#grit orchestra

[markagorman]

Edinburgh Festival: Day 25. The final fronteir.

I write this post on Day 26 having decided to quit when I was ahead and take a day of rest, before returning to the full time vocational fray with nothing to do, of a post work evening, than darn socks and make Corned Beef. And when I say “Quit when I was ahead” I mean, on a high. I saw shows 62, 63 and 64 today (a personal best) and both were things of wonder. The Fifth Step stood out from…

[sunlitmcgee]

people really go on about how it's like. Bad. to be critical of stuff you enjoy because it must mean you actually secretly hate it. bestie I haven't even bought the damn game but I am already Not happy with the chase theme they gave the xenomorph in dead by daylight

[suiana]

(yandere! rich guy x gn violinist! reader) (based on this yt comment i found)

you are a violinist, a very good one in fact. and you have been employed by a rich guy to play violin for him. honestly, you thought it would be a one time thing, for some rich person event. but who knew you'd still be working for him even after 3 months of the original employment.

all you do is follow him around all the time, holding your violin and bow as he talks about his life, mourning in sadness.

seriously, if it weren't for the fact that he paid you generously, you'd have up and left. it was humiliating! being reduced to a... pet?! a walking violin?! you could be in an orchestra but no! you were being held against your will (you're not, you just want money and he pays super well).

this guy barely even gets you to play the violin! all he does is talk and talk... like a broken record! it's fucking annoying! and when he does get you to play the violin it's some freakishly hard piece that you don't practice often!

and right now you were playing that freakishly hard piece.

"faster y/n, follow my beat."

he mumbles as he eats his broccoli, smirking at you as he waves his hands around.

"c'mon, I don't pay you 1000 an hour for you to mess up~"

he teases as his tempo increases. seriously what is his problem?! this piece was already fast enough as it is and he wanted to speed it up?! fucking weirdo.

you grit your teeth, trying to focus on the money you'd be making as he finally stops conducting. you let out a sigh you didn't know you were holding as he beckons for you to walk over to his side.

which you do of course. he's your employer.

"good job~ man you're so talented, wish i could keep you by my side forever."

he sighs before shoving a stack of money into your hands that were still shaking from playing the piece. see, this is the reason why you couldn't leave. he's just too damn rich.

but maybe his next words are enough to convince you to leave for good?

"yeah, maybe I'll make you stay for good."

he hums before looking over at you.

"don't worry, i'll be sure to give you lots of money."

he grins at you as your brain computes his words.

ah.

well.

at least you're getting money.

and you'd do anything for money, won't you?

[cliffmd]

New Episode: November 12, 2022 Best Of The Week

New Episode of Underexposed w/ Clifford Streaming Now: November 12, 2022 Best Of The Week ft. new songs from Manchester Orchestra, Fever Ray, Jordana, LS Dunes, Momma, Tim Burgess, Foreign Air, Shalom, Miss Grit, Phantogram & more!

This Best Of The Week Episode includes new songs from: Manchester Orchestra Fever Ray Jordana L.S. Dunes Momma Tim Burgess Foreign Air Shalom Miss Grit Phantogram …and more! Instagram: @CallMeClifford Facebook: @CallMeClifford Twitter: @CliffordRVA Website: UnderexposedwClifford.wordpress.com

[no-saints-around-here]

We Could Be Enough

Yandere Izana x Reader

Masterlist

‎‎

quick smutty short, no warnings except explicit smut‎ - g/n reader

A soft moan, and your fingers dug deeper into tanned skin, perfectly manicured nails drawing blood. The sound of flesh hitting flesh echoed throughout the otherwise silent room as his hips met yours. 

He could feel you around him, your walls warm and wet gently squeezing down on his length as he leaned over you, buried in you as far as he could go. Violet eyes traced every inch of your naked body, all but attempting to burn the sight of you giving yourself to him into his mind, the pleasure-filled expression that adorned your face. Your smell that filled his nose with every breath he took as he pressed a trail of kiss down your neck over bare skin, the taste of your sweat - salty - that lingered on his lips, your life pumping right beneath where his teeth lightly scraped, before he stretched back up to press his lips to yours. 

Izana simply couldn’t get enough of you. How could he?

You threw your head backwards as his next thrust hit that sweet, sweet soft spot within you, breaking away from his kiss, your toes curling as you gasped for your next breath, as if you had forgotten how to breathe. Calloused hands ran down the side of your body, your skin smooth and soft under his own battle-hardened palms, his strong fingers gripping your hips as he thrusted again. 

 “Mmm-m-!” It was all you could whimper out in the heat of the moment, though your struggles to get away from the constant stimulation were in vain.

“Use your words, love,” Izana gritted out between his own huffs, his own grunts and moans tangling with yours and filling his every sensation as he pressed his lips to yours again. “I- I wanna hear all of you.”

There was never enough, not when you were all he needed. You were enough.

Individual strands of white hair glittered as they caught the dim light that bathed the room, the light jingle of bells from Izana’s dangling earrings breaking up the organic orchestra of sounds as the heat started to pool at his crotch, and the pace of his thrusting became frantic. Your nails only lodged themselves deeper into his back, earning yet another groan from the tanned man.

Yet, in that instant, right as the two of you were on the edge, those eyes of yours, the windows to your soul that he loved more than the moon and the sun, saddened. And you instead moved one hand to lightly trail across his jaw. “I shouldn’t be here, Izzy,” you whispered, though your words echoed in his ears. “We can’t be together.”

‎

And his own empty violet eyes flew open, Izana hastily throwing himself up into a seated position. Yet all that greeted him was an empty bed, now soiled with his own finish, his room bathed in the soft blue glow of his fish tank behind him, and a pang in his chest where his lust had been quickly swallowed by the gut wrenching hole of loss. You weren’t there next to him, again, as you hadn’t been for countless nights. 

Again. It was the same goddamn dream, the recollection of your nights spent together, that haunted him night after night. Endless days of having to pretend like you didn’t matter, to pretend that he didn’t yearn for you and your love, to pretend that his everything didn’t revolve around you and the light you brought into his world.

Your parting words rang in his head, a mockery of his pain.

You and him, it could have been enough. He didn’t need or want for anything else; the world, the air he breathed, everything he would give to have you back.

A flash of anger sparked in the man, and with a roar, the white-haired man grabbed the closest object and hurled it, the unknown item smashing against the opposing wall and leaving a clear indent. “Fuck!”

Throwing his stained covers aside, his feet met the ground with a loud thud, as Izana stormed off, sleep be damned. He hadn’t allowed you to leave, and no matter if it was him that had landed you in hospital, you weren’t supposed to. You were his, and he was yours.And it was time that you learnt once and for all that he was enough.

[undreaming-fanfiction]

Steve is pretty good at dealing with pain. Burns, scrapes, bites, bruises, he will just grit his teeth and get through it. It's almost like the more it hurts, the less he has to think about everything. But when he starts losing his hearing, there's no pain, nothing to shield him from his thoughts.

He's terrified. He already feels isolated, singled out in their small group, and of course he's concerned about not being able to respond, to live his life as he knew it, but what eventually breaks him is the smallest thing, the most insignificant, mundane thing.

He and Robin are sorting books in the Family Video and they have this unspoken ritual - whenever there is a theme song in the movie they're watching, Robin will hum it for the rest of the day, with exaggerated movements, directing the orchestra and everything. And Steve watches her one day and realizes - he will lose this. He will never hear Robin's voice again, her slightly husky and over the top renditions of whatever unlucky movie happens to play. He can't help it, his breathing becomes heavy and shaky and before he knows it, Robin is embracing him and he's trying to explain how scared he is, how he feels like his life is basically over, how he'll miss her silliness and they won't be able to talk on the phone when she leaves for college, he can't ever hear her hum anymore...

After an emotional evening and a pizza night with their favorite sitcom - with subtitles! - on, they go to work again, but Robin excuses herself for a bit, runs into the nearby store. When she comes back, she has a large sketchbook in her hand and a black marker. She starts scribbling along to the very faded melody that Steve is registering from the TV and when she hands her final work to him, he laughs and maybe cries a little. Maybe more than little.

What Robin drew for him looks like a mountain range. She created an axis for time and an axis for the "MUSICAL DRRRRAMA", indicating how intense the music is in each moment. And all of the intensity is annotated, not a single soud described, but rather how Steve and Robin still see their world, in all its silliness. "This part is mega sharp, reminds me of wanting to stab Tommy Hagan with a knitting needle", it says next to one peak. "Remember that really soggy and stale cookie we ate at your place because we were hungry? That's what it feels like" and "it's sooooo looooong and boooooring it's like Mrs. Click's class" and "the violin here is crispy. SPICY. Like the Chinese food we had last Thursday, it kind of never wants to stop burning".

It's then that Steve knows that he will be okay. There won't be phone calls, but there will be letters, so many letters with silly descriptions and drawings, nagging to practice his ASL and visits to check if he really did his homework. Robin will be better than him at it, of course she will, but even when they'll both be able to sign fluently, she will still hand him a new melody scribble now and then.

On Steve's first birthday without sound, she gives him a huge binder labelled "For my only schmuck: Steve's album". In it are tens of scribbles, all of the melodies they hummed together in the Family Video with fresh descriptions and inside jokes. And when she stands in front of all their friends, hands raised up like a conductor and under her guidance, the whole group signs "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, STEVE", he realizes that sounds might have been overrated, because there were no words to describe this kind of love.

[sadcoms]

timepetals thoughts i keep having:

i know that the assumption is “she is my s-” means soulmate but i always think he just thinks of rose as his soul. less that she completes him or is his other half and more that she just is his conscience and any goodness he may have is hers. he was born out of love for her, she is such an integral part of him, she is his soul itself.

i know everyone has taken permanent damage from the “how long are you going to stay with me” and why the general focus is on the doctor’s reaction but the way rose says forever gets to me. she’s not giddy or girlish when she says it, in some ways she almost sounds resigned to it, which has wonderfully angsty connotations in the timeline of s2. but it’s why it really works for me, she is so dead serious and committed when she says it, because she understands everything it means (and therefore part of her feels solemn about it). it has a lot of weight to it. even the first time donna says she’s going to travel with the doctor forever to martha at the end of the doctor’s daughter she sounds a lot more fanciful.

every time i hear the doctor scream when rose loses her grip in doomsday i just think that he would absolutely not have survived her actually being sucked into the void.

i always think the vocals in doomsday are similar to the doctor’s theme so to me the angry rock music is rose’s side and the vocals are his, rather than the howling wolf idea i’ve heard some people compare it to. how the doctor’s theme is lonely and mournful with its sparse instruments but calm, everything the ninth doctor was, while doomsday is heartbroken and angry and an entire orchestra because it’s two people overcome with grief together. how doomsday becomes such a motif for both characters individually, even when they're separated.

i still struggle to comprehend that the doctor wearing floral ties in s3 is canon and NOT a fanfic trope like you're telling the doctor said "i need a floral motif as close to my two hearts as possible" and you're describing him as something other than a grieving widower???

the doctor really could not go anywhere in s3 without running into some kind of couple but i never see people talk about the parallels in 42. “we chose this ship together / he keeps me honest so i don’t want false hope” and the way the doctor literally gives mcdonnell his condolences through gritted teeth?? the fact that she would rather die with korwin than be without him and have it be her fault

that the doctor, king of self-loathing, saw rose dressed as his ninth self and carrying a giant weapon and he not only RAN to her but then deliberately protected her from the trauma of seeing him change again. and then tentoo immediately picks a blue suit to be like now i’m matchey matchey with rose 🥰 the universe was ending and he’d seen rose again for two actual minutes but the doctor was so utterly focused on her.

how tentoo truly is rose's doctor, especially as he's got that little bit of nine in him. he's born out of the same love and protection of his previous incarnations but he loses a heart and the curse of the timelords and goes oh, this is rose's heart. and then he wears the blue mourning suit and yes, there is still mourning, but there is also the start of the rest of their lives together.

how the doctor’s hair most noticeably changed after school reunion to become spikier and less boyish. how that coincides with him using mickey to put distance between himself and rose now that he’s been reminded of rose’s mortality.

how wild the doctor and jack’s conversation in utopia is. the way the doctor says “rose” like it’s an entire explanation in itself because even before she absorbed the time vortex she fundamentally changed the life of everyone she met. the way he says “everything she did was so human” and the way he accepts jack’s sorry to him because there’s no trying to deny his feelings from jack, not when he saw his ninth self. the way jack has BARELY finished his sentence about watching rose grow up when the doctor casually asks him if he wants to die, the almost playful way he says it. one semi suicidal immortal who spent half of the season trying to get himself killed to another, both of them still kind of toying with the idea. both of them trying to have hope even though they've lost so much.

[ddarker-dreams]

“scaramouche…did you…have a nightmare last night? you couldn’t stop clinging to me”

Scaramouche lets out a sound that's akin to a choke.

"You...! That isn't, I don't— I don't have nightmares."

He's glowering at you, acting quite high and mighty for someone of his humble height. You can’t say you’re entirely surprised, he’s always been sensitive when it comes to anything that might portray him as ‘weak’, but this was crossing into an overreaction. Even for one as needlessly dramatic as him. 

Fortunately for you, you’ve grown so accustomed to dealing with his outbursts that you know the best way to navigate this brewing tempest. 

“Oh, is that so? Alright then. My bad. I must’ve misunderstood.” 

His eyes narrow at you suspiciously. You drop the subject just like that, preparing to go about your day while his gaze bores into you from behind. You don’t need to see him to picture his posture and expression. He’s probably back there, sitting on the bed with his hands crossed over his chest, eyebrows furrowed harsh enough that it’s a miracle it won’t leave permanent wrinkles. 

“Hey, you.” 

You respond to his accusatory tone with a hum, shuffling through your garments and paying him no mind. 

“Insolent mortal.”

Another noncommittal 'mhm’ from you. 

“[First],” he grits out, and finally, you turn around. Scaramouche suddenly finds the ground very interesting to look at. “Did I... did I say anything? Anything at all?”  

For someone glaring at the ground hard enough to burn holes through it, his voice is remarkably tender. Unsure. It’s so unlike the Harbinger you’ve been forced to get to know against your will that you’re temporarily given pause. 

“... You told me that I can’t leave,” is your quiet reply. “That you won’t ever let me.” 

He’s tracing nonsensical shapes against the sheets. “Is that it?” 

“Yeah.” 

Scaramouche doesn’t bother hiding his relief at your affirmation. You can tell he’s caught between wanting to interrogate you further and dropping the subject altogether, eventually deciding on the latter when he goes to get changed himself. Watching his retreating figure, you close your eyes, his voice from the prior night echoing in your head like a spectral orchestra. 

“I need you. Please don’t go, don’t ever leave my side. I don’t want to be alone again. Not when I know how good loving you feels.” 

You decide the rendition you told him was close enough. 

[river-bottom-nightmare]

There have been times when Cassandra’s ribs have felt rather like kindling. Bruised, weak all over, a flick away from splintering into shards and puncturing her lungs and her heart and the very diaphragm that powers her breath. Right now doesn’t quite muster up the same level of agony, but Dick sure is trying his hardest to get her there. 

“You have to roll into it, Cass,” he says, for practically the hundredth time. 

She grits her teeth and replies, “I’m trying. It’s a metal circle.”

“And you’re treating it like a weapon to use in a fight,” Dick says, loping beside her with an exasperated sort of grin, one that settles comfortably in the years of his hard-earned patience. He’s only wearing a simple t-shirt and joggers, which she cannot understand for the life of her. Cass is bundled up in two layers with socks and has thick leg warmers covering her knees—or more importantly, the backs of her knees. (She can still somehow feel watercolor bruises painting on that tender skin.)

She taps out, hooking her legs over the bottom of the lyra before flipping out. Moving slightly to the side, she sinks onto the plush mat on the floor of Dick’s studio, arms stretched back and basking in the low sunlight coming from the large windows. Or possibly just basking in the air conditioning.

Dick slips down beside her and hands her a bottle of water, which she sips gratefully. “I’d say you were close that time, but…” Cass glares at him and he chuckles, hands up in mock-surrender. “All right, all right. But you want a word of advice?”

He says this casually, throwing out the words as if he doesn’t expect his siblings to take him up on the offer. Like he doesn’t realize his life is a masterclass in performance, the sort of thing a symphony orchestra proudly tunes before a miraculous, miraculous song. Like the years of his experience he’s so laboriously built doesn’t make the rest of them froth at the mouth, beg with open palms for Dick to plant his knowledge in their grasp, as much as they may deny it. Hungry dogs, the lot of them, gazing up at Dick’s flawed perfection. The brilliant bastard. Fucking prince amongst men. 

As if Cass wouldn’t want his advice.

“Sure,” she says.

“You shouldn’t be fighting the lyra every second to be exactly where you want it to be,” Dick remarks. “Not to be a bit obvious, but—I mean it’s a metal hoop suspended from the ceiling. It’s gonna spin. It’s gonna move. Your balance is perfect, better than mine, but you have to carry that momentum through. You can’t just stay still. You have to flow with it.”

In half confusion and half accusation, Cass tells him, “You do not ‘flow with it.’ I see you. You plan every move.”

At that, Dick snorts. “Yeah, okay. Every part of me is in control when I’m on the lyra, sure. But I’m not—well, I plan the things I can’t plan.”

Her brother has said many nonsensical things in the years she’s known him, but this one completely boggles her brain. She makes sure her face conveys as such to him.

“The hoop’s gonna spin, no matter what, right? But I can control how fast it’ll move with how I move, and can even set the spin myself if I touch down,” Dick explains, fingers gesturing in the air. She can see he’s buffed his calluses recently. “You’re in the air, so of course the places where you’re keeping in contact with the hoop are gonna feel pressure. But you move with the hoop so that you’re not just balancing against one spot for too long and bruising yourself. You should roll along the curve of the hoop however fast or slow you need to land exactly where you want to be for the next part. Does that make sense?”

Not…completely. Cass is someone who needs to do something to fully understand it, needs to get up and feel the lyra in the way Dick is talking about, let it kiss her bones and ripple out to the tips of her fingers. But what she does have down for memory, imprinted into the backs of her eyelids and carved into the grooves of her brain, are fights.

And when Dick fights, he’s well-trained and disciplined. Every move is calculated, but within those calculations are measures of uncertainty. Like a window fogged with potential or a drop of ocean water straining to reach the topmost peak of a jetty. Dick’s not averse to improvisation, builds it into the many layers of his plans. It’s what makes his combat style the most infallible of all of them, in the long run.

“You fight like jazz,” Cass tells him.

And he throws his head back and laughs, like he knows exactly what she means. He probably does.  “Thanks Cass,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Now c’mon. Let’s try again. Remember: roll with it.”

--

i am incapable of not praising this man at every given opportunity. goddamn. anyway

@dickgraysonweek dick grayson week day 5: everyone's favorite brother | harem of older men | aerial sports/arts

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[omegalomania]

i think what i admire most about this record after sitting with it for a full day is the marriage of its musicality and its lyricism.

lyrically..."nihilistic" is a really good way of putting it. i was honestly kind of floored by how goddamn bleak so much of the lyricism on this record is. there's so much desolation, so much hopelessness, so much struggling to find meaning in meaninglessness. lyrically, i think this might be some of pete's darkest but also some of his best work. there's so much grappling with the feeling that maybe it's all pointless. maybe none of it fucking gets better. maybe you're always going to be fighting to figure out some kind of sense and feeling displaced and the further you look toward the horizon, the more the inevitability of the end scares the living shit out of you.

so much (for) stardust is utterly desolate lyrically. even little granules of hope feel tongue-in-cheek or in denial. so...what? does anything ever get better? are we all just flailing around, trying to make our stupid lives make sense? but at the same time, fall out boy are the happiest they've ever been as a band. they waited five years so they could savor making this record and they were genuinely excited to share it with all of us. pete is wearing skirts and letting his hair down and they're playing songs that once got them booed off stage with fearless love in their eyes and they're looking after each others' mental health and supporting one another through it all. what does it mean for a band to release something this somber at this point in time for them?

the "reality bites" pink seashell speech sums it all up kind of perfectly. so maybe life is inherently meaningless, but at the same time...there's good food. there's beautiful weather. there are still good movies, and the sound of rain on the windows, and hope, and friendship, and joy. maybe there's no point. but that doesn't change that there's still laughter. there's still love.

and that's what's in the sound of this record. the big, cinematic swell of an orchestra. the upbeat chirps of a synth. the screeching of a guitar and some bouncy, catchy goddamn riffs that'll live under your skin for days. this is a record you dance to and cry to. (cry a little, cry a lot, but don't stop dancing, don't dare stop.) sonically, this is a record laden with grit and delight and a powerful sense of purpose, from catchy pop hooks to roaring, cinematic anthems. it sits in delicious contrast to the words but it doesn't undermine them. it complements them. happy music for sad people.

of course there's pain, and there's frustration, and the world is full of tragedy and hopelessness and maybe the worst part of it is that it doesn't go away once you grow up. as you get older, you don't ever magically learn how everything clicks together. you just have to fumble through it and hope for the best, even if it feels like it never gets any easier.

it's a hard lesson to learn. but you aren't alone in it. so what fates do we share? we're all stardust. we all share the same end. we are not alone in our fears and uncertainties and we will not be alone at the end either, not really. we came from stardust and to stardust we will return.

i think if there is a hope i can take away from this record it's like...this feeling that it doesn't get better, really. but you do get better at living with it, and to someone like me, that's vital. years ago i had to come to terms with the valuable, painful lesson that i will not, mentally, neurologically, ever get "better." there will never be a point where i am "cured" of all that i must live with. but i've grown better at living with it. and there are things out there that i'm living for anyway - good food, better friends, and maybe a long-anticipated record you need to put on replay for a good long while as you soak it in.

maybe none of this matters, in the end. but if it doesn't, then this is what matters. this.

"if nothing we do matters, then all that matters is what we do."

[markagorman]

Edinburgh Festivals Day 5: the music day

My chosen image is of Martin Bennet, because he inspired today’s Five star concert. The day started with The Life and Times of Michael K an adaptation of JM Coetzee’s Booker Prize winning novel. The Baxter Theatre Group is better known for the spectacular puppetry of Warhorse and although this is a better tale than the flimsy horsey pish it’s less impressive puppetry-wise. In fact the puppetry…

[judesmoonbeauty]

The Viper & The Bird

Inspired by Jude's recent spotlight gacha. WC: 1,621 SFW, Dancing, Jude POV, Reader POV, Yearning, Angst, Open Ended Jude Jazza x Reader (Reader is referred to as princess once.) Pronouns: You, they, their Dividers: @/natimiles

Thin lips sealed over the end of an almost dead cigarette butt, long fingers grasped the rail of the stone balcony, and amethyst eyes listlessly gaze up at the face of the starry night sky. The fine fabric of his noble clothing felt uncomfortable, making his skin bristle as it rubbed against him. Even though they were necessary for the infiltration mission he was assigned, he hated the idea of even remotely resembling the nobility. His slicked back hair was applauded loudly by Victor, and even William and Elbert gave their approval saying that he “cleaned up” well, but what really made him grit his teeth in irritation was you. The way your eyes widened at his manicured appearance, it was clear that you preferred this version of him.

Instinctively, Jude reached up to ruffle his hair free from its’ polished restraints, but stopped just short of it when he reminded himself that he needed to at least maintain this prim appearance until he left the ball hosted by the noble he was investigating. Smoke loomed in the air and blended with the fragrant roses that climbed the mansion walls as if they were striving to reach for the moon themselves. The music from the orchestra sailed outside from the creaking of the balcony door that was being opened, letting the glowing light from the chandeliers leak out onto the cold shadowy stone.

“Tch. Thought I sent ya back to the castle early princess.”

He looked so distant, like a cold star’s light that was dying out, he was someone who would never let you into his heart willingly, but whatever it was that was rotting away inside of him, if you could ease it just a little, then the constant struggle you faced to gain his approval and to draw closer to him would be worth it. But that was just a presumptuous thought, wasn’t it?

“Jude.”

Strolling out to meet him under the silver veil of moonlight, you ignored the ache from the blisters that plagued your feet, and stood next to him. He looked handsome, dignified, and confident, at least at first glance, but deep down you knew how awkward he was feeling. Playing the role of a nobleman must sicken him, and the fact that he couldn’t lash out at you in his usual snarky way when he learned about your blisters, that must’ve stressed him out too. Jude confidently marches to his own tune, and fulfills any assignment given to him, but tonight was a struggle.

“The hell. Go back to the castle.”

He escorted you back to Crown’s carriage because you could barely walk without putting most of your weight on him, and if he let you stay by his side you’d risk hurting yourself even more. So, in order to avoid the nuisance of owing you a favor to make up for your injured feet, he sent you back. That’s all it was. That’s all it was going to be. You’re just a liability, and an idiot for exerting yourself all for the sake of trying to blend in with a bunch of uppity toffs who sat on their riches as they watched others in sink in suffering.

“I rested for a bit in the carriage, I’m fine now.” You lied because you didn’t want to leave him.

As the carriage started to take it’s leave, the emptiness of the large cabin sent an aching chill in your heart, like it was crying out for Jude’s warmth, and even though you knew it’s something he’d never share with you, you couldn’t help but have the carriage take you back to him. Leaving him behind and being left behind by him wasn’t something you wanted. Your heart clenched as you yearned for him. He was dangerous and cold, but he was also kind in his own way, just like tonight. He’d say it was because you were a liability, but really it was because he was protecting you, and it was that kindness that dripped into your system like venom, paralyzing you.

Reaching out to him you feather out his brushed back locks, his hair once again messy and free. There, that’s better. A small smile graced your lips as he glowered at you. That’s the Jude I know.

“Oi, whatta ya doin’?” he grabbed your wrist tightly and pulled you to the front of his gaze. A summery flutter tickled your body as your eyes met each other. Silence followed as you searched for the right words to explain, but he let you go with an exasperated sigh, and reached to fix his hair. This time you grabbed his wrist, “Don’t!”

“Hah?”

He watched you slightly lick your lips with your pink tongue, as you choked up the words that were caught in your throat from just a moment ago. Seeing you struggle to answer him he thought, damn that’s cute. The beams of light shining from the heavens above touched your skin, making you glow like moon dust, a beauty that was trying to thrive in darkness.

“It’s better this way. I….prefer you being you, Jude….no matter where we are or what we’re doing.”

Predatory eyes narrowed on you, glowing with ferocity, as if contemplating how to strike it’s prey when you realized you were still holding onto his wrist. Dropping it abruptly, you apologized to him and took a step back. He tossed his now dead cigarette over the edge of the balcony, and grabbed you by the waist pulling your body tightly against his, his long fingers snaked lower and lower down your waistline; the sudden jolt forced you to clutch his firm chest, there was no escaping this vindictive man now.

“Ya came back. Why?”

“I didn’t…..want to go back home without…….” it was embarrassing to admit, but there was no was way you were getting away without answering him, but you still hesitated. Impatient to hear your reply, he tilts your chin up from your now downcast gaze, “Ain’t waitin’ all night.”

“I didn’t want to go back home without you……without dancing with you at least once.”

Like a pure white feather dropping onto the surface of a calm, black lake that was his heart, the pureness of your answer rippled waves inside of him. He thought you’d say something diligent about not wanting to abandon your duties as Fairytale Keeper, or wanting to do your best since you’re always squawking on and on about it. However, your innocent words punched the air from his lungs, and when his grip should’ve loosed on you, he constricted it even tighter, like a serpent locking you in place.

Your eyes reflected your desire to dance with him even though your cheeks betrayed your embarrassment with a sweet blush. The wind carried a rather dark, romantic melody from within the mansion up to the climbing roses, as if it was kissing them awake, only for them to gently weep their petals down upon you both. Like they were mourning the inevitable outcome of the sinister and the benevolent duo.

His face scowled at you, “That’s why ya pushed yourself to learn dancin’?!”

“Yes.” Your resolute answer pierced him.

His brow furrowed even more, just what were you thinking by harming yourself like that, for the sake of someone like him? Pressing against his chest you broke free from his grip, and the fact that he let you go so easily stung your chest and your pride, but stifling those feelings down with a solemn expression you except the pain. As I thought, my efforts were my own presumption. Deciding it’d be awkward and problematic if your feelings became entangled any further, you decided to take your leave.

“Well, goodnight.”

As Jude watched you walk away he thought that you were like a bird yearning to live with a viper, searching for a way be with someone other than their kind, only to end up dead in the end. Idiot. He didn’t want to let anything develop between you both, he didn’t want you to be stained by him, he didn’t want you to accept him or be poisoned by him, but if you were so willing to bleed for him, to search him out, accept him, and willingly give up your freedom of flight only to be kept in his coils, then maybe there is some merit in this stupidity -no - more like this craziness. It was mad that you both ever be together or mean something to the other. Tch, this’ll be a pain in the ass.

“Oi, ain’t goin’ no where are ya.”

A strong grip pulls you back, and twirls your body up to his as you breathlessly catch yourself again his arms.

“What are you doing?”

A villainous grin flashes on his face as he starts twirling you both across the balcony, matching the pace of the violin’s somber piece. Struggling to keep up with him due to his sudden attack he mockingly laughs at you and says,“Punishin’ ya.”

“Brazen ‘nough to wound yourself without my permission. Toldja didn’t I? I’d be punishin’ ya for it.”

Holding onto each other as you danced under the canopy of night, gliding in and out of silver and black shadows, you both wondered if descending into madness was so bad? The blurred area of where light and darkness meet, the aftermath of the collision, where would the both of you land at the end of the night? What was certain was this, something was set into motion that night, and neither the viper nor the bird would be able to turn back now.

Please let me know if you wish to be added to the tags list by DM or commenting. Tags list: @ichigostellaglynn @atelierquinn @mrslelouch @sapphire-323

[pmaxshay]

Love Conquers All

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader (Fem)

~ Part 1 ~ ~ Part 2 ~ ~ Part 4 ~

~ Part 5 ~ ~ Part 6 ~ ~ The End ~

~ Part 3 ~

Another evening in Mayfair means another ball to attend.

Y/N and her father made their way through the entrance and into the grandness of another ballroom. This one was flush with bright and beautiful flowers as well as chandeliers as far as the eye could see.

“Well… you would not find this in the country.” Richard gasped, looking around in awe.

“No you would not.” Y/N mumbled, doing the exact same as her Pa.

Her gaze then fell upon Her Royal Highness, sat on her own throne up high so as to watch and spectate on the crowd.

“She is even more beautiful in person.” Y/N cooed.

“I do hope you mean me.” Lady Danbury teased, standing beside the Pembrookes.

Y/N and her father bowed.

“It’s so good to see you once more Y/N & Lord Pembrooke. I do hope you have given what I said some thought.” Danbury gazed expectantly at Y/N.

Y/N panicked momentarily, her views on love and the marriage mart unchanged since their last encounter.

“I… I have given it some thought and I am… open to it. We shall see what the season brings I suppose.”

Danbury seemed happy with that response so Y/N sighed out a breath of relief.

“Now go… have some fun child.” Danbury gestured to the dance floor with her cane. To which all three of them laughed.

Y/N spotted Eloise and made a beeline for her.

“Thought I’d find you here. Hiding out are we?” Y/N teased. Picking up a glass of lemonade from the nearest table.

“Always. There is nothing I find more unappealing than parading around to entice some man.” Eloise huffed, picking at her cake and putting some into her mouth.

“I could not agree more.”

“See this is why I knew I liked you.” Eloise exclaimed the biggest smile on her face.

Elsewhere, Benedict was enjoying the peaceful tranquility of the gallery room. The odd few couples made their way through but never stopped for long.

He sipped on his drink, before placing his arms over the back of the seat, leaning back to get comfortable. Each painting was being critiqued inside his head. He chuckled to himself.

“How is it that I am able to pass judgement on these pieces when I am incapable of making some of my own?” He mumbled to himself, sipping once more on his glass.

Back in the ballroom, Y/N had been asked a few times to dance, she had declined the first couple but looked over to see Danbury with a disappointed look on her face.

“Is she always like that?” Y/N asked Eloise. Gesturing towards Danbury.

“Danbury? Yes. Once she’s set her mind to something. We do love her though. Mama and Danbury are quite close actually.” Eloise mumbled through bites of cake.

“Really?”

Eloise nodded in reply.

Another lord made his way over to them both. Y/N tried to push Eloise so that she was in front, protecting herself.

“Miss Pembrooke… I am Lord Whilsby. Would you do me the honour?” Whilsby bowed to which Y/N and Eloise did the same. He then held out his hand.

Y/N looked over at Danbury who gave a reassuring smile. She then looked at Eloise who smirked playfully.

“I would be delighted.” Y/N replied through gritted teeth before being pulled to the dance floor. Eloise laughed to herself, before finding Benedict stood by her side.

“What’s so funny dear Sister?” Benedict reached over to grab some cake from her plate to which she swatted his hand away.

“Y/N. Dancing with Lord Whilsby. I’ve never met someone more against this whole charade than me. Yet here she is. Dancing like she’s done this her whole life.” Eloise continued to giggle and smile.

Benedict let his eyes wander over to Y/N. The way she held onto Lord Whilsby as they spun and stepped around the room to the orchestra had his mind wandering. He would quite like to take Whilsby’s place.

He had also thought about what Eloise had said, how Y/N was so against this whole spectacle yet she played to it. But why?

“Benedict…” Eloise waved her hand in front of her brother’s face.

“Are you quite alright brother? You’ve been distant as of late.” Eloise asked.

“Yes. Yeah I’m fine. Just distracted I suppose.”

Eloise looked over at Y/N and then back to Benedict. A knowing look crossed her features.

“Right.”

“Father, I should wish to go and visit the Bridgerton’s?” Y/N cooed, peering out the window from her spot on the sofa.

It was a couple of days after the ball, most ladies were out promenading or be courted. Y/N however was bored. Bored of reading but also bored of staying inside. Which was a first.

“Very well. Just be back for supper. Actually… in fact, invite the Bridgerton’s over. It is about time we extended our hospitality and gratitude to them.” Richard chimed. He gestured to the servants to go and tell cook and get everything prepared.

“Really Pa? How exciting. We haven’t had a dinner party since…” Y/N trailed off, thinking back to her Mama.

Richard saw the look on her face and the way her excitement faltered.

“Y/N my dear. You can speak of her. It is okay to think of her. It is also okay to be sad and feel sad. I always think of…”

“Pa please. I do not wish to speak of this now. I will ask the Bridgertons.” Y/N sniffed to hold back the emotion and swiftly left the room.

[theicarusconstellation]

61 jegulus 😊😊😊😊

you and @ecstarry requested this one so here’s this for both of you😈😈

prompt: 61). “I love you. I’m completely and utterly in love with you. Please don’t get married.” // jegulus // sfw // words: 944

Regulus studies the wedding rings on the ring bearer’s pillow in his dressing room with loathing. His stiff, old-fashioned dress robes make him fidget, wanting to crawl out of his own skin the closer he gets to the ceremony.

The ceremony. The event that will ruin his life and chain him to a woman he has no room in his heart to love.

Not that there is anything wrong with Cereus Greengrass; she just…

Isn’t him, a small, despicable voice in his head whispers. She isn’t the one who has seen his scars. She isn’t the one who broke down his brainwashed mentality and helped him see that his former truths were bigotry and hatred.

She isn’t the one who begged him not to go when he announced his engagement.

Regulus had been betrothed since birth to Adelaide Rosier, but that all fell through once Sirius ran away, plummeting the Black family’s status down to the bottom of the totem pole. For a brief while — two glorious years — he allowed himself to believe that he would be able to marry someone of his own choosing. This hope only grew stronger once he fell in love with him.

Beautiful brown skin and golden wire-rimmed glasses. Forested eyes and warm muscles that flexed and relaxed on the Quidditch pitch (and in the soft retreat of the Come-and-Go Room). A secret just for Regulus, one he could hold close to his heart until the time came to reveal it to the world.

Then, Lucius properly introduced Walburga and Orion to the Greengrass family. As it turned out, their eldest daughter was in need of a husband, and Regulus fit the bill down to the letter.

He could see no way out. Voldemort himself believed that it was something that had to be done. Regulus had no choice.

Or so he tells himself.

Yet sitting at his dressing room vanity, listening to the orchestra play the tune of noon, he cannot help but wonder what would have happened if he went with James. If he had accepted that extended hand and trusted that whatever plan his boyfriend had concocted on the spot would be successful. Would it be their wedding happening at this venue today instead?

No, he cannot dwell on the past. James has gone away, and Regulus himself is at fault for that.

He hasn’t had any lovers since you left him, that voice whispers again.

“Shut up,” Regulus hisses aloud through gritted teeth.

“Well, damn, Reg. I just got here, and you’re already sending me away.”

That voice. He knows that voice. He’s dreamt of that voice.

His back stiffens, and he uses all his courage to drag his eyes up from the vanity counter and to the mirror, where he sees behind him —

“Jamie?”

The nickname slips out like a desperate plea, begging to be heard after eons of disuse.

“Surprise.” The boy in the mirror grins weakly, though his voice cracks and trembles.

“You can’t be here.” Please don’t leave.

“I had to try. I won’t stop trying until both of us are dead. I had to take a few months to plan after you told me about…this, but I’m here now, and Regulus —“ James walks closer to him, and Regulus’ legs lift him up against his will, pulling him toward old familiar comforts.

James’ hands find his face — he’s in an old Gryffindor sweatshirt and jeans, but Regulus couldn’t care less — and he says with no hesitation,

“I love you. I’m completely and utterly in love with you. Please don’t get married. Sirius is in a Muggle car out front waiting for us to come out. We’ll go away, far away, to your uncle Alphard’s place; he’s already agreed. If anyone tries to stop us, I’ve gotten Crouch and Rosier on board to cause a diversion. Regulus, please, I —“ His voice catches, and Regulus feels his entire world change in the span of a second.

Could he do it? Could he leave behind everything, the altar, the rings, the loveless marriage, his parents? But what about the dangers? What about Voldemort? If he goes with James, will the Dark Lord find them? And Sirius — they haven’t spoken in years. Is he really outside, willing and eager to help him escape?

“We all want you back. We need you back. I love you so much, Regulus,” James insists. Regulus’ cheeks heat up between his palms.

I can’t.

“Okay.”

What?

“What? You — you mean it?”

“Okay. I mean it. Take me. Now. Before…”

Before I change my mind. Before the ceremony starts and the music plays and the rings are slipped on and my life stops and my prison begins.

“Oh, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you —“ James half-sobs, cutting himself off by pulling Regulus’ face toward his and crashing their mouths together in the first kiss Regulus has had in a long, long time.

They spend no more moments on words after that. James grabs his hand, and they both hurry out the window, which is apparently what James used to enter the room. How he got in without Regulus noticing is a mystery neither of them will ever solve.

James hasn’t stopped murmuring “thank you”s, doesn’t stop even after they’re hours down the road, headed for a countryside where love grows and happiness shines down in the form of sun rays.

Regulus doesn’t mind, he curls up in the arms of the one he loves and listens to the soft rumblings within James’ chest as he speaks, the vibrations lulling him into his first true moment of relaxation since that night in the Come-and-Go Room so many months ago.

[painted-kneecaps]

Pride and Prejudice and Turnabout AU

The Confrontation- Edgeworth’s POV

•

Miles had only wished to retrieve his hat.

He had notified the footman of its loss, and thanked him as he invited him inside the foyer to wait while he searched for it. Miles had stepped inside, gaze lifted to the high ceilings, admiring the murals and reveling in the cool air of the hall. He liked ballrooms far more when they were empty, when the echoes within were peaceful instead of overpowering. He remembered when he was a boy, before his father’s accident, before his studies under Von Karma had compelled him to leave his home, how he would lie on the cool floor of the ballroom at Pemberley and hum to himself, imagining his voice to be an orchestra as the sound swelled in the arched ceilings, changing the notes he would hum before the echo of the previous one had quite died out, creating fleeting harmonies that reverberated through the hollow space like breath over the mouth of a bottle.

He had considered doing so again several times since he made his return to his family home, but thought better of it. Kay might catch him, and she would never allow him to live it down.

He was shaken from his rosy thoughts of Pemberley by voices echoing through this ballroom- a lady’s voice, as well as a man’s- both of them threaded with a thick, uncomfortable tension.

“A debutante ball is not about friends and family, Mr. Wright,” the female voice said, her voice, though smooth, laced with a condescending haughtiness that made Miles’ skin crawl. At the mention of her companion’s name, Miles stomach clenched, his face flushing as he recalled his thorough humiliation, the way Lady Fey had glared at him, her eyes murderous, and the way that man had laughed at him, doubled over with mirth at Miles’ expense. Really, he did deserve it, he thought, ashamed- he should not have been so loose with his words in a ballroom, certainly not one where so many eyes were trained upon him.

“Truly, Mr. Wright, with the veritable halfway house you are running out of my ancestral home, I would have thought at least one of your little orphans would have made a match by now, despite their unfortunate circumstances.”

Miles stiffened at these words, his entire body reacting in horror to the complete disinterest in the woman’s tone, the way she spoke so casually of something so life-altering and tragic, something so familiar to Miles himself. His astonishment and morbid curiosity overtaking his good sense, he rounded the corner from the foyer and stood at the entrance to the ballroom, taking extra care that his shoes did not echo when he stepped. He had learned many years ago to move soundlessly in Von Karma’s household- learning to fade into the background had been vital to surviving the man’s rage, and he counted it among his most useful skills. He had never employed it for eavesdropping before, but there was a first time for everything.

That man stood in the center of the ballroom with a tall, slender woman, who stood, poised and proud, fanning herself daintily as she antagonized him. Mr. Wright stood rigid, his hands balled into fists at his side as he glowered at her. His tasteless suit had been exchanged for a casual white blouse beneath a navy waistcoat, his cravat crooked and hair untamed. He was unshaven, stubble dusting his chin like a shadow. He looked almost wild, Miles thought idly, like a character from an adventure novel.

Before Miles’ thoughts could devolve into further romanticism, something in Mr. Wright snapped, and he surged toward the lady, something dangerous in the stiff line of his shoulders and the edge of his jaw as he began to speak to her through gritted teeth, his voice low and threatening.

“I will thank you not to speak of my family in such a manner, Morgan,” that man growled, and Miles’ breath caught in his throat as he began to rail at the woman- Ms. Fey, he now recognized her as- berating her for insulting his family, and for an apparent lack of interest in her own daughter, as Miles understood it. Did Mr. Wright and Ms. Fey share custody of this child? Ms. Fey seemed too old to have been romantically entangled with Mr. Wright, but he supposed it was possible, though he doubted she would be here, poised and elegant if a scandal such as that had taken place- besides, given the blatant, venomous hatred the two parties seemed to hold for each other, Miles couldn’t imagine they had ever been cordial.

“-Had you any concerns surrounding her upbringing at any point, you would have been well within your right to voice them- but since you did not, and in fact, have taken no interest whatsoever in her well being for the past decade, I must insist that you do not criticize the way that I have raised my children.”

Miles felt his stomach twist, his throat tightening at those words. His children.

He had found it curious, at the gala, that none of the Fey-Wrights seemed to be related to each other, as well as the fact that the two girls that Mr. Wright had referred to as his youngest seemed rather too old to be his, biologically. The implications of this arrangement fascinated him, the idea that Mr. Wright would so vehemently defend the honor of a family that was not his by blood-

It made something ache, deep within his chest.

“I see you still have not learned to respect your elders or your betters, even after all these years.”

Miles wanted to step in, wanted to say something, announce his presence somehow and put an end to this cruel woman’s disparaging of a man who was so obviously well-intentioned, but he was frozen in place, his eyes locked on Mr. Wright as he raised his chin, fixing her with an icy stare that somehow made it look as if Ms. Fey were the one being looked down upon, despite the several inches of height she had on Mr. Wright.

“I am not a child anymore, Ms. Fey,” said Mr. Wright, his demeanor poised, collected; his gaze a challenge. “And you are still not a Lady.”

That was when Ms. Fey lunged at him. She snarled, grasping the front of his shirt and raising her hand to strike him, but Mr. Wright never broke eye contact, his expression unchanged- a cool, unspoken challenge, his hands still clenched at his sides, never moving to retaliate. Miles couldn’t let this go on any longer.

He cleared his throat.

The scene dissolved almost instantaneously, Ms. Fey releasing Mr. Wright, who stared at Miles as if he had just emerged in a puff of smoke. Ms. Fey, suddenly the picture of elegant charm, invited him to her daughter’s debutante ball- either unaware of how much of her unbecoming behavior Miles had just witnessed, or perhaps she simply could not find it within herself to care- and Miles noted the way Mr. Wright’s shoulders went rigid at her words of affection for the girl.

“I do not wish to intrude,” Miles said, looking to Mr. Wright for his permission. The man gave him an odd look, slightly bewildered, his eyes narrowed as if he were trying to decipher him. The room felt suddenly very warm, and Miles squirmed under his scrutiny. Eventually, Mr. Wright shrugged, his shoulders slumping as he slipped into that obnoxiously casual attitude he had displayed at the ball.

“Ms. Fey is in charge of the guest list,” he replied with fixed disinterest, and Miles felt suddenly very irritated, but he gave his best attempt at a polite nod, his lips pressed tightly together before turning back to Ms. Fey and assuring her with practiced civility that he would think about it.

Mr. Wright announced his departure rather unceremoniously, calling over his shoulder to the woman as he strode toward the foyer, toward Miles himself, his posture and entire presence screaming his indifference to the fact that the woman outranked him. When she called out to him, he stopped, still not turning to face her, head tilted back as he sighed in a blatant display of irritation.

“Yes, Morgan?” He called out to her, and it was all Miles could do not to gape at the violence of his disrespect.

Ms. Fey, to her credit, responded with the civility expected of her station as she informed him that she should like to be the one to present her daughter. Miles watched, viscerally uncomfortable, but unable to look away as Mr. Wright turned, his smile a mask of politeness as he informed her that the decision would be left up to the girl herself.

Ms. Fey agreed to his terms, then said “I simply don’t want you to be disappointed by her choice. She is my daughter, after all.”

The challenge was blatant. The tension was palpable.

The easy, lopsided grin that bloomed across Mr. Wright’s face was positively rakish.

Miles felt the room around him grow rather warm, once again.

“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” That man said, his voice smooth and dangerously low. He turned his back on Ms. Fey, without so much as a nod in her direction for propriety’s sake, shoved his hands in the pockets of his breeches, and strolled toward the exit, that accursed smile still lolling across his face. He breezed past Miles, and just for a moment, their eyes met. Mr. Wright’s smile somehow widened further, his eyes sparkling mischievously, as if Miles were in on a joke that only the two of them knew.

Then, Mr. Wright winked at him.

Miles felt his heart stutter in his chest, his entire body jolting as though he had just been struck by lightning. His face felt hot. Why was this blasted ballroom so warm? His stomach twisted uncomfortably.

He blinked rapidly, attempting to regain his composure enough to reproach the man, to reprimand him on the vulgarity of his gesture- but by the time he had managed to form a single coherent thought, Mr. Wright was already gone.

[ccrites]

it's a compliment, I swear

i absolutely adore freak!Soap and the thing that got brain worms wiggling was "I can make him better--" "Not if he makes you worse first."

there's zero plot yet, let's see how this goes

-

There’s something odd about being paired with this team.

There always is.

The last-comer. The new-comer. The new girl. You’re unsure if there’s disdain in their voices, it doesn’t seem to be. In the past, it’s been much clearer when they didn’t want you here. Others haven’t put much effort into hiding it either.

But you’re here, and it should feel great. This should be everything you’d ever worked for, placed atop the mountain you’d climbed, the mountain of success. Seeing the top, a something wrapped in a nice little gift wrap, screaming You’ve earned it, open me, while you still huffed and puffed with the effort you’d put into actually getting there.

But the mountainside is steep under your feet, keeping you from ever reaching that peak, always making you slide back down, a little further each time. The grip on your soles is never strong enough and your fingers bleed from the effort of holding on. 

Perhaps that something is not even worth it.

You’re not exactly there yet, to find out if it is. Maybe you should give up, but you’re obstinate like that.

The bullets fly around you, voices scream in your head, the orders making sense for the mechanical machine in you they’d built, but not for the little girl inside, cowering in fear, eyes wide, brimming with tears, asking shakily What do we do now?

Your body moves. You’re the beacon of hope for these men (over-inflating your sense of importance much? maybe), when there’s no hope to be had. 

But it’s never them you help, either. (That’s more likely)

(Not important enough.)

They’re so… untouchable. Inhuman. You’d think the machine in them had taken over, surpassing the man inside, killing the boy. 

Maybe they’re monsters. 

Maybe they’re heroes. 

Either way, it hurts seeing their glacial eyes, listening to the gruff shouts, obeying their orders yet yearning for the compassion you had to show everyone to be shown back to you.

Your foot slips off the mountain again, and your nails rake against the slippery rock. You’ll fall if you keep wishing for shit you can’t have.

Not important.

Not worth it.

You run soundlessly through the macabre orchestra of pained shouts and stern orders, your knee guards absorbing the shock as you fall to the ground near the downed soldier, rushing to help. He yelps in pain as you peel off blood-drenched clothes, but you slam an open palm against his mouth, a hushed Keep it down unless you want to get us both killed, Corporal. The kid’s your age, you think, but he looks much older, with the way his face is contorted in pain, eyes scrunched shut, drawing lines of distress you know will, at some point, become permanently engraved on his face.

Growing old is a luxury, at this point.

You clean his wound and wrap it with gauze, pop out a pill to feed it to him dry and send him on his way to Medevac, they shouldn’t be far anyway. As you help him to his feet, the voice of the– your Captain crackles in your ear.

“No medevac for him, yet, soldier, we need all the firepower up ahead. We’re closing in on the target.”

“He’s gravely injured, sir-”

“If he can walk and pull a trigger, you’re sending him our way. Better yet, how ‘bout you join him, too. If he’s so injured, he’ll need a helpin’ hand. Understood?”

Your temple hurts with how hard you grit your teeth, but you utter out a clenched Yessir.

You’re unsure if you hear a faint smile in the ‘Atta girl he says lowly in your ear.

The target is not there when you reach the rendezvous point. You keep the curses you wish to spit out behind clenched teeth and sealed lips as your eyes adjust to the darkness inside the dilapidated house. The man you’d helped, running on fumes and a stim shot, immediately separates from your hip to join his buddies– pardon, his teammates–  on the other side of the room, the other part of the squad. So much for a thanks.

But your attention is pulled elsewhere.

You think you’re dreaming, at first.

He’s one of the machines. A depiction of a man, a painted facade of tan skin and quirked smiles, hiding well-oiled components, hard like steel, programmed for merciless killing. 

His flesh is softer than you’d expect when your hands sink into the blood and viscera.

Not a machine, then. Your eyes flicker to the crimson-coloured serrated knife on the floor. 

Must’ve pulled it out of himself, the madman.

The idiot.

“Should’ve–” he hiccoughs, as you work through meters of gauze and bandages, “Should’ve seen the other guy. Thrashed ‘is face up. Almost ‘ad ‘im.”

“The-” your voice catches as you look up to his face for a second. He’s smiling, the bastard. Blue eyes stare back at you, almost crazed. His teeth are dripping red as he runs his tongue across his lips and grins. “The target?” 

He gasps out a wet laugh. “No, lass, but I got a bullet in ‘im, too. ‘Is lackeys are good, though.”

The Lieutenant barks a reproach at the downed man but stays out of your space as your hands work mechanically on him, focusing on keeping his blood in till the other medics arrive with a stretcher for him. You’re not following what’s going on around you, maybe you should, especially if the walls could collapse around you. That’s the last of your worries now. When you’ve got him stabilized, you keep pressure with one hand on his abdomen, right on the side. It looks sickening, the way his skin is torn on the sides, yet you can’t help but think of the photos you’d been shown, back in basic, of those old WW2 planes, riddled with bullets, holes in the steel that should bring them down, that flew back to base against all odds. Survived despite everything.

He’d stayed alive till you made it here.

There’s nothing to do, not here, not now at least. Voices talk and talk, and debrief, and plan, but you tune them out. Your free hand roams. and it’s not till the helmet is already off, unclasped and discarded on the floor next to him, your fingers threading through the sweaty matted mohawk, that you realize what you’re doing.

Your first instinct is to pull it away like the touch of him burned you, but he’s fast. Maybe it’s the stim shot (second one you’ve used, you only have one left, you categorize mentally, planning already for next time, when you’d need to be sure to have more) or maybe it’s the machine hidden behind the vulnerable flesh, but he manages to grip your wrist with impossible strength.

Your eyes meet, and something stings. It’s electric and painful, and you hate how vulnerable you feel, when he’s the one almost bleeding out under you.

His lashes are long and dark, eyes half-lidded, yet not sleepy. You don’t have to worry about keeping him awake. The blue in his eyes flickers with something dark, and you want to look away, but you can’t. Your own eyes, wide and alert, are stuck on him.

You’re stuck.

His hold tightens on your wrist as you try to pull back gently, a part of you still worried that he might go into shock at any moment, but you only manage to twist your sleeve uncomfortably, unmoving from his grip. Slowly, pointedly, his eyes move between yours and your hand. The hand that had been soothingly petting him not even a minute ago. The hand that had stuffed gauze in the hole in his body, knuckles deep, while the other squeezed the peroxide bottle on the wound. The hand that was still covered in his blood. His blood.

The seconds stretch agonizingly long as he pulls it closer, back near his face. The eye contact makes fire blaze in your stomach, just to the side, mirroring his wound like a cursed voodoo. 

You’re frozen, unable to react, as he licks a stripe from your wrist to the tips of your fingers. 

The trail he leaves behind is wet and cold, yet it blazes through your veins like liquid fire, keeping you immobile as he runs his tongue over your digits, perversely, lazily circling each of them–

Captain Price’s voice suddenly pierces the bubble, dousing you in cold water (you needed it, you were burning up).

“Get me Laswell on the line, now, we are packing up. Sergeant, you broken?” Price barks.

Your hand is freed, and as the other medics take over your patient– the Sergeant– your blood-soaked glove wraps against the wrist he’d been holding tight, a sickeningly sticky grip over where his warm palm had wrapped against your bare wrist. A memory to keep or to forget, an imprint to copy on your skin, or to soothe its absence.

Maybe it’ll bruise in the shape of his grasp.

“I’ll survive, little birdie patched me right up. She’s as gentle as it goes, Cap, finally had the chance to feel it first hand.”

You hold the retch in your throat, despite an awkward tingle in your chest. The praise feels crude, wrong, like the gift had been plucked off the top of the mountain and dangled in front of you, just as you were about to reach it yourself, damn it–

A heavy tap on your back almost makes you choke as he chuckles darkly, “Let’s hope you won’t have to feel it again, soldier.”

That night, as you lay on the thin cot, unable to sleep, you wonder who Price had actually spoken to.