#another pomme banger
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
you already know the drill annotation time baby!
Did you stop guarding Katsuki because youâre the spy Enji thinks or because not even the red wing captain could follow you undetected?
this is so funny WHO does that lunatic think we're spying for? the kingdom whose prince has spent like a quarter of his life in Takoba? nothing in that head but air and anger
All week, you growl through the effort of fastening garters to a stocking. Another. All week he has followed you and all week you kept his attention off your prince. If Bakugou had just stayed away, if heâd just hated you properly. You lean back to inspect neatly laced bootsâ Alderan dancing knotsâ boots so delicate they couldnât be made for actual dancing. What will he wear tonight? You force a hand through wild braids.
give it up for girls with weird ass attachment styles they make the world go round
A prized hunting dog. You will be beautiful for one night and you can no longer avoid your job; assassins love to hide at parties.
god there are few things i love more than a good dog metaphor. don't mind the blood on my teeth its not mine but its there for you. many such cases
Prince Natsuo doesnât have the energy to be surprised by you. He is not fazed by your drawn weapon and doesnât flinch in the dark, but he remembers your name, âCaptain Y/n?â
extremely nonchalant for someone who almost caught a blade between the eyes natsuo you will always be famous
Your Alderan senses are dulling in this kingdom. Your ghost never sounded so nervous.
Iâm sorry, Bakugouâs heartbroken voice parrots. Donât cry. He pleads with his hands on your cheeks. You canât change what youâve done. Bakugou Katsuki can haunt you til death, but you donât get to hide from him.
this story's ghost/wraith motif may be secondary to the ocean theme and the hot vs. cold Aldera/Takoba dichotomy but it is no less dear to me
You smooth your hands up your hips and rest both palms at your waist where Bakugou held you, bleeding, poisoned, his forehead slipping off your shoulders with sweat and the lurches of the horse. A ten minute ride from the edge of the forest to the city gates, it was only the sky watching such desperation.
such an intimate moment and they were still in the enemies phase. bkg and eyes really did write the textbook on hate that loves you and love that drives you to the pits of despair
You would have attended and served quietly, you would have dreamed of home if the flame in that last pretty candle wasnât flickering in a clear and lonely shade of blue.
you cannot imagine the speed with which my heart dropped to my stomach. chills.
Your prince will fight to the death, you cannot let him. Your prince will die for his friends, you canât bear to lose a single one. Send me instead, you beg. Me, wait for me.
i really dont even need to say anything its right there man
âHighness!â You shout into the blue before realizing the silence of the ballroom doesnât come from death. One thousand pearls startle immediately at the beast and her raised sword. Gowns of lace, suits of glass, feathers, freckles, masks and tiny shoes, bells, fans, crystal flutes of pink champagne, and not a single person speaking over a hush. Two hundred eyes watch the Alderan dog prepare to fire again into a party.
No one speaks. There is no laughter, there is a single violin playing from a fifteen piece bandâ did you scare the trumpets too?â weeping a waltz for the dancers who crane away from their partners to watch what you might do.
this is such uniquely freaky imagery i can't describe it. like me and eyes were on the same page the whole time what kind of party makes zero noise. we have GOT to get out of this kingdom man
The prince of Aldera climbs trees in the summer to reach the best apples. He likes to bathe at night. He is slightly shorter than his mother in her favorite boots and it bothers him, but never enough to say anything. His fingertips sparked when he kissed you.
MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN
âWonât,â he rumbles, âwonât let you look crazy alone.â Prince Bakugou Katsuki steadies his palm just behind your waist and draws you onto the dancefloor, hand in hand. He is more than beautiful. Polished boots, white suit and golden embroideryâ each button in his vest is flanked by a small Alderan sun. Dragons prowl along the hem. His red cape you thought lost, rocks you with homesick.
MY MAN PT 2 he's just so gorgeous it makes me ill
You, his war criminal.
They also invented matching each other's freak.
âThe candles are blue at the queenâs request,â he rumbles, sacrificing posture to watch you properly, to correct you. âThat mustâŠI, I didnât know. I wouldnât have let them.â
crazy place. intolerable place. rei my darling i love you dearly but my god.
âMind your ears, dragonne.â
with every new epithet and moniker he adds one diamond to the wedding ring. the royal coffers are almost empty Aldera is going to go into a recession
Kirishima towers over your prince and barks with laughter trying to get the man to spin under his arm.
Your red pleats swell in the air and settle with your hips on his broad shoulder. The hidden sheath under your bodice taps his ear. âAre you armed?!â He hollers and spins once to make you squeal and grip tight to his hair.
I know this is bkg's story i know i knowww but the soft spot i have for kirishima can't be ignored he is so big and so full of love and one day im going to marry him
Peruro is a game and so when Sero Hanta and his cheeks tattooed with lipstick kisses, plucks you from your partner, Mina can hardly complain.
i imagined a cartoon style lip stick mark right in the middle of his forehead and i laughed for like 5 minutes
âRed suits you, dragonne!â Bakugou roars and you land square in his arms to the coo of a shepherd's pipe. You blink and his, him, heâ he stares.
mhm mhm he's planning wedding colors
âY/n, âm sorry.â You fight yourself not to fight the closeness. Itâs rotten work. Your gown matches his suit perfectly and pressed together you spin in the chaos and climax of a beautiful song.
its right there pt 2
A tall man shifts between rushing servants on the catwalks.
heart in my stomach pt 2
The impact of the spear shattered a chunk of floor beside your princeâs heart where it landed. Missed, you grin feebly. Heâs okay. He is perfect and wide-eyed and beautiful, and the blade of your cherrywood halberd shines with blood from its home through your chest.
GROUP SUICIDE IN 20 MINUTES
head in hands pomme...pomme you've done it again...once this series is done im petitioning for it to be put in the library of congress
đđ | đđĄđ đđđ„đ„ (đ©đđ«đ đšđ§đ & đđ°đš.)
ăŒâ§ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader
"He does not grab you by the collar or threaten you with his teeth and when you grasp his hand to steady yourself from an awkward step, he is the boy who makes magic for you in the dark."
slight cw panic sequence. (I) reader agonizes after yesterday's kiss and of course the ball is today. blue mages haunt you, red wing captains stalk you, the wrong prince finds your hiding place (II) bkg will not let you embarrass yourself alone. ballgowns, blue fire, champagne, pearls, a song from home, relief and peruro. dance my love, or die. 7.7k
PREV | M.LIST | TAGLIST | NEXT
Captain Hawks has one job and youâve made it so much more difficult than necessary. Heâs had one job for fifteen years. Red feathers brick out southern wind from the hiding place heâs made above your window and he glares through gusts and goggles to watch you finally return to Prince Touyaâs room. You crumple in a pile at the foot of the bed when the door clicks closed. Youâre rotting. Sulking. The Alderan dragon everyoneâs so worried about, you who his king assigned him to watchâ you, the girl with wet eyes and hair full of hay.
You kissed your prince last night. He knows the feeling.
Hawks takes a sip of coffee and grips the barrel of his mug to keep ocean wind from throwing it off the roof. The king is right to worry about you. You have spent one week wandering palace grounds, greenhouses, pantries, walkways and stables and never once guarding your prince. Weird bird, are you the chicken or the egg? Did you stop guarding Katsuki because youâre the spy Enji thinks or because not even the red wing captain could follow you undetected? Because you know better than to keep close to your charge when something is stalking? Hawks winces in a particularly strong breeze. Itâs the latter.
Two eyes burn suddenly from your gloom to the parapet fifty meters outside your window where the captain spills his coffee in a rush to stay out of sight. What he wouldnât give to be warming a bed back in town but instead Hawks rolls his eyes, flat on his wings behind a gable wall. You rise and jerk your curtains closed, glare like black fire.
Princess Fuyumi runs clear through a ten foot portrait propped up in the hallway to be dusted. Sheâs cold, sheâs sick of sending maids to find you and the ball is today. Master Aizawa is securing perimeters somewhere too far away to be helpful, Urarakaâs finalizing guest lists, and Bakugou is getting stitches because heâs good for nothing else. The princess shakes paint flecks from her hair. She rips canvas from her belt and throws the standing frame to the ground.
Kirishima has never dressed for a ball like this before because parties in Aldera usually require armor. What do you do at a Ball if not wrestle? Do Takobans dance Peruro? Sero and Kaminari assure him he doesnât look silly in white. Todoroki sits outside beside the sea. Deku holds his hand tight to keep him from jumping in.
In the kingâs rear guard, Shinsou nurses a broken finger. Enji derives gross entertainment from screaming at soldiers all dressed in blue and it smells like the king came home for this party. The queen cannot be found. Few people think to look for you. No one minds blue fire.
An already tedious afternoon dissolved when a boy crossed your path on turret stairs, your hiding place from prying eyes. You didnât have the heart to bark when he stumbled through Excuse mes and My Ladys. The quiet wasnât helping. You could trust Bakugou with his champion for a day but your princeâs hands still danced on your skin the longer you let thoughts linger.
The little footman continued, melting, as you raised your head from between your knees. He carried a box under his arm and waited for your permission to move in the tight stairwell, âFrom Princess Fuyumi.â
Inside the box under the arm of the boy on the spire stairs was a dress.
You spent last night between pickle barrels in the distillery and hid in the morning where you knew your prince wouldnât think to find you, curled in the deepest sconce of the north wing watching staff fly past. Today is the ball. Itâs why the princess ordered you a dress and itâs why youâre pulling gold lace through your fingers by candlelight. Aizawaâs training pit echos pretty like the sea when itâs empty and the uniform room has a mirror. Itâs a dark little annex off the main ring without those Takoban windows Captain Hawks loves so much.
All week, you growl through the effort of fastening garters to a stocking. Another. All week he has followed you and all week you kept his attention off your prince. If Bakugou had just stayed away, if heâd just hated you properly. You lean back to inspect neatly laced bootsâ Alderan dancing knotsâ boots so delicate they couldnât be made for actual dancing. What will he wear tonight? You force a hand through wild braids.
Soldiers can fight armed or barefisted, fire cannons and crossbows, deliver first aid, hunt, guard, salute. You would be the head of your kingdomâs army and so you must know one thousand more important things, like how to string a corset and when to use forks in a line on pretty tables. Silk the color of blood gathers all the heat of your chest and keeps it close. Does the heir of Aldera waltz Takoban? You take the buttons at the ends of your sleeves in your teeth to fasten them closed. What will he look like in their blue costumes dancing with their pretty ladies? Can you remember how to count rhythm in threes? Can you even look at him?
More important than a soldier, court mages, even more important than a champion, you are trained as Head of Royal Guards. You are poison tester, navigator, weaponmaster and seaman, you judge the safety of the room by the shoes of its hosts and you wear fine clothes at fine parties to accompany your masters like a trophy. A prized hunting dog. You will be beautiful for one night and you can no longer avoid your job; assassins love to hide at parties.
âSteady,â you whisper to the gods.
Itâs been a few years but you know how to wear these clothes and you know how best to move, and you wince when the sheath of a dagger chills the skin under your ribcage where it hides. You sparkle unsettlingly in the gown and grunt through the effort of untucking stubborn skirts from hilts and scabbards. Wielding a candle to examine yourself more closely in the mirror, you judge the shapes impractical clothes make when theyâre meant to fit only you. Pleats of red fall over themselves from your waist to your ankles and in your reflection a bit of fire stirs, because in a cold kingdom this gift was made of love.
You are blood red tonight from neck to heel. Gold tassels align themselves like military badges across your shoulders and the sleeves of the gown bleed to lace at your wrist where two green buttons wink. You canât help staring. Jeanistâs dragontooth gleams on your breast.
This is an overstuffed week. Hedonistic, anxious like a blood clot heart attack. You are stalked, you are tested and attacked, youâve pretended not to feel, you did half your best, you snacked instead of training and sat in pleasant company you love, why wouldnât a ball punctuate this disaster? Something about preparing for war in the dark makes this bearable. Something about fastening a knife to your thigh keeps you from thinking about Bakugou Katsuki and the formalities waiting for you upstairs. Someone is watching you.
A man clears his throat outside the doorway, careful not to stand where you might see him but you are too focused to be caught by surprise. âWhat do you want?â
âApologies, Captain.â
At that, air falls loose from your nostrils. Your lips donât dare part to make a sound. Your self-important posture doesnât have time to settle before red pleats freeze and the candle cracks like a knuckle in your palm because the horror of this hadnât occurred to you. That voice will never leave.
âY/n?â the flame mage murmurs again.
Why would Aldera want you back? Playing princess instead of posting sentinel. Knowing youâre spied upon and letting Bakugou find you, day after day, letting him help you house spiders, letting him spar, letting him smile, letting him sit beside youâ you knew what was watching youâ something worse than flying captains. Itâs why this horrible place remains horrible and the cold like frost can never be shaken off the back of your neck. Itâs why the queen hides in stables and why your blood runs black in the instant you understand yourself through your reflection.
Your two shoulders fly through the doorway first so that when the blue mage attacks your legs will be spared enough to carry you upstairs. You can outrun him, you can outrun anyone. You should have paid more attention to ball preparations this month instead of languishing in your princeâs backwards attention. You should have killed yourself to kill him before his body hit the water. Why wouldnât an assassin slip through the cracks of your distraction? And why wouldnât it be him? Unkillable.
The candles inside the changing room are doused and shattered so that you are the only possible flammable thing in this dusty arena and you pull the knife from your hip as you soar over the threshold.
It would have flown hard when you released itâ might have even killed a ghostâ if you hadnât seized up as the figure came into view. White hair, tall with sunken eyes, only slightly shorter than his father. You right yourself to land on your new dancing boots, and their heels wail two lines through the sand at the edge of the arena.
Prince Natsuo doesnât have the energy to be surprised by you. He is not fazed by your drawn weapon and doesnât flinch in the dark, but he remembers your name, âCaptain Y/n?â
Like a cat your eyes go wide and your knife clatters to the floor. Half-fresh braids fall over your shoulders in a deep and rigid bow. Your fists bunch the soft material at your hips and you consider dropping to your knees in the silence and dust of the sparring pit so far away from any party he should be attending. Your heart beats to a new fear, âHighness,â you stammer to the ground, âIââ
âDo you dance, Captain?â
You do, and you quirk an eyebrow at the floor. Itâs becoming increasingly clear, for how threatening this country is, that its eldest princess actually took all the reason at birth. Swallowed it from the room with her first cry and left kings and countrymen to stumble on their words, for even when you are not threatening him at knifepoint thereâs a dread just behind the princeâs every word. Your Alderan senses are dulling in this kingdom. Your ghost never sounded so nervous. âIâm sorry, sir,â you lift only your head from the stiff bow, âI donât understand.â Â
Prince Natsuoâs suit is blue trimmed silver. He is white trousers and shining bells, military honors, rope tassels, broad like his father, beautiful like his mother and dressed like a blue glass bottle. Heâs never spoken to you and seems to have trouble even looking at you now, like a rabbit the dog runs past in a hunt.
You soften, âMay I escort you to the party, sir? Youâve made a wrong turn,â rising fully as the prince gathers his thoughts and keeps well away from youâ no. Less away from you and more just to himself. Like pouring a cup just full enough to tease the tension at the rim, Prince Natsuo is bursting with nothing to say.
All week you hid from spies and all week Alderans made it their job to find you, to be near you. Today you hide from just one man and suddenly every person in the cold kingdom knows exactly where you are. Winged captains weather the winds to watch you and squire boys can retrieve you from tall towers. Maids predict which hidden paths youâll take from the kitchens to ask if youâll need a bathâ intercepting you without issue or sweat. Are you that predictable? Unsubtle? Obvious and lacking, or does horrible Takoba deserve a little more credit? Her skittish prince can track you down to the darkest corner of his castle like it's only natural to hide from festivities instead of attending them.
âPlease excuse my being started.â
âItâs your job,â he musters just as you scoop up your blade and tip it back into its sheath amongst skirt folds. âThank youâ for your job.â Heâs fidgeting, not murderous, and his voice no longer sounds like a monster. The prince scratches gently at a bauble on his chest as you peer through the dark, âIâm sorry.â
Iâm sorry, Bakugouâs heartbroken voice parrots. Donât cry. He pleads with his hands on your cheeks. You canât change what youâve done. Bakugou Katsuki can haunt you til death, but you donât get to hide from him.
âYour Royal Highness, it would be my pleasure to escort you upstairs.â You square yourself to the blue bottle prince, âHumble Y/n, apprentice to the Captain of Her Alderan Majestyâs Royal Guard. My apologies. You had to come all this way just for a proper introduction.â And extend your hand to him, a polite smile on your lips. To death then. Youâve survived worse than a party.
Natsuo does not take your hand. He pops something off of his chest, drops the something in your hand and straightens his suit jacket, content with or oblivious to the fact that his sister inherited all his good social reason. You eye him first and then study the metal on your palm that glints in dim moonlightâ candlelightâ and tense as the roomâs circle of sconces suddenly blink to life one by one.
Of the fifty candles in the training room ring, the first five from the entrance miraculously catch bright warm fire. Six, then the seventh, one by one around the edge of the room. Natsuo rushes to pat out your panic, âMagic candles.â
âMagic candles,â you repeat, which makes much more sense than a drowned magician. You exist at the edge of complete catastrophe, always prepared to fight that man who was too bored to kill you, but magic candles make sense. When have you ever seen a servant in this cold place spend their time lighting candles?
âAnd a medal,â Natsuo continues. You follow his line of sight to the object in your hand. Itâs silver. It fits right in the cleft of your palm. The inscription around the edge is in a language you donât know but what is clearly the moon sits in the center. A comet streaks across it and together they make the emblem of the House of Todoroki. âThe medal of honor.â
âItâs beautiful.â
âItâs yours.â
âIt certainly is not,â you say, the air sort of floating from you instead of being pushed out by your voice. Eleven, twelve candles, a quarter of the room is lit. The badge warms in your fingers but you no longer look at it and extend your hand back to the prince in a gown that already makes you too ridiculous to breathe. He shakes his head and you push your open palm a little farther like a plea.
âIâve seen you. I heard aboutâŠmy fatherâs arrival in your training exercise and I, I didnât, I donât think my sisterâs champions would have been fast enough to stop him if you hadnât. You kept my mother from the mad magician and I doubt anyone has thanked you and I, I justâ my father wouldnât allow honors on your gown and mine is more than I deserve.â He straightens his jacket again and continues to struggle with eye contact. Twenty-two, twenty-four, twenty-seven candles come alive in the cold arena and the ring of light reaches the pair of you at the far end. âItâs much less than youâre owed.â
Prince Natsuo bows to you deeply and turns so quickly that arena-sand clouds his feet. He does not accept your escort and he doesnât turn around. He only strides across the room, thirty-three candles, and out the dark but open doors. Itâs easy to imagine him judging his own performance just where you canât see him; he exudes the nervous energy of someone who cringes when they turn your back to you. Youâre smiling before you realize. Fourty.
Itâs slightly warmer than youâve felt all month, in clinging red skirts and candlelight. Aldera is always bustling so Takoba is loney in comparison, but maybe there is comfort where you have never looked before. Comfort in red gowns. Comfort in sweaters beside the sea, comfort in silver soldiers and a training room where you are not their commander. That thought is a shock and you clutch the comet in your hand at the edge of the room. Forty-five.
Aizawaâs training pit warms by candlelight under its glass ceiling. Oppressively tall and so much like drowning, the stars blink down at you from their thrones like dappled moonlight on waves. You fasten the comet pin to your bodice with eyes tilted to the sky. Your first night here the sky was the only one who knew you. You smooth your hands up your hips and rest both palms at your waist where Bakugou held you, bleeding, poisoned, his forehead slipping off your shoulders with sweat and the lurches of the horse. A ten minute ride from the edge of the forest to the city gates, it was only the sky watching such desperation. There was comfort in that, under the threat of death. Comfort in your loss of rank here, in anonymity.
Rescued from a crowd, rescued from punishment, rescued from the sea, from cliffs, from sickness, from solitude. Saved by magic, saved by strength, by yourself and by your prince, over and over again in this wet kingdom.
There is comfort in teaching strangers to fear you and you blink through the memory of your cherrywood halberd soaring through a dinner party. The loss of its weight at your back makes you ache and your ears start to itch as the rest of the night replays itself. Forty-seven. Bakugou pressed close between your legs at the lip of a table. His thumbs smoothing your cheeks over like parchment and his cheeks flashing red at a realizationâ at everything you now realize he was trying to say, to show you. Youâre grateful for the privacy of the stars again so that no one can ask why you smile in an empty room.
Forty-eight. Dying for a person is so much worse than dying for a cause. You thought it might be the end when the blue flammed mage forced his hand around your mouth or when a garden screamed in ashes under his boot. When heâ he took you by the shoulder and branded the shape of his palm to your flesh, when your arm was relieved of its socketâ everything, all of it came so much easier than the moment your prince stepped forward to face him. Easier than Bakugou collapsing in a burning clearing, easier than counting the decline of his heartbeat through the clothes on your back, easier, so much easier than retching up seawater together on the sand.
Prince Bakugou is agonizing. Forty-nine, heâs upstairs, gilded, waiting for you.
You shake your head like unnecessary thoughts might come loose with the movement. For one night your worry can be in not staring after your chargeâ not tasting his lips when you wet yours at the edge of the partyâ and not in hallucinations of murderous mages. A comet and a dragontooth remind you of the weight of a heart. The last candle around the glowing arena beats to life beside the first and it is time for a ball.
You would have smoothed your skirts over the daggers hidden among them. You would have checked your hair again in the mirror and tested the fit of your boots with a few secret skips. Youâd have imagined the warmth of Bakugouâs hands and his magic, to ease the ache of watching pretty blue ladies waiting to dance with the barbarous and beautiful prince. You would have attended and served quietly, you would have dreamed of home if the flame in that last pretty candle wasnât flickering in a clear and lonely shade of blue.
Fifty.
âFind cover!â you hiss at the squire who collapses to the floor rather than get knocked down the stairs in your charge, âDouse the rugs!â
You call over your shoulder and hurdle the staircase railing rather than waste time sprinting to the bottom. If all of your training boiled down to a single skill, if there was only one chance, one thing you could be trusted to do in the blink of an eye it was arming yourself.
A shortsword shines in your fist as you sprint, its wall hooks worse for your wear after being ripped from the armory on your warpath. The scabbard is fastened sloppily to your left hip. Cruel images of half-scorched bodies, croaking victims that need both your hands to carry them to safety, your princeâ they necessitate the holster which whips your thigh as you tear through a quiet castle. Quiet, so quiet, too quiet for a ball, idiot, you should have known. Every single light in the castle blinks to life in the very last lilacs of sunset, and every single one of them quivers with blue fire.
Seed-sized wall carvings flow through their forms, animated by your speed. Stone does not creak when you step over it, hardly any servants linger in empty hallways and the thought that one squire boy will be the firefighting force for the whole castle is horror compounded by horror. âCaptain Hawks!â You bellow with the last bit of air between strides.
Heâs watching you, he didnât abandon his assignment for a party. You burst from servantsâ paths onto the exact blue rugs you knew the stairs would lead to; your Alderan senses might be dulling but this castle is no longer a maze. Takoban cluelessness can take over all it wants. All it needs to do is get you to the ballroom in this stupid fucking dress. One by one, sconces yawn in innocent blues and burn so hot and so quickly that wax weeps to the floor.
A window in the line takes your pommel to its pane as you retch the swordâs hilt through the glass and shout, âHawks!â louder, between flying shards, into the night, âFire!â
Candles instead of your dress, a candle instead of your flesh. He could be anywhere, nearby, outside, straddling corpses, you donât know the rules his magic follows and every step you take without bursting into flames is a second you canât waste. Your prince will fight to the death, you cannot let him. Your prince will die for his friends, you canât bear to lose a single one. Send me instead, you beg. Me, wait for me.
You soar down two flights of twisted stairs and lurch at a tight corner before colliding with a laundryman and his blue candlestick. âRun,â you seeth without stopping, vaulting over both the man and portrait strewn across the floor beside him, ripped at the center and trailing flecks of paint. The last turn is towards the right leg of the grand staircase, entryway and ballroom dead in your sights. Red wings donât appear and so you hook your hips, and your gown with it, over the lip of the banister.
Hardly a breath escapes the closed ballroom doors. Why are there always too few guards here? What ball makes no noise? What kind of monster could kill a room of people without making a sound? There are clicks, you panic as the banister ends and dismount the slide into a sprint. There is the bone chilling image of the blue mage clicking over corpses with the heels of his tall black bootsâ the body of your prince lying charred and bloodless before he could even let loose a spark.
Your dancing boots make the loudest sound in the entire palace as you run your legs harder, to carry you farther, until finally your hands are flat on the ballroom doors and your biceps scream under orders. The elven silver budges only slightly. There should be footmen outside to let guests in and the anxiety of their absence gives you an unnatural strength, enough to force one gilded door open a crack and slip into the destruction with your weapon raised.
Find him, find him, find Bakugou first, soft sunny hair and pomegranate eyes, the boy who barks laughter, he who wields the magic of old gods, your heart, find your prince, get him home.
Silver foot bolts shriek over marble as you force your way inside. You are a cacophony always. You are blood splattered across the edge of the dancefloor when you burst into the party.
âHighness!â You shout into the blue before realizing the silence of the ballroom doesnât come from death. One thousand pearls startle immediately at the beast and her raised sword. Gowns of lace, suits of glass, feathers, freckles, masks and tiny shoes, bells, fans, crystal flutes of pink champagne, and not a single person speaking over a hush. Two hundred eyes watch the Alderan dog prepare to fire again into a party.
Balls in Aldera breathe life to the city. Any comfort you felt for Takoba dies with your entrance. Waiters roll between guests with trays of cake and wine, and the winter floral decorations must have cost a fortune for petals to be sewed and draped and weeping from the walls because this certainly was meant to be a ball. Your fingers ache for the weight of your halberd for the first time since you lost it in the sea.
There is no mage when your heckles fall. No mage when your shoulders droop and your sword with it, not when you search the ballroom for your Alderan sun, not a single shock of white hair taunting from the windows. Every candle in every abra, every chandelier, sconce, cup, spike, or lamp, is a melancholy flickering blue above the sea of silent guests.
Your weapon falls slack. You exhale as the swordpoint chips the floor.
The queen sits on her throne beyond leagues of distracted dancers and servers and bards, with her hands folded and her husband beside her tense, hunched, and licked by fire where you startled him out of his seat. The great ballroom window blinks with its audience of stars. Just outside and over the cliffs, the maws of the sea applaud.
You jolt, as do the guests closest to you, at the sound of metal crush but it is only Uraraka in her uniform, catching the tray of a server who panicked at the sight of you. Shinsouâs hair isnât hard to pick out from his post beside a waitstaff door and he thins his lips instead of speaking. No one speaks. There is no laughter, there is a single violin playing from a fifteen piece bandâ did you scare the trumpets too?â weeping a waltz for the dancers who crane away from their partners to watch what you might do. Their every gown is white, blue, greenâ silver like sea foam. Their hair obeys them and folds into smooth shapes at the tops of their heads so that their noble throats can be struck sick by the air of a room above the sea. You are the only foul red thing here.
The flame of worry collapses in your chest along with your heart. Quietly, blue fire watches back without laying a finger on anyone.
Oh.
âY/n?â
There you are.
The ring of dancers at the center of the room curl around in their timid waltz, revealing new faces from the back of the crowd. Kirishima in a fit white suit, too focused on not crushing his Takoban partner to even realize youâve arrived and then Mina, full of worry with her hands in Fuyumiâs and both perfectly placed in the seaside painting with their layered dresses of white. She makes to break away from the current, to rescue you, but her prince beats her to it.
The prince of Aldera climbs trees in the summer to reach the best apples. He likes to bathe at night. He is slightly shorter than his mother in her favorite boots and it bothers him, but never enough to say anything. His fingertips sparked when he kissed you.
He is cloaked in red. An abandoned partner jingles angrily as he drifts through the tides and calling your name is the easiest thing in the world, âY/n.â He glows. You have hidden from this all day, and tonight his war cape arcs sanguine circles around him.Â
The Sun approaches, he glides to you like picking up a stray is part of this dance. He takes up your swordhand in his, weapon clattering to the polished floor and with a magic-heavy hand at your waist the scabbard belt falls away. Hair pushed straight back and two red earrings dangling, Bakugou rolls his eyes, âItâs a dogshit party,â and a few pieces of hair fall over a stitched gash on his cheek, âbut I doubt a swordfight will fix it.â
You donât understand and you donât try to speak through volley after volley of embarrassment.Â
âWonât,â he rumbles, âwonât let you look crazy alone.â Prince Bakugou Katsuki steadies his palm just behind your waist and draws you onto the dancefloor, hand in hand. He is more than beautiful. Polished boots, white suit and golden embroideryâ each button in his vest is flanked by a small Alderan sun. Dragons prowl along the hem. His red cape you thought lost, rocks you with homesick.
âHighness,â he steps to a rhythm in fours, heel toe, toe, toe heel forward into the fold of your dress to guide you back into the stream of dancers. âI didnâtâ Iââ Your feet barely make the proper shapes to keep up for your Alderan heart is a grease fire not a hearth. Bakugou holds his head high to the side with the posture of a king. His pupils occupy their lowest corners so he never need take his eyes off of you.
You, his war criminal.
âSir,â you manage and wince when you dare a peek past his shoulders towards onlookers.
He is embers, âI have a surprise.â He does not grab you by the collar or threaten you with his teeth and when you grasp his hand to steady yourself from an awkward step, he is the boy who makes magic for you in the dark. Bakugou Katsukiâs ears are scarlet even as he stares ahead, sweat pearls between your fingers and he sweeps you close, albeit awfully tight, through the steps of a Takoban dance. His face catches light from the candles above and the shadow of his pale lashes sweeps over both cheeks.Â
A corded thigh slips between yours and back again to the tune of one sad string. The rhythm doubles for four steps and calms again. You could dance the continent around for all the etiquette training youâve endured but something about the lack of ghosts here, something about your heart beating out of time with the song, about red eyes and a clenched jaw, the hand fingering notches on the small of your back like it might a celloâ you are suddenly on the catwalks again with your lips smiling into his, you are holding back tears, you are clicking teeth and stumbled steps and hands cupping cheeks, and your heart bleeds all over the dancefloor. Your voice cracks, âIâm so sorry,â and it is the loudest thing in the room.
âThe candles are blue at the queenâs request,â he rumbles, sacrificing posture to watch you properly, to correct you. âThat mustâŠI, I didnât know. I wouldnât have let them.â Bakugou raises his right shoulder in invitation for your hand to rest there but your fingers lift from his arm as he turns you both, and settle on that small new wound at his cheek. You breathe deeply as your chests slot together, no fight in sight. Your relief almost comes in tears.
Party guests do not stop staring, especially now that the foreign royal has spirited his beast to the dancefloor. At a distance, familiar faces train gazes your way. Little doctor Shuzenji and Aizawa beside her nursing a pink champagne flute, both ribboned in their bests. Uraraka offers you a tight lip at the edge of the dancefloor. Fuyumi boxsteps in line nearby, the lonely violin picks up pace, hand in hand with her youngest brother and attempts to lean in to whisper to you before Bakugou cages them both out with his shoulders.
He clears his throat, âCaptain,â the second-loudest thing in the room, âwill you dance with me?â
Itâs not your best, admittedly, but the thought your four-step is poor enough your partner needs to clarify does lighten the mood, and you nod. Half your focus is sacrificed to keeping calm in such a full room and the other half is completely at his mercy.
âPeruro?â Bakugou raises those flaxen eyebrows, his lips led by yours. The dance peruro. Destructive and certain to give the Takoban King an aneurysm. Something like comfort slips in. Your eyes widen suddenly and your prince with you. What does he see? you wonder. You nod again.
The waltz will reach its climax soon and Bakugou leads you through a perfect Takoban rhythm until the second he dips forward to whisper, through your hair and over the silence of this cursed party, âMind your ears, dragonne.â
You shudder immediately at the name, hand in hand, chest to his. Something in your perfect center bursts in white flame and you throw your eyes down to your skirts.
âDance!â Bakugouâs voice cracks like a whip of thunder above the soggy party and he lifts his chin over your head. The vibration of every syllable rumbles from his ribs to yours and his growl is smoke on water, âor die.â
The next second a horn howls one crescendoed note and every hair not squeezed into your silk dress, prickles. You jerk your gaze back up to Bakugou, unsure what expression you might be making, âHow?â
But your prince is still grinning wide so you must be too. âBribed em,â he leans close and as one confused violin trails off, another trumpet joins the fray. Dancers look around distractedly and onlookers whisper, louder, slightly louder, to be heard over the addition of percussion to the building swell of tuning instruments. A pair of cymbals crash like earthquake, a waitress topples over.
Shinsou shakes his head in the corner of the room and rubs his face, fondly entertained. The king is out of his seat again. Suddenly a fifteen piece band is making the sound of home. The band vibrates under an arc of camellias and the small woman seated at the front pulls a flute from her suit jacket. The herding call of her shepherdâs pipe gathers the cacophony and just as quickly as the group disrupted the peace, they hush behind seventeen beautiful whispers of the pipe, clear and bright as stars. It is the quiet start of Mitsukiâs favorite drinking song. Fear of crowds melts from you like bedtime stories.
faire of the fields
the girl who plays for me
dance and i will watch you
dance and i will join,
you who
teaches beasts to love
send us all to war
She draws the final note long and low, violins become fiddles, trumpets repeat the tune, a drummer growls, two pipes build, and the flute cheers back atop a flirty melody of three before the brilliant song erupts. Bakugou clasps your hand tight and throws you from his grip so that you might twirl and glow under his arm but the rules of peruro dictate a little more focus than that.
The closest dancers to you shriek when Mina barrels through them and pulls you out of his hold. She squeals with two gloved hands on your waist, âMiss firelight!â Her dress envelopes yours and the spinning doesnât stop until youâve tripped a man at the edge of the dancefloor and very nearly toppled over yourselves.
Over the curve of her shoulder you snort, shocked by your own glee, as Takobans try to adjust their waltz to the Alderan rhythm and inevitably four-step themselves into a fervor. Kirishima towers over your prince and barks with laughter trying to get the man to spin under his arm. Shinsou is no longer brooding at his post. He is hand in hand with Kanminari, flecked all over with petitfour cream, who has led him into the fray.
âLady Mina!â you bellow and take up her hand in yours. You fasten your waists together and both of you fly into the tide. When was the last time you put the blue mageâs voice away? How long has it been since you last danced Peruro? Singing while stepping, laughing, diving for bystanders and squealing when drunk guests toppled over themselves to be the one to lift you into the air. You steal your partners in peruro, and fight to keep them. It keeps the room from feeling small, from crushing you. When you are thrown whoever catches you gets the next dance and the songs never end.
Euphoria threatens to spill over the fire Katsuki started in your heart. Flame mages are far from your mind under blue candlelight.
The queen does not move, but she might be smiling. Fuyumi yelps when her champion scoops her up from behind and places her on her shoulder. Even the youngest Todoroki and his freckled champion tut about together to the rhythm. You hope no one tries to steal the blue prince; he might not survive it; and make eye contact with Natsuo while you completely butcher Minaâs three step dips. He stands at the base of his parentsâ thrones, unmoving, but pink with excitement.
Takobans, even servants, lingering at the edge of the crowd cannot outswim the rip current. They belong to a quietly stubborn nation who will attempt their delicate hop skips even to the bleat of an Alderan horn. Only cowards leave a dancefloor and it is the first respectable tradition youâve seen here.
In a flash of red across the room, your prince takes up two stiff women in each arm and you almost spit in laughter as they go purple under the instruction of the barbarian prince. The polished floor vibrates. Itâs too loud to think, a mix of happiness and screams of indignation as pretty lords and ladies are pulled into the fray by those countrymen only slightly drunker than they.
Peruro is a game and so when Sero Hanta and his cheeks tattooed with lipstick kisses, plucks you from your partner, Mina can hardly complain. The flutist roars her approval and her fiddlers breathe life into the happy song behind her. Trumpets pluck, bleat, and howl complex harmonies that prove youâre Alderan from the sheer intoxication of the sound.
Seroâs long arms wrap behind you and youâre off your feet before you can speak. âReturn of the Red Captain!â His grip on your sides is more ticklish than hell and you giggle and squirm as you fall into a dip. His palms hit something hard, the dagger concealed in your gown, âAre you armed?â He chuckles and tugs you up and close, back to chest.
âMe? Never.â You peek over your shoulder, both laughing, and he peels you from him so tight you spin away three times fully and far enough away from him that Kirishima poaches you without difficulty.
His Alderan fire rolls off the warm parts of him in waves of pine smoke and happiness. How many yards of fabric it must have taken for Takoba to stitch his suitâ the costâ you canât imagine. He hoists you onto his shoulder before you can think a moment longer.
Your red pleats swell in the air and settle with your hips on his broad shoulder. The hidden sheath under your bodice taps his ear. âAre you armed?!â He hollers and spins once to make you squeal and grip tight to his hair. Princess Fuyumi covers her mouth to hide laughter and you beam at each other from your shoulder seats, over the sea of Takoban heads. The champion shrugs you into his arms and back onto your feet. The new heels of your dancing boots click like bells every step you take.
Eijirou is a wonderful dancer, and difficult to burgle. He throws his hands above his head and the pair of you clap, kick one leg out and turn, eyes always locked and teeth shining. With your next kick, your hip checks a short man attempting to dance Takoban and knocks him into another pair. Eijirouâs next clap, behind his back, startles a woman so badly she covers her ears and the whole room reeks of home. Drown in it Takoba, dance or die.
Your friends are safe. Thereâs nothing to fear from shitty parties and you spare a thought for the servants you must have traumatized on your rampage down here. Wers and mers, the window you brokeâ Kirishimaâs hands are at your waist because you are distracted, you are searching, and before you can brace yourself he has thrown you clear into the air.
No matter how much you hate it here, the ballroom is beautiful and Natsuo might be a wonderful king. His decorations shine in the queenâs candlelight. Early winter flowers are strung by the thousands to garnish balustrades and window frames, they erupt from iridescent vases and hang in an arch over the howling band. Bundles of pearls dot every corner and swallow the moonlight. Silver shells and whistles, inlaid cuffs, white wigs, Takoba is most beautiful by moonlight. Thereâs no sun here. Did you ever think youâd hate him? That youâd miss him? Where is he? Your prince likes plums best because theyâre sour and he blows on dandelions when no oneâs watching and he works construction with his men when the city needs repair and he hates how dry paper feels on his fingers. The daggers at your hip cool in your descent.
âRed suits you, dragonne!â Bakugou roars and you land square in his arms to the coo of a shepherd's pipe. You blink and his, him, heâ he stares. He is terrible at piano and walks with his head down after rain to keep from stepping on worms. He mends his own clothes because his father taught him how to sew. âYou,â he attempts to speak, âCaptain, you,â but the high of the dance dissolves from him even as the music swells because you stare and bring your fingers to the wound on his cheek.
âYouâre beautiful,â you breathe. He does not find his words in the space between your faces. Your prince goes pink. Enough of the room is dancing now that you need to read lips to truly hear anything but he understands your every thought without effort as he lets you down. Thereâs a hand on your back to keep you close. Iâm afraid. It hurts to be so close to you. He presses his forehead to yours.
âY/n, âm sorry.â You fight yourself not to fight the closeness. Itâs rotten work. Your gown matches his suit perfectly and pressed together you spin in the chaos and climax of a beautiful song.
The prince rolls figure-eights against your forehead with his own. Two much less focused dancers jostle your duet and Bakugou sweeps a foot forward to trip the leader before lifting you over the pile of men and returning to the dance. You glow red in his arms above him, halo of the moon.
A tall man shifts between rushing servants on the catwalks. Your prince beams below you, king of the sun. It's a pretty party. It is perfectly loud. A polearm is readied on a scarred arm in the dark and no one minds blue fire.
The flutist picks up speed, spurred on by the tambourine, and each note from each instrument cuts itself off to make time for the next. Every place you touch one another aches. If it would just stay like this forever, dancing, knowing without speaking, you could kill any enemy. The sky would learn to kneel, if only you could keep the adoration of winespilt eyes.
A series of gasps, a yelp, and Kirishimaâs sweet laughter punctuate the thought. Bakugou was meant to wear fine clothes like these. Sparks like fairy lights twinkle where sweat beads on his jaw and you would have given nine lives to kiss him one more time. He will be a good king too. There is a scream.
Your hand on his shoulder bunches the fabric of his cape, and you lurch forward to lock your other hand around his back. Your foot is dead behind his before he can blink and with a surge of momentum from the dance, the last swell of fiddle, a prayer for old gods, luck from the sea and something like love, you knock the prince over your shoulder and onto the ground into the thickest thrall of dancers.
He laughs the whole way down and holds you where he can to keep from knocking your heads together. The sound is molten gold. You would sin to hear it always.
He is still laughing, howling, bursting with joy when he hits the ground and you with him in your perfect dance peruro. He doesnât notice the whine of dropped instruments or revulsion of the crowd because he cannot look away from you. On his back, on the floor, beneath you, Prince Bakugou lifts his arm to cup your face and freezes in the new and sudden silence.
The impact of the spear shattered a chunk of floor beside your princeâs heart where it landed. Missed, you grin feebly. Heâs okay. He is perfect and wide-eyed and beautiful, and the blade of your cherrywood halberd shines with blood from its home through your chest.
PREV | M.LIST | TAGLIST | NEXT
tagged angels ! @ltadoriyuujl / @cherripunch26 / @chandiewashere / @sakurarr1122 / @ihavefixations-and-onehiccup / @juni-does-art / @romiinlove / @todorokiskitten / @zukowantshishonourback / @phoenix-draws77 / @starryparkrr / @misscaller06 / @420mitskilover / @kalulakunundrum / @the-omnipotent-phlowr / @butterscotch-ripple-icecream / @cutiepatoodie / @catsoupki / @acid-rain27 / @sky-angel101 / @flyhighinthesky
133 notes
·
View notes
Text
Interesting new music to listen to (my recommendations):
âThe Playerâ, Clara Mae: a raw and empowering song, with poetic interludes and aesthetics that flawlessly complement the lyrics.
âMy Mother Told Meâ, Ekaterina Shelehova: inspired by Russian folk music. The artist deeply touched my heart with her unique, angelic voice.
âOjos Diamanteâ, Ximena Sariñana: about encountering hardship in love and wishing to be reassured by looking in oneâs partnerâs eyes
âFrailty of Nightsâ, Amr Shalaby: need piano music to loop endlessly? This one, youâll listen to it on repeat, especially if youâre seeking something calm and majestically beautiful
âNobodyâs soldierâ, Hozier: an anti-war song about the violence weâre witnessing from afar while feeling angry and hopeless. The white flag and the child doll in the music video gave me chills.
âluminary rainbowsâ, ionnalee: to whom it may concern
âGhost in the Machineâ, Raycheal Winters: a lyrical and musical masterpiece, about finding the inner strength to overcome trials and reach self-realization
âMy Bodyâs My Buddyâ: about loving and accepting oneâs body throughout its changes, for the care, safety and experiences it offers
âVampiresâ, Ha Vay: about our obsession with eternal youth, packed with references to fairytales and the fantasy genre
âGrandioseâ, Pomme & Ichiko Aoba: the Japanese version of the third track of âles faillesâ, about wanting to be a mother while questioning if itâs a genuine desire or if itâs largely due to social influences
âParasiteâ, ChlÞë Black: dark feminine energy, hell yeah! And with a pun between âparasitesâ, âParis lightsâ and âParadiseâ. Need I say more?
âThatâs My Floorâ, Magdalena Bay: another banger by this group of two, known for their hypnotic sound, references to Internet culture, surrealist visuals, existential undertones and experimental approach to music
âDancing With Fireâ, Sever the Light: like the title, the song is fire!
âColoured Concreteâ, Nemahsis: crafted with originality and intricate metaphors, this song perfectly captures the feeling of confusion while growing up. Itâs the one that I related to the most.
Other songs that I wish I mentioned: Dark Night of the Soul (Simone Simons, ft. Ayreon), Pink Electric Shoes (Parov Stelar), Heartbreak Rodeo (Lily Meola), Thatâs Life (Luna Li), Eternals (Abstracted Minds), Offerings to the Gods (Othala), Plead (Ashley Kutcher), rush (Marco Luka), Canât Stop Me Now (KAZIMI), Hung the Moon (Cults), Ethereal (TXMY x Freya Ridings), Thank Goodness (Hope Tala), beautiful girls get the ugliest world (carolesdaughter), Left of Me (Andrea Bejar), Come Alive (Phantogram), Say My Name (Cassyette), Skin & Bones (Silverstein), Drift Slow (Glasser), gonna have to trust you (Stephen Stanley), feelings donât lie (Ofenbach & salem ilese), Shell of You (Lava La Rue), Another High (Mothica)
#new music#ekaterina shelehova#ximena sariñana#hozier#nobodys soldier#ionnalee#ha vay#pomme#ichiko aoba#magdalena bay#nemahsis#simone simons#parov stelar#luna li#othala#ashley kutcher#cults#freya ridings#hope tala#carolesdaughter#phantogram#cassyette#silverstein#stephen stanley#ofenbach#salem ilese#lava la rue#mothica
4 notes
·
View notes
Note
Anything by Pomme is a banger.
AngĂšle is iconic, she is from Belgium but she is very successful in France
Ascendant Vierge is very nice on the dubstep/ tech side of music
Glauque, another band from Belgium but they're aesthetic is OMFG
Gargantua if you like techno is amazing
Mansfield TYA amazing, lyrical with a particular but great atmosphere
Barbara, a little bit more ancient but she is an absolute queen with the voice of an angel and piano skills goddess-like
Do you have any recommendations for french music? I've listened a bit to artists like Zaz and Indila, but it's always nice to get more music recommendations!
As Iâm not someone who listen to a lot of musics (Iâm gonna circle between two songs and thatâs enough for me), I went and asked my friend Epinard (WHO HAS A SOUNDCLOUD AND DOES GOOD SHIT)!! and he and few friends (+I slidded some of what I listen) gave me the following (bear in mind that a lot of us havenât listen to modern french musics so a lot of these are nostalgia based):
JUSTICE - Fire
NĂ©pal - Sundance
Daniel Balavoine - S.O.S dâun terrien en dĂ©tresse
Stacey Kent - La saison des pluies
Coeur De Pirate - Comme des enfants
STROMAE - Tous les mĂȘmes
CĂŽme - La gloire Ă mes genoux
Mozart lâOpĂ©ra Rock - Le bien qui fait mal
MIKA - Boum boum boum
Igorrr - Tout Petit Moineau
Stupeflip - Stupeflip Vite
CĂ©cil Corbel - Entendez-vous
Hippocampe fou - Aquatrip
Fatal Bazooka - Jâaime trop ton boule
Madame Kay - Je tâaime
Taku Iwasaki & IGOR - L'ambition mélodique
Diamâs - La Boulette
Zaho - Câest chelou
Eskemo ft. Jena Lee - Ensemble
BB Brunes - Dis-moi
OrelSan - Paradis (+ Défaite de famille )
Silver - MISS YOU!!
Renan Luce - Les Voisines
Damien Saez - Jeune et Con
Thomas Dutronc - Demain!
32 notes
·
View notes