eliciting a moan from both of them. "Wanna feel you. Is just been you… please, Sasha."

He groaned, a soft nod as he used one of his hands to notch himself at her entrance. Her nails dug into his sides as he began to press inside, his cock larger than his fingers prepared here for. She whimpered as he pressed in an inch, only to pull back and press in another. Each time carving a space for himself. Each press split her apart so that she could be molded just for him.

Soon their hips met, an ache scratched as he practically laid on top of her. Chest to chest, nose to nose, he didn't look away from her as he slowly pulled away, only to thrust back into the hilt again. Her breath knocked out of her throat, each thrust removing the air from her lungs and placing it in his as their bodies became one,

"Fuck," he muttered, revenant as he looked down, a bulge in her lower stomach looking suspiciously like the cock inside her. " You take me so well, so good for me. Always so perfect. "

Each stroke hit something inside her. A stroke to flame, a second wave ( or was it the third? Fourth?) threatening to crash as his hips drove hers into the stains beneath them. There would be marks in the morning. Bruises around reddened skin, signs of how well he filled her. Signs of how little she cared about the pain when the pleasure crescendoed to the clouds. To the home of the saints.

He kisses her, mad and fervently as his pace begins to falter. Hips slam against hips, mouths at war to see who could taste who the most. He snakes a hand, switching all his weight to a side, down her torso to meet her clit, causing her to cry out.

"One more, Alina," he panted into her lips. " One more for me."

She was never good at denying him. She'd been following his instruction for nearly four years. And he was always right. Just a few more and her toes curl, lips parted in a silent cry as her body falls apart. The pleasure overwhelms her, turns her brain to static as all she thinks of is him.

"Fuck, so tight," he groaned, forehead falling to rest on the stair at her head. "All mine, my Aina ." It became a chant. His Alina. Over and over until he buries himself to the base, pressing into her so hard she wondered if she’d feel the phantom of his hips long after they separated. But the thought gets washed away with the tide of warmth that fills her cunt as he fills her more than she thought possible.

Ana doesn't notice her absence for the three days Alina spends in Aleksander's bed. Nor does she notice that Alina no longer spends long nights walking home from the grocers. The woman has no time to, and another foster child was sent to her home during the winter break. A boy this time. And Alina would've helped care for the youngling, had she not been planning her departure.

Less than a hundred and fifty-two days and she would shake off the town of Ketterdam. She would wash away the rust and dust of the city, Os Alta in her sights with a fresh diploma printed in her hands. This time she wouldn't be the only one dreaming of her own gym, a child to hold and eyes dark as the night to welcome her home. She would pack all her belongings in a new duffle bag, purchased as a reward for her acceptance to the Ravkan Olympic team. The bag would get tossed into the back of a black pickup truck, and she wouldn't think about the city again.

#darklina

2 notes · View notes

angelkarafilli · 8 months ago

Text

Hadrian's Wall was built in c. AD 122 on the orders of Emperor Hadrian. Today, the Wall runs across northern England, but when it was built, it was the northern frontier of the Roman province of Britannia. With the exception of a couple of decades in the mid-2nd century AD, Hadrian's Wall was the north-west frontier of the Roman Empire for approximately 300 years. It was built to separate the Romans from the Barbarians¹ and may have been built in response to guerrilla warfare waged by the natives. It was certainly built to secure the border and control the movement of people in and out of the Empire.

The Wall is believed to have taken about six years to complete, although it would continue to change and evolve for decades after completion. Initially, some parts were built from timber and turf and others in stone. Eventually, the entire Wall, from Maia in the west to Segedunum in the east, was built in stone. In front of the Wall, where there were otherwise no natural features for protection such as rivers or cliffs, the Romans dug a deep ditch. Behind the Wall was the Vallum, which was an earthwork that comprised two banks of earth with a deep ditch in between. The Vallum stretched almost the entire length of the Wall, over 70 miles, and probably defined the rear of the Wall-zone.

The height of Hadrian's Wall is difficult to know because so little of it remains. It probably varied depending on the terrain. For example, the Wall as it crossed the high cliffs of the Whin Sill was possibly about 4-4.6 metres high (13-15 feet) and slightly higher—possibly 4.6-5.5 metres (15-18 feet) or more—when it crossed easily traversed terrain.

Hadrian's Wall has been used as a quarry since it was abandoned. Today, only about 10% of the Wall remains, and the sections of wall that have survived stand at a height of just 1-2 metres in most places. However, as recently as the 16th century there was a section of Wall standing 5 metres high (16 feet) near Bowness-on-Solway. Samson Erdeswick records in 1574:

"Begyning abowt a town called Bonus [Bowness-on-Solway] standing vppon the river Sulway now called Eden, and there yet standing of the heyth of 16 fote, for almost a quarter of a myle together, and so along the river syde estwards."

William Camden (16/17th century):

"Within two furlongs of Caervoran, on a pretty high hill the Wall is still standing, fifteen feet in height, and nine in breadth."

Bede (7/8th century):

"It is eight feet in breadth, and twelve in height, in a straight line from east to west, as is still visible to beholders."

These writers lived many centuries after the Roman military abandoned Britain. Even Bede, the earliest reference to the height I have used, was writing some 300 years after the Roman military had left Britain. Thus, the Wall might have lost a few feet in height in places by his day.

With regard to thickness, Hadrian's Wall was up to 3 metres (over 9 feet) thick, but again, it varied. Some sections were about 2.5 metres thick (8 feet), and other sections narrower.

In its day, Hadrian's Wall was an impressive 73-mile-long (80 Roman miles) stone structure with no fewer than 16 large forts, 80 milecastles, and about 160 turrets. It crossed over rivers, hills, and along cliffs, from the west coast to the banks of the River Tyne in the east.

An unbelievable structure that survives from the ancient world.

Location: above Sycamore Gap looking east.

Source:International Man of History/FB page

#Hadrian's Wall #Romans #Britannia #c AD 122 #Northern England #history #ancient world #Sycamore Gap

3 notes · View notes

da-bestest-writer · 1 year ago

Text

Unnamed Baki Next gen au part 2

Tomoe stood in the ring, On live television, as her grandpa jumped behind a corner post with a sense of supreme confidence, She wandered if her parents were watching? Maybe if they were they'd rush here and save her.

Androv looked annoyed "A little girl? Really? I know about your legacy, Yujiro Hanma, But even is this little broad is your granddaughter, There's no way in your right mind you think she could really beat me."

Yujiro laughed. "No hold barred, Go wild with her, She'll shut you up in no time." The older man said with a wicked, evil smile. Tomoe began to get why her parents kept their distance from this guy, He was nuts!, Thankfully Androv looked dissinterested... Until

"Oh! And if you do manage to beat her, You'll get to fight the ogre live on camera. Win or lose your name will finally be worth a damn." Yujiro said with a glint of bloodlust in his eye.

Androv was quick to accept those terms, In the years since the ogre's retirement many wandered if this legend of an unstoppable man, Who outgunned any warrior, Any weapon, Any nation at all was really all it was cracked up to be,

Even if it was, He would be known as the last man the ogre ever fought, That was his mindset. And so, he told the ref to ring the bell.

It took Yujiro's insistance for him to do it though. Despite his granddaughter's protests. "Heh! Sorry kid! Consider this a lesson in tough love!"

Tomoe turned to face the man , She saw him fight, She watched him... A guy two and a half times her size knock out a guy three times her size, What hope did she, An untrained girl who was twelve pounds overweight for her age and height have against him?

before she knew it, The bell was rung, She was prepared to eat the glove of a man who punched faster than she could even see, A fight between her and a guy like this would be like trying to compare a little league amateur's limp wristed knuckleball to the fast ball of an MLB pro.

and yet, Now that she was on the other side of those punches... Though she knew every ounce of how much power they had, They appeared to be no faster than the sluggish throws of a little leaguer

she was able to dodge them effectively, Seeing them coming from a mile away, She couldn't explain it at all, Not even to herself.

Meanwhile, At her home, Kozue and baki had indeed been watching the fight, Just to make sure Yujiro wouldn't try anything rash, If he did, it was baki's plan to use his cockroach dash to quickly reach the stadium... But before he had fully gotten his shoes on to do such a thing, He caught a glimpse of his daughter dodging like an expert, despite having never thrown or received anything more severe than a slap on the wrists.

Kozue meanwhile was gripping her knees with a strength rivaling that of Kaoru hanayama himself. on the border of frothing at the mouth. At her father in law for putting his daughter in danger, And at the kick boxer for giving into the ogre's psychotic demands so easily... All for a shot of fame he already had!

back in the ring, Dade is very quickly getting tired from being dodged so easily. and Tomoe had what felt like a couple hours to study his moves , despite only being at this for about a minute and a half...

"Kid!" Yujiro spoke up. "Fight back now! " The ogre spoke with a proud smile in his voice.

Tomoe gulped her nervousness down, and took to mimicking his footwork, Keeping his punching form in mind, She dodged another blow, and went in with a left straight

Dade's jaw was stricken, Dead on. His brain rattled as Tomoe, with her meak teenage body mimicked a kick she saw him use, Getting him square in the shoulder and knocking him off balance for the finishing blow. Using the momentum from his falling to the left, She smacked his jaw again wiith a right hook knocking him unconcious. Even with her lack of raw strength.

by the time this match finished, Baki had arrived. With the speed of a bullet train and his coordinated body it was really no effort.

"tomoe, Are you alright? are you hurt? " Those were baki's first words, Until she confirmed that Androv didn't land a single blow. This brought her father relief, until he turned to Yujiro.

"And you! i let you give her those tickets because it was an opportunity to bond like a normal grandpa would with his granddaughter. this wasn't supposed to happen at all! I should be taking you into this ring!"

"Baki..." Yujiro starts. "You said that if she wanted to get into fighting, she could do it as an adult right? well... How the hell can she make that decision uninformed!?"That caught baki's attention.

Yujiro, Seeing that, smirked. "As her old man, you have final say on how to raise Tomoe! I acknowledge that. But giving her a taste of the possibilities! The potential she has! Isn't that the greatest gift anyone could give their grandchild?"

Baki would tense up for a moment, Making Tomoe nervous, She didn't want her family getting into an altercation on her behalf, Even if her grandfather really was insane.

and then, Though she didn't want ot admit it, Given her mother's concern about this sort of thing... There was a satisfaction in winning, She held the lowest scores in PE, She couldn't pitch a ball, Or run, or sink a basket, Or even bend down and touch her toes with straight legs.

She was bad in math, history, Science. An unintelligent, Unmotivated, Average middle school girl, But she had an instinct for this.

"Papa... Don't get made and grampa. please." she took her father's hand. "I... I was scared having to fight an adult, But once it started i felt at ease. for the first time."

"The first time?" Asked baki, not understanding what she meant.

Tomoe nodded, And explained. "I can't talk to people, Im bad at everything i try, For so long i felt like i had nothing going for me at all, But i just beat a pro fighter! The kind of person who trained his whole life for this! And i beat him in just three hits! I'm not even that strong!"

Baki looked at androv, Still knocked out, Before he looked at his girl."Listen, You got lucky, Your brain was firing off at all cylinders just to keep you alive and safe. and the adrenaline flowing in your brain gave you more strength and flexibility than you really have on your own... "

"I... I really want to see where i can go with this! Not because you and mom said no, Or because grandpa wants me to do it! If i can be good at something... Just one single thing I don't care what it is, i want to see it through!"

with a speach like that, Baki's gaze softened. "Alright, We'll talk it over with your mom."

#baki hanma #yujiro hanma #kozue matsumodo #baki the grappler #Fanfic #Oc:Tomoe Hanma

15 notes · View notes

gayboy6y9 · 11 months ago

Text

my little raw shock

The following field report is for EHO employees or higher authority only.

Unauthorized viewing of this log is strictly prohibited and will be considered a violation of Canterlot security and a breach of international law.

- THREE MILES OUTSIDE OF YAKYAKISTAN CASE: RS-24 INFECTED SITE - DISEASED INFECTION

After establishing the quarantine perimeter for RS-24 the Canterlot government officials gave the greenlight for an on-site expedition to observe the sickness in its natural state, and investigate the contaminated area.The first one to go into the area was a small camera, mounted unit known as RS-24-B was dispatched at a safe distance and directed toward Site Y. RS-24-B has a reserve of unicorn magic for functionality for a total twelve hours and a control range far greater than that required for this investigation.

RS-24-B is able to enter Site Y without any interruptions or struggles. The icy landscape around Site Y displays mild observable stages of diseased land assimilation by late stage individuals infected with RS-24 near the observable border. The landscape around Site Y beyond the perimeter shows early stages of assimilation by singular RS-24 infected who have distorted and rooted at largely random intervals around what remains of the village. Many of the homes appear to have suffered fire damage long since put out; however a fair amount remain intact. Fire was found to be unhelpful in control of the disease.

Aerial pegasus groups observing overhead fly paths of Site Y combined with unicorn imaging has put it at an estimated population of 79 infected. Immobile or the late stage infected are included in this number. However, it is difficult to place the exact number of infections.

Varying degrees of physical mutation, mutilation, and distortion due to RS-24 are present in Site Y and it is assumed that all the infected inhabitants are in advanced stages of infection. RS-24-B observed the exterior of the village for two hours, during which time all infected behaved with what appeared to be a loose sense of biological structure. Interacting with one another in noticeable ways, the sickness is seemingly conscious of itself.

Because RS-24-B remained stationary during this observation period, it is unknown precisely what each individual infected pony was doing. However, the central plaza experienced occasional bursts of activity and downtime. Requiring more data, the RS-24-B operating team was directed to follow a stage three infected pony as it entered a home.

There is jagged bumpy camera feed as RS-24-B scoots over the gravel behind the quickly shambling diseased pony. The interior of this home is dilapidated, but shows no signs of geological infection of RS-24. There are multiple raw shocks present in the home. The infected being tailed is now the one sitting at the dilapidated table. After initially entering the home after the infected, RS-24-B's camera was raised slowly, and refocused softly so as to not draw attention. This action was either unnoticed or ignored. The home is obviously the remnants of someone’s home. The infected pony is watched from the doorway by RS-24-B as it messily hobbles around the home and stops at each of the other visible infected ponies. It appears that the raw shocks are attempting to interact with one another how they would if they were healthy ponies. However it appears to ignore the diseased raw shock specimen under the table which, while seemingly not immobile, does not leave that area. What this creature was before infection is unclear. EHO workers hypothesize it was a dragon based on proportion; but it is entirely unknown. The infected pony followed by RS-24-B is seemingly a late stage three diseased raw shock, assumed to be approaching stage four due to the swelling, and writhing of the tissue.

There is an infected pony laying in the bedroom of the house, as any sick pony would, as if it was not distorted and destroyed, and the pony simply had a cold. After lapping the table and repeating this procedure of feigned socialization three times the primary infected pony, known as 'RAW SHOCK A' henceforward, stops, and enters the bedroom to see the abstract raw shock who is seemingly bedridden, known as 'RAW SHOCK B', and proceeded to assault it with furious blows. RAW SHOCK B is seemingly unable to leave the bed, but is not completely immobile or inanimately distorted as it twitchily flailed its hooves and wings in response to the beatings delivered by RAW SHOCK A. After several sustained minutes of this beating, a piercing sound similar to a scream, explodes from the area around RAW SHOCK B who then proceeds to project a cloud of unknown matter into the air from its newly split chest cavity. It seems to be sobbing; the chest cavity remains open in this way. RAW SHOCK A lingers in the cloud of black fungus like fibers and particles as it floats in the air around them, slowly descending to the ground, where it stains the floor black like raw shock bile. The unknown life form on the table aside RAW SHOCK B begins to twitch in an apparent seizure, and RAW SHOCK A then laps the room twice more, stopping again at each infected organism, feigning normal pony interaction, but still ignoring the one under the table, as well as RAW SHOCK B now after the assault.

After these two laps RAW SHOCK A seats itself at the table and reaches out to another infected pony who turns to the kitchen cabinet and takes the three plates atop the pile as if setting a dinner set. After the plates are positioned by the other raw shock, the facial tendrils begin extending from RAW SHOCK A; writhe up and start to coil on one of the plates in front of it before tearing apart and separating into multiple diseased tissue structures. This mutilation is repeated at each plate.

After each plate is filled with RAW SHOCK A's bulbous flesh it leaves the table and approaches RS-24-B, which is moved from RAW SHOCK A's path. RAW SHOCK A stands completely immobile for three minutes, and leaves the home without further interaction with RS-24-B, but RS-24-B's camera remains focused on the table and the bulbous tissue upon it. The front door is left open, but the house itself is quite dilapidated, in an almost apocalyptic state. After several minutes of RAW SHOCK A’s absence, a group composed of six to seven infected [the bloated appearance of two raw shocks seemingly blurred the line between flesh and flesh] entered the room from outside, still ignoring RS-24-B. Each infected shambles as if movement is difficult, jerking in large steps or squirming in small ones. It takes several minutes for all of the raw shocks to get to the table, and settle in. The infected all surround the table and each takes turns grabbing handfuls of the diseased tissue left behind by RAW SHOCK A, pressing it into whatever orifices or wound on themselves that they can; some into remaining mangled mouths, some into the bulging chest and entrails, some behind their backs to the opening of their spine, some under huge umbrellas of tissue. When all the plates are empty the group collectively gets up and leaves. RAW SHOCK B is seemingly wailing, seemingly crying; either for help or to take it with them- it is unknown. RS-24-B remains here for several more minutes before retracting its extended camera, rotating, and leaving.

Immediately after leaving the doorway of the home RS-24-B collides with an object. RS-24-B. Panning the camera around the obstruction appears to be RAW SHOCK A, whose stage four facial tendrils are intermingling with another infected who’s body seemingly had abstract pattern mutations. The two figures are pressing their bodies together, writhing in an uncoordinated way, almost as if they are infants learning to walk. The impact to RAW SHOCK A is ignored by both it and the other figure. The two infected part ways after several minutes. Almost struggling to separate the bulging tissue from one another. RS-24-B is then directed by the operation team to explore more areas of the village.

The remains of what appears to have been a store show signs of severe fire damage as well as diseased activity inside the building, which RS-24-B then moves to investigate. The door is slightly ajar, and with firm movements of RS-24-B it is pushed open. No notice is taken of this action, or it is ignored.

Inside the store are several infected ponies, most of whom are diseased, standing around. However one figure is on the ground, rapidly twitching, seemingly rolling back and forth over the space of approximately 0.3 meters (1 foot), wailing, and is ignored by the others. RS-24-B tucks itself between the divider separating the cashier area from the customer area and pans around to see behind the counter. The upper half of a stage five diseased raw shock is protruding from a cellar door behind the counter, this pony does not appear to be suffering, or even conscious, from advanced infection and wears the garb of a Crystal Kingdom agent. The infected is seemingly trapped in the doorway, thick tissue stuck in the hinges.. RS-24-B zooms the camera in to confirm identification and it is noticed the eyes of this pony are in constant movement, often focusing on RS-24-B. The rest of the soldier does not move. The acknowledgment is recorded.

RS-24-B is directed to leave this area as soon as possible, and proceeds to the back room. In this storage area a large pile of bodies are stacked together, some of the ponies features are visible and appear to contain both military ponies, and every day ponies. No facial features are discernible on any of the bodies due to the way they are stacked. Atop the bodies an infected 'sits’, appearing to have its lower parts liquidated and fused to the pile and with its upper half in a wild state of flailing and seizure. Approximately every ten seconds a burst of flesh like spores erupts out the top of the bloated infected which linger in the air. RS-24-B is directed to leave the building before its contamination.

After leaving this building RS-24-B passes by the village well, surrounded by a series of immobile infected all facing the well. It seems as though these ponies are trying to use it as a wishing well. Grumbles of raw shocks noise are recorded all around; suspected to be attempts at speech. The arms of each of these infected ponys are stretched out, one in contact with the next, forming a perfect chain all the way around the contaminated well,, save for one whose arms are down at its sides. RS-24-B passes by this last infected specimen at the well to approach what appears to have been the town hall or mayor's building when suddenly, with remarkable forve and speed, the infected becomes mobile and snatches the device up.

Video feed from RS-24-B focuses in on the face of the infected which is strangely in perfect shape amd recognition given the condition of the rest of its body which is horribly bloated and deformed. This infected was once a young foal from appearance, age estimated ten to twelve. RS-24-B is mildly dismantled, rolled side to side in its grip as its intact face stares motionless at the rover. The infected's face suddenly balloons in size and violently explodes outward into a series of fleshy flaps snd tendrils that grip RS-24-B and draw it inside of the raw shock's “face”. RS-24-B's video feed terminates here.

RS-24-B was considered lost at this point.

However, no one at control remembered to turn off the video feed, assuming it cut. Five hours later RS-24-B's video feed resumed, stationary and at a raised level pointing at the upper rim of the village well. The video feed contains some blur due to what appears to be a slimy, fat like film which often oozes across the lens but when not obscured provides perfect quality recording.

RS-24-B does not respond to any remote commands or instruction from unicorn forces, but its video jerks messily back and forth from target to target, zooming in and out of its own accord. RS-24-B flickers between infected subjects mashing their figures together, and fusing into one mass of tissue. Video feed is cut manually and all connections to RS-24-B's unit are ordered for erasure.

#mlp au #mlp infection #my little raw shock #my little worms #mlp au lore

2 notes · View notes