* FOR ICE NATION !

ind. echo kom azgeda. low activity.

[azgedan-blog]

YOU BREATHE IN HIS SMELL,          face tucked into the crook of his neck as though you know what it means to be  soft.          it smells not of rain nor earth,     but rather a gentle musk;     the smell of  sex and sweat.          it’s unique to him alone.          the mattress you lay on is  uncomfortable  to say the least,     and as you reposition to better stretch your limbs,     the springs creak beneath your weight,     poking  mercilessly  at your skin.          ❛          i would rather sleep on a bed of  nails  than sleep here another night.          ❜          @blmys

[azgedan-blog]

BLMYS     /     BELOMI  .

IT’S ONE OF THE STORIES       his mother used to read.     narcissus,     a hunter praised for his beauty,     and echo,     the nymph who fell tragically in love with him.       ‘       yeah.     octavia never liked it much,     either.       ’       she had bigger dreams than    chasing boys.     he smiles at the memory,     half wistful,     half amused by the reaction.       ‘       the gods cursed him,     though.     she liked that part.       ’

YOU WERE A CHILD OF AZGEDA.          and as such,     you were not told stories of  beautiful men  and sea nymphs.          the tales you heard were of  honour,     of war and  sacrifice,     loyalty and courage.          they would lay down the foundation of your faith in azgeda for the queen to build upon in later years.          you look at him,     hand tucked beneath your chin,     and see a  fondness  in him    ––    a love one could only have for a sibling.               ❛          i don’t blame them for doing so.          cursed how  ?          ❜

[azgedan-blog]

BLMYS     /     BELOMI  .

‘       BECAUSE THEY DIDN’T KNOW.       i saw to that.       ’       he says those four words without thinking,     without stopping to consider that she might expect more.

shumway’s proposal is still fresh in his mind,     heavy as the gun he’d given him alongside an opportunity he couldn’t pass up     :     a place on the dropship with the delinquents,     and a chance to be there for octavia on the ground.     the    moral    side of it was an easy sell.     he had felt no sense of solidarity towards jaha,     or the council     —     the people who floated his mother and put his sister in the sky box,     left him alone for a    year    before the hundred’s exodus.     but clarke and raven were right     ;     he was selfish.

it occurs to him,     as he turns from earth’s inferno to meet echo’s eyes,     that he isn’t as guarded with her as he should be.     that there’s more solidarity    here,     right now,     between the two of them,     than he’d ever felt on the ark.     do you think we’ll ever be able to trust each other again   ?

time will tell.     maybe he’s just tired of fighting.

‘       raven came down after us.       ’       it’s low,     a little strained,     but he doesn’t look away this time.       ‘       she brought a radio with her.     if she found us    alive,     she was supposed to contact the ark and stop the culling,     and everybody else would follow.     as long as she had that radio,     nobody had to die.       ’

the flicker of a grim smile,     ruefully self - aware.

‘       she was unconscious when she landed.     i found the crash site,     stole the radio,    and threw it in the river.     those people are dead because of me.     because i was too much of a    coward    to face what i’d done to get there.     we called    your    people savages,     but mine were turning on each other long before we came back to earth.       ’

YOU HAVE SEEN COWARDICE.          and you know what it means to be afraid.          to be ashamed of what you have done and run from the  truth  as though it won’t chase at your heels like a rabid animal,     biting and gnashing,      waiting for you to stumble.          you listen as the story unfolds,     watching the subtle shift of his demeanor and the deepening crease between his brows.          

for a man with so much blood on his hands,     you did not expect this from him.          you wonder:     does that make you the foolish one  ?          to assume his  courage  has always been unwavering  ?

❛          you deceived them.          ❜

it is a statement    ––    not a question.          dishonour  is a punishable crime.          he betrayed his own people with selfish disregard,     and three - hundred suffered because of it.          three - hundred who may have walked this same ring,     whose faces he may have known but will never see again.          yet still,     he must have been pardoned.          a bewildering thought.          queen nia would not have granted him the mercy.

there must be more to the story that you haven’t heard.          something he hasn’t told you that will help you reconcile the person he once was with the person that sits near you now.          you have little room for judgement;     it is not your place,     and you have done much more to be deemed  untrustworthy  besides.          

briefly,      the thought of raven comes into mind.          you imagine a girl of her caliber would have fought him tooth and nail after regaining consciousness.          the image alone might have coaxed out a smile,     but the question still nags you:     what had he done to earn his place on the ground  ?          and what did he fear would happen if his people were to find out the truth  ?

there is nothing  soft  about you,     nothing in your expression that speaks to compassion.          but what is left unsaid in these few moments of silence makes it clear that your opinion of him is not that easily swayed.          you see him the same as you always have.          ❛          you acted out of your own self - interest.          we all do at one point or another,     don’t we  ?           none of us are as  selfless  as we claim.          ❜

[azgedan-blog]

anyway if you can excuse the shitty actions of c/larke g/riffin and b/ellamy b/lake and even o/ctavia b/lake and prop them up as heroes and innocent beans who only do what’s best for their people uwu~ but demonize e/cho kom azgeda for what she’s done then a) unfollow me, b) block me, c) blacklist me because i’m never gonna shut up about how this character is smart and beautiful and brilliant and strong and does not deserve the hate or backlash she gets from this fandom

[azgedan-blog]

❛          FOOLISH GIRL.          ❜          you spit this like a curse,     nose crinkling with disdain.          you cannot imagine it    ––    pouring your affection into a man that does not  deserve  it.          allowing yourself to become  weak.         he has explained to you that this is a myth,     and that it is not to be believed.          still,     you pity the girl in this tale,     the one that bears your name.          ❛          i must say,     i’m not  impressed.          ❜          @blmys

[the100-news]

tasyateles 🙈🙉🙊 #sup. #the100 Gents back at it again.

[azgedan-blog]

BLMYS     /     BELOMI  .

THE OFFER CATCHES HIM OFF GUARD,       makes it harder to reconcile this version of her with the version he knew on earth.     there,     she was war paint and betrayal.     she was a masked figure poised inside the husk of a building,     arrow nocked,     eyes cold.     she tossed down the pieces of octavia’s broken sword and turned away as he lost himself to grief.     it was a good death.

but she’d    saved his life    in mount weather,     and on their way to the bunker.     for survival   ?     maybe.     all that means is,     she did what any of them would do     —     what any of them    have    done.     she held a blade to his throat,     and he wrapped his hands around hers.     they’re both guilty.     he doesn’t have to    trust    her to believe that.

his eyes linger for a few seconds,     after she looks away.     there’s a distinct vulnerability to her up here     ;     a reminder that,     grounder or not,     she’s as human as they are.

gaze lifts to the view beyond the skylight.     the press of black space,     the pinprick constellations,     earth’s distant inferno.     a low breath blows through him.       ‘       skaifaya.       ’       a pause,     then an attempt at repeating the rest of the phrase.     trigedasleng still weighs strangely on his tongue,     never as    natural    as from his sister.

‘       before the rest of our people came to the ground,     they killed over three hundred to save oxygen.     life support on the ark was failing,     that’s why they sent the dropship down in the first place     —     they wanted to know if we could survive on earth.     but we saw them,     burning up in the atmosphere.     the bodies.     they looked like stars,     too.       ’

IT BEGAN WITH A MAELSTROM OF VIOLENCE.          from the moment their feet touched ground,     it was war.          word traveled fast across their lands,     and it wasn’t long before all twelve clans knew of their arrival.          hostiles,     they had called them    ––    children that fell from the sky,     burned their villages and slaughtered three - hundred of their  warriors  in a ring of fire.

and it did not stop there.          before the coalition named skaikru as the thirteenth clan,     azgeda had their orders:     kill  on sight  any sky person that dared cross onto their territory.          there would be no negotiation with the  bringers of death.          but the threat of the mountain forced their hand,     and skaikru was safe under the commander’s protection.

this did not bode well with the queen.          in hindsight,     not much did.          you try to imagine a world where she is alive.          a world where the coalition has crumbled and  wonkru  did not exist.          a world where  praimfaya  did not threaten the land.          you do not see him here.          you see his blood on your hands,     and that of okteivia and klark kom skaikru.          you feel the press of the earth against your knees as you kneel before your queen and declare the last of skaikru dead.

azgeda has risen into power.          

your heart soars when you look at him and catch the rise and fall of his chest,     the pattern of his breathing.          this world you have imagined does not exist and for that,     you are the most grateful.          you swallow around the lump in your throat and angle to face him.          you want to look at something  alive  instead of dead.          ❛         you speak well.     for a sky person.          ❜          his next words give you pause.          you,     too,     had seen them.

❛          i don’t understand.          if you were already  surviving  on the ground,     why would your leader sacrifice the lives of his people instead of sending them down after you  ?          ❜

[azgedan-blog]

the floor is hating echo kom azgeda

[azgedan-blog]

BLMYS     /     BELOMI  .

HE DOESN’T RECOGNIZE THE WORD,       but he recognizes a    plea    when he hears it.     he draws back a little to look at her and catches the spread of colour in her cheeks,     pulls    against a firmer grip just to see how much he can make it hurt.     breath pushes past clenched teeth,     a visceral sound,     and his touch is    relentless    even as she grapples with his clothes.

they’re both breathing hard,     but she hasn’t made another noise yet     —     he thinks it’s     defiance,     and he doesn’t shy away from the challenge.

the same way he’s not deterred by the baiting words that graze his fevered skin.     he almost laughs,     a mirthless rasp that’s lost in the frenzied heat of her kiss.

‘       screw you,     echo.       ’

he jerks her hand away from the zipper,     twists her arm at the wrist and pins it against her sternum.     his fingers are slick already,     to the knuckle,     and she’s close     ;     he can tell by the tremor,     the    urgency    she’s no longer trying to hide.     in quick succession,     he lets go of her wrist,     withdraws his other hand,     and shifts to push her down onto her back.     then he grips her behind each knee,     keeping her thighs apart so he can lean in to let his mouth and tongue take over for his fingers.

YOU’RE TIGHT AROUND HIM,     wet and inviting    ––    it must be  liberating  for him to be in control,     to push the limit without fear of repercussion.          on the ground,     the hand that grips your wrist and  twists  would have been met with a cold fury.          here,     it is met with obedience and the hook of a small grin,     an exhaled breath that toes the line between a scoff and laughter.

you feel  empty  without him,     without the thrust of his fingers,     the stroke of his thumb over your clit.          you allow him to push you back and pull your pants the rest of the way down,     tear them off in a hurry before he drops to his knees between your legs.

this is what you feel:     a spread of  warmth,     the flat of his tongue as he tastes you for the first time,     licks into you.          fingers find their way back into his hair,     gripping a fistful until your knuckles turn white and you breathe out his name.          you still  ache  for him inside you,     but  this,     this incredible thing he does with his mouth and the way his fingertips dig into your flesh  threatening  to bruise,     quells that desire for the time being.

the only thing you want  now  is to come.          you feel the gathering of pleasure between your hips,     the sweat that beads on your skin and between your breasts.

and this is what you do:         you pull at his hair and arch for him,     roll your hips to meet every wash of his tongue.          you no longer fight to repress the noises that build in the column of your throat.          the  sounds  you make will humiliate you later and you’ll want to hide from them,     because they  never  started small,     or soft,     or quiet.

your thighs tremble,     and all it takes is the lap of his tongue across your clit to finally push you over the edge.          to have you falling apart,     an explosion of euphoria stippling white behind your eyelids.

[lostcap]

And these, our mouths made for hunger. Tell me we’re not still hollow. That our kisses don’t devour. Tell me we’re forgiven.

Tell me | p.d  via lostcap (via lostcap)

[hedaswarrior]

Echo in 4.05

[azgedan-blog]

BLMYS     /     BELOMI  .

HE CAN HEAR IT.       there’s something sacred about that level of human connection,     but that’s not what he’s looking for.     her thigh muscles tense,     pinning his hand in place,     and he feels the    wet heat    beneath thin fabric with a spark of satisfaction.     he doesn’t need any more encouragement than that.

a sharp tug at her waistband pulls it past her hips,     low,     and he hoists her up onto the edge of the table with legs spread and fingers seeking what’s between.     goaded by the grip in his hair,     by her quick breathing,     by the swell of his own arousal as he presses close enough for mouth to meet throat.     he strokes,    explores     ;     slips one finger inside her,     then another,     angled to tease her clit with his thumb at the same time.

then a third,     pumping her    slow    at first to keep time with the rut of her hips,     the way she rides every movement.     but that’s too easy.     too soft.     teeth bite into the plush of her lower lip,     his other hand rucking up the hem of her shirt.     pace quickens,     rips away any    emotion.     his kiss should    bruise.

he doesn’t want    soft.

YOU ACHE WITH DESIRE,     warm and pulsing between the thick of your thighs.          thighs you spread for him,     eager and  equally  touch - starved,     equally as in need of distraction.          something to do,     something to  feel  that isn’t the weight of the vast expanse of  nothingness  that surrounds you.

you allow him to pull at the waistband,     allow him to hoist you onto the table and coax your knees further apart.          this is a man you kept bound in chains,     a man you kept  prisoner  of azgeda,     a man you  betrayed  after saving his life.          you should not be  desiring  him the way that you are.          moreover,     he should not be desiring  you  after everything you’ve done.          but the press of his fingers knocks this thought from the forefront of your mind.

a breath draws into your lungs,     a sharp inhale as you clutch onto him,     fingers tight in his hair.          the wetness between your legs makes it easy for bellamy to  take you  like this,     exploit your pleasure and fan the flame of your arousal.          

you welcome him into your warmth,     encourage  the mouth that presses hot against the column of your bare throat.          ❛          beja  ...          ❜          you claw at his shirt,     attempt to pull it up and over his head before his quickening pace forces you to stop,     gripping onto what you can for purchase.          never have you felt a need stronger than this    ––    and as he crushes that kiss to your mouth,     you imagine that he’s  inside  you.

a bloom of red spreads  hot  across your cheeks,     and you break away to pull him closer,     lips finding the slope of his neck and traveling higher,     teeth catching his earlobe.          your breaths become heavier,     fingers trembling slightly as you work around him to unbutton his pants and fumble with the zipper.          ❛          is this the  best  you can do  ?          ❜          when your lips chase after his,     it’s as rough as he might expect.

[azgedan-blog]

❛ we can’t remember how to be alive. ❜

WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO BE ALIVE  ?          is it the heart that beats  wild  inside of your ribcage like a war drum,     pushing the blood that melts the  ice  in your veins  ?          is it how you breathe,     the rise and fall of your chest as you inhale,    exhale,     recycling oxygen so that you can live  ?          is this  truly  what it means to be  alive  ?          

this is what you have been reduced to:     a beating heart and clean lungs,     an extra pair of  hands  that can bring the muscle,     bring the  strength  in your bones.         you are the thighs that part for him when he’s  touch - starved   and the mouth he uses to distract himself.          (     it goes without saying:     you are using him,     too.     )          but you are also the face he looks for  first  in the crowd when making a decision,     and that must count for something.

no,     you  don’t  remember how to be alive.          but neither does he.

you see it in pieces every single day    ––    the  war  he carries with him from the months he spent on the ground,     fighting to  survive  in a world that he was thrusted into without preparation.          you see it in them all.

the girl who took a bullet to the spine and  lived,     the pariah who was  hung  and exiled.          the boy who slaughtered his own  mother  to save his friends,      and the girl he  loves,     who suffered her own trauma.          you have learned much about them in passing weeks,     and it makes you wonder:     do any of them  know  what it means to be alive  ?          do you  ?

you take a sip from the cup he passes to you,     expression pinching in disgust as the foul taste of moonshine slides down your throat.          ❛          maybe we never  knew  how to begin with.          all my life,     there were threats    ––    azgeda  lived  on the brink of war.          queen nia made sure of that when she delivered costia’s head to the commander’s bed.          if what you say is  true  about the way of skaikru before you came to the ground,     then perhaps we are not so  different  after all.          ❜

[azgedan-blog]

BLMYS     /     BELOMI  .

HE CALLED IT THE COUNCIL CHAMBERS       with bitterness on his tongue,     residual disdain in the curl of his lip.     this is where the    chancellor    used to sit     ;     this is where they’d gather,     self - appointed each a judge,     jury,     and executioner.     (    this is where they decided to float your mother.    )

there’s no sentiment involved in what he’s doing.     she’s    there,     and that’s enough.     she could    floor    him if she wanted to.     but she hasn’t yet,     so he    pushes,     hands grasping hard     —

he’d fuck her against the table’s edge just to scorn everything that happened here.

‘       you want me to stop     …     ?       ’       the cut of his gaze to hers speaks to something volatile,     something bright and dangerous.      his mouth is hot against the shell of her ear and the hand at her hip moves between her thighs.       ‘       just say the word.       ’

YOU DON’T,     but know that you should.          he is  using  you to escape the burden of emotion,     every ounce of anger and aggression whittled from his grief    ––    and you  let him.          maybe there’s a little of it in you,      too;     a little  resentment  you harbour toward the sky people for the chaos and carnage they have caused.

or maybe there’s just guilt,     and you look to absolve yourself of it in the only way you think he would allow.          the hand between your legs is  rewarded  in a quiet gasp,     but your thighs squeeze together to still his movement.

your heart  hammers  against your chest,     and you’re sure he can hear it,     just as clear as the sound of his weighted breaths.          eyes remain closed,     one hand traveling from a broad shoulder into the spill of dark curls above the nape of his neck.          a moment passes,     then another.          the  fire  that burns in the pit of your stomach flourishes,     driving the  heat  down between your thighs.

slowly,     you begin to shift.          you part for him,     and your free hand descends to hold over his,     guiding the motion through the fabric of your pants before it falls away.          a wordless affirmation.

[azgedan-blog]

HIS MOUTH IS LIKE POISON.          it burns you to touch,     steals the breath from your lungs and leaves you gasping,     a quiet rush of an inhale that makes your  head  spin.

he called this room the council chambers when you first stepped past the threshold    ––    and the table in the center of the room is where he has you  now,     the small of your back pinned against the edge,     a hand gripping the curve of your hip.          it nearly triggers a  fight or flight  response,     but your body has betrayed this instinct.

you feel yourself begin to melt into him,     and the hands that rest at both his shoulders draw him  forward  instead of push him away.          you greet his kiss again,     only to break away in shame.          ❛          belomi  ...    ––          ❜          @blmys

[azgedan-blog]

BLMYS     /     BELOMI  .

SKAIKRU,     BRINGERS OF DEATH     ;       enemies,     invaders.     murderers.     on the ground,     the title of    sky person    was most often spat like a curse.     he doesn’t resent the grounders for that,     not anymore.     not when his own hands are stained red with so much violence and    death    that he’ll never be washed clean.     but it sounds less ugly when she says it,     if only for a second.

‘       not much.       ’       he knows words like    blood    and    alliance    and    let them go.     knows how to say he’s from the sky and how to ask for safe passage,     and he knows they called his baby sister    skairipa    because of how many she’d killed.     (    because a part of her died when lincoln did,     and that’s his fault too.    )

he knows war.     there has to be more to the language than that.

she can read him.     echo.     she’s done it before     —     picked up on what he didn’t say,     and he feels the weight of her gaze now like he did in polis.     you were there.     his mouth moves,    twitches almost imperceptibly at one corner.

‘       we were always so busy    killing    each other,     i never took the time to learn.       ’

IT IS THE LANGUAGE OF YOUR PEOPLE.          a language that originated within the  forest,     and crept through the leaves and foliage until it landed on the tongue of every earth - born after  praimfaya.          the people of the mountain were either too careless or too stupid to learn,     perhaps because they did not have reason to do so    ––    but those who fell from the  sky  surprised you all.

okteivia kom skaikru,     rumoured to be the first of the sky people to  invade  your culture.          the girl was brave,     lionhearted,     though she would never be  earth - born  as you are.          commander of wonkru,     your people will never look to okteivia as their queen.          idly,     you begin to wonder how a girl born among the stars will ever keep the  peace  between clans who know of nothing but  war  and bloodshed.

you listen for the sound of machinery,     the light rattle of ventilation that keeps the air circulating.          it reminds you of the  harvest chamber  in some ways,     and your brows pull together with unease.          you look at him and remember:     you are here for the next five years.          you have  nothing  but time.

❛          i can teach you.          if you want.          ❜

a comfortable silence precedes the rise of your gaze,     peering through the skylight to watch  earth  rage and burn.          around the sphere,     there are lights that twinkle and glow.          knees press to your chest,     one arm circled around them while the other outstretches,     pointing to the stars.          ❛          skaifaya.          it’s what we thought  your people  were.          skaifaya don slip daun kom skai,     which means  ...     the star that fell from the sky.          ❜

[azgedan-blog]

❛ if the monster always dies at the end of the book, why am i still alive? ❜

WAR MAKES MURDERERS OF US ALL.          it was not meant as comfort.          a confession,     perhaps     ––     a testament to how far morale can stretch before it gives.          he considers himself a monster for the suffering he has caused,     and all of the lives he has  sacrificed  to save his people.          (     does war create monsters,     or do monsters create war  ?     )          if this is true,     then what does that make you  ?

you are a liar,     a cheat.          an exile,     banished from azgeda for bringing dishonour down on the heads of your people,     and your king.          and  him,     you have betrayed a thousand times over.          kept him prisoner,     as if this made you any better than the people of the mountain.          your sword has been  bathed  in the blood of not only  his  people,     but his own kin,     all in the name of azgeda.          

you have done things you are not proud of.          things he should  hate you  for.          things he  would  hate you for,     if he knew the truth.          it begs the question:     why doesn’t he  ?          he has forgiven you when he should be  forgiving himself.          ❛          you have always done what you thought was  right  by your people.          if that makes you a monster,     then it makes monsters of us all.          ❜

tentatively,     you rest a hand over his.          your fingers are  cold,      but his skin radiates warmth.          you half - expect him to pull away,     and wouldn’t blame him if he had.          he doesn’t,     and so you stay this way until he levels eye - contact    ––    this time,     you do not force yourself to  pretend  not to notice the restless emotion that smolders beneath his gaze.          hand reaches for him,     brushes aside the swoop of mussed hair above his brow bone.

❛          yu gonplei nou ste odon,     belomi.          you  must  learn to forgive yourself.          ❜