#hay little song bird

[differentprincedinosaur]

Chapter 10 out now !!!

[wlntrsldler]

poisoned mercury | everybody talks

a/n: don't love this chapter. definitely a filler, but the next chapter is much more fun!

iii. everybody talks by neon trees

series masterlist | previous | next

tagged chrisr0driguez, travisstoll, and connorstoll.

lukecastell4n: little break but we'll be back so soon poisonedmercury

poisonedmercuryfan: new music????????

castell4nsgf: omg im excited

stollsluvr: ME TOO

chrisr0driguez: we miss you guys already!

lukecastell4n: fr, we miss seeing your beautiful faces on tour :(

travisstoll: working hard

lukecastell4n: hardly working 🥱

connorstoll: give me my guitar back

lukecastell4n: no

--

“mornin’ five star,” luke tossed you one of your probiotic drinks from the fridge as you entered the kitchen. 

you caught it seamlessly, mumbling a quick thank you. it wasn’t even seven am, but the two of you were already awake. it became a routine since it seemed like you both had the same idea. your coach told you that you needed to workout, even though you were on probation, in the off-chance that you’ll be allowed to play again when the season starts. you figured that the campers would be enjoying their vacations and sleeping in so you’d have the community gym to yourself. unfortunately for you, luke castellan was an early bird. 

your gym schedules synced up and you often found yourself having to make small talk with him in the kitchen while you filled up your water bottle before you ditched him to head to the gym. he would trail a respectable distance behind you, giving you your space, as he walked to the gym. the two of you did your separate workouts, sneaking glances at one another because it was a little awkward that you lived together, went to the gym at the same time, but didn’t talk to each other. 

it wasn’t for a lack of trying on luke’s part. he’d tried to talk to you a few times, but it seemed to not be a good idea to start a conversation before you had your morning coffee. it was funny for the first few days, but he was afraid that it would quickly cross the boundary of being quirky and cute to being straight-up annoying. he lived with you and he showed mercy to the rest of your cabinmates by not pushing your buttons. too much. 

he still occasionally indulged in bickering with you, which seemed to be all of your conversations. you always found something new to argue with him about. your dad was right about you being hard-headed and stubborn, but for some reason, luke didn’t mind. his days at camp were fun, at least, as fun as a summer camp could be, and your interactions kept him on his toes. the usual schedule of meals, rehearsals, and attempts to write new songs, became repetitive after a few days, but with you in his face, ready to argue at any moment, it felt like there was something to look forward to. 

you took the foil off your drink, downing it in one go. you tossed it in the recycling bin before turning to him, “do you go to the gym at this hour to spite me?”

luke chuckled, cracking open a red bull, “the word doesn’t revolve around you, you know?” 

“i know that,” you rolled your eyes, “but you can go to the gym any time in the day and you choose to go at the ass crack of dawn. why?” 

“it’s peaceful,” he shrugged, “the machines are empty and i don’t have to wait. it’s nice.” 

“that’s why i go this early.” 

“see,” he smiled, tilting his head. “great minds think alike.” 

you grimaced at his comparison, scrunching your face up. the sun was beginning to rise causing an orange glow to cast on your face. despite waking up so early and sleeping so late– he’d heard you come in with clarisse at 3 am this morning after a late-night smoke session, luke couldn’t see a trace of tiredness on your features. luke envied you. he definitely did not look that good after 3 hours of sleep. 

you fixed the zipper of your sweater, adjusting the bottom of it to better fit your hips. you were wearing a tight-fitting workout outfit, black nike pros, and the usual vans you wore when you worked out. your hair was in a high ponytail keeping it out of your face, which was a good thing. he’d seen how intense your workouts were and you definitely didn’t need to have your hair in your face while you leg pressed 275. 

“i just feel like i see you everywhere,” you commented, “and everyone just wants to talk about you.” 

luke’s eyes twinkled, “what do they say?” 

“luke castellan is so talented, luke castellan is so hot, blah, blah, blah,” you imitated the words you’d heard from other campers, sighing in discontent. “like shut up already. i thought that it would die down after the first day of you guys being here, but it’s been a week and it’s the same thing.” 

luke followed you out the cabin door, walking beside you for the first time since you both started going to the gym at the same time, “well, do you agree with them?” 

you stopped in your tracks, turning to face him. your eyes raked over his face and his body, contemplating. you weren’t blind. you understood why people said what they said about him. luke castellan was attractive with his curls and toned arms and his stupid full lips, which seemed to always be in a smirk, but the hype was too much. and poisoned mercury’s music was good– great even, but you needed to hear something other than how muscular luke castellan was or how his scar made him look rugged or how his voice sounded like angels singing. you were at your breaking point.

luke stood there, rocking back and forth on his toes and the balls of his feet, patiently waiting until you made up your mind. your lips formed a tight line, “i don’t see it.” 

“fuck, five star,” luke scoffed, unable to stop the smile on his face. he shook his head, curls bouncing around, “you sure know how to make a guy feel special.” 

“don’t need to fuel your ego any more than everyone else does,” you replied, continuing your walk to the gym. 

you didn’t seem to mind that luke continued to walk beside you, which was progress, in luke’s mind. his bandmates have been on his ass about trying to be friends with you since the rest of them developed friendships with you and clarisse over the week they’d been here. 

he’d seen you on the couch with chris watching tiktok videos on how to properly take care of his curls a few times. (luke was not stealing some of the curl cream that chris bought per your recommendation. his curls just suddenly became a lot more defined recently.) he watched you play darts with travis at the activities center and argued with him about why he didn’t need to buy a dart set for the cabin. (he agreed with you there. there was an incident in atlanta where connor was sent to the er because travis managed to lodge a dart in connor’s calf after losing a game.) he once saw you, clarisse, and connor return from a swim in the lake in the middle of the night when he stayed up trying to write a song. (the song remains unfinished on his notepad, tucked safely away on his bedside table. he had no inspiration to write any music at the moment.) 

again, it wasn’t for his lack of trying. you just didn’t seem interested in forming a relationship with him outside of being roommates. it was getting to him. just a little bit. he found himself thinking of you a lot. the boys started to comment on how he hadn’t gotten with anyone at camp yet, despite getting numerous offers from older campers and head counselors alike, but luke shrugged it off and said that he didn’t want to start drama so early on in the summer. it wasn’t a lie, per se, but it wasn’t the whole truth. for some reason, he just couldn’t get you out of his head. 

“i can’t control what people say,” luke said after a moment. “i’m sure it must be so annoying to hear about how great i am.” 

“you are so full of yourself,” you groaned, shooting daggers in his direction. this made him laugh. “you know what you can control, though?” 

“what?” 

“the mess you make in the cabin,” you replied, “seriously, you guys have been here a week and the cabin already looks like a fucking frat house.” 

luke thought about the state of the common area. you were right. the cabin was a mess, empty cans everywhere, crumbs on every surface, and wires from the playstation scattered across the living room floor. the boys weren’t the neatest, they were teenagers after all, and luke had to clean up after them more times than he could count. having his mom on tour meant that he often got stuck with clean-up duty. 

“hey, don’t blame me,” he raised his hands up in defense. “i recycle.” 

“aren’t you a model citizen?” you remarked sarcastically, opening the door to the gym. you pursed your lips, staring at luke. “yeah, i still don’t get it.” 

luke snorted, smiling at you, “have a good workout, five star. looking forward to walking home in silence with you.” 

when you didn’t say anything else, but threw up the middle finger as you walked away, luke couldn’t help but stare at your figure before you disappeared from his view. what a way to start his day. 

– 

“hi, luke,” two girls called as they passed by the boys, waving flirtily at the lead singer. 

luke sent them a smile back, tossing a wink to them that made them giggle as they walked away. it was a miracle that there were no news leaks about where they were. luke’s mom was happy that this arrangement was working out. 

travis swung an arm around luke, “c’mon castellan, save some girls for the rest of us.” 

luke pushed his arm off, laughing, “trav, didn’t you literally go home with a girl on our first night here?” 

“ah, yes, stacy,” travis sighed, dreamily, smirking to himself as he recalled his first night at camp. he shook his head, facing luke again, “but seriously, castellan, ten girls have said hi to you since we left dinner and you’re flirting with them but not doing anything about it.” 

“i promised my mom i’d be good this summer,” he shrugged, stuffing his hands in his front pockets as he led the boys into the cabin. “and i told you guys, it’s too early to start shit. we got the whole summer. spread out your escapades, stoll.” 

luke thought that being back at camp half blood would bring back some terrible memories, especially his last summer there. it was the summer right after his dad left and luke was miserable. he was a moody 8-year-old who yelled at everybody who tried to be his friend, which resulted in him being alone all summer. he sat in the back of the room during music lessons, refused to participate in the end-of-summer performance, and on many nights, cried himself to sleep because he missed his dad. he felt pathetic. 

but so far, surprisingly, camp was actually nice. at his core, luke was a music fanatic, so it was energizing for him to get to talk about his music and his journey to stardom. his favorite interaction so far was with two, younger boys, who enthusiastically approached him and said that they were learning how to play guitar and sing because they looked up to the band. it was a little concerning at first, given that the band’s reputation wasn’t necessarily kid-appropriate, but he appreciated the sentiment. grover and percy walked away grinning from ear to ear when luke made them promise that they’d stop by again soon to show him their progress. 

luke sat on the bar chair, watching as connor and chris turned on the playstation, mumbling about a rematch on 2k to prove that one was better than the other. many things changed in all of their lives, but some things stayed the same. they were still just four best friends; the difference was, now, they got to travel the world together doing what they loved. 

chris and luke met in their freshman english class. chris let it slip that he was learning how to play bass because his mom warned him that if he broke another bone trying to skateboard, he’d have to walk to the hospital himself. she was joking, of course, but chris figured that after two years of failed attempts at learning how to skate, he should hang it up. 

he decided to try his hand at music and the bass became his new hyperfixation. they started writing music in luke’s old bedroom in connecticut shortly after. for years, the songs were just for them. they recorded it on shitty equipment and used garageband to fill in the instrumentals until they met the stolls. the stolls, luke’s neighbors who moved into town when luke was 16, heard them trying to figure out a hook for a song they were writing and offered some help. travis, with connor behind him, introduced themselves and the rest is history. 

poisoned mercury was born. travis convinced the other three that their music was good, that they should go out and play at local cafes and bars. at 16, luke became the front man of poisoned mercury. the song the four of them wrote together on their first day as a band, became the lead single of their debut album. kilby girl spent thirteen weeks on billboard top 50 and in less than a year and a half, the boys had a record deal with olympus records and they were heading off to start the north american leg of their world tour. 

you walked into the cabin with clarisse, laughing as she explained the incident that caused her to have glitter all over her face and her hair. one of her campers was having trouble opening the glitter jar and when she came over to help, the top popped off and glitter sprayed all over her. 

“i feel glitter everywhere,” she shuddered, “i need a shower before we help out with concert prep.” 

you looked around the cabin, grimacing, “it smells like boy in here.” 

“it’s our bachelor pad,” travis called out from the kitchen. he walked out into the living room with a fresh hot pocket in his hand, eyes widening at the sight of clarisse, “woah, what happened to you?” 

“arts and crafts day,” clarisse cringed, falling into the couch cushions. “i’m gonna be covered in glitter for days.” 

“hey, watch out,” connor paused the game he was playing with chris, shoving clarisse slightly. “you’re gonna get glitter everywhere.” 

“ah, yes, because having glitter is going to ruin the aesthetic of empty cans and half-eaten chip bags?” clarisse cocked an eyebrow, pointing at the mess the boys made. you and her were engaged in a passionate rant about how much it sucked living with teenage boys before your arrival to the cabin. 

“we’ll clean up,” chris rubbed the back of his neck, sheepishly glancing at clarisse. you had a feeling that cleaning was the last thing on their agenda. 

you sat on the bar stool across from luke, “i didn’t expect to live in the mojo dojo casa house this summer.” 

“the what?” 

“from barbie,” you replied, “when the kens take over barbieland?” 

luke shook his head, “haven’t seen it.” 

of course, he hasn’t seen it. clarisse and the boys fell into a conversation about how she accidentally got glitter bombed. luke watched you as you mindlessly scrolled through your phone, occasionally letting a chuckle leave your lips when you found something funny. he felt a little creepy staring at you like this, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off you. 

the sun was shining behind you, a soft glow framing your face and it made your brown eyes look like pools of honey. your nose piercing was iridescent under the light, which made luke’s eyebrows raise in surprise. he thought it was just plain silver, but when you tilted your head in certain directions, he could see sparkles of purple and pink. your long hair was thrown messily over your shoulders, a few tangles here and there, and the god-awful, orange camp half blood shirt you wore actually suited you. luke was a firm believer that nobody looked good in orange until he saw you in it.

“you’re staring,” you mumbled, looking up at him. “don’t tell me i have glitter on my face now too.” 

luke cleared his throat, playing with the chain around his neck, “yeah, like a tiny speck on your cheek.” 

you groaned, rubbing the right side of your face, “is it gone?” 

you didn’t actually have any glitter on your face, but luke figured it would be less awkward to say that you did instead of telling you that he was staring just to stare. he nodded, “you got it.” 

“thanks, i cannot deal with glitter,” you got up, walking over to the group. “hey, we can use some help with prep for next week’s concert if you guys are free.” 

“we’re not doing anything, right?” connor looked around. travis and chris shook their heads. “what about you, castellan?” 

“nah, i can’t,” luke said, “promised mom i’d try to write at least one song this summer and i’ve been in a rut so i think i’ll try to do that. you guys have fun though.” 

“perfect,” you smiled, “we can leave after clar gets out the shower.” 

they sent you a thumbs-up before you walked into your room. clarisse disappeared into the bathroom shortly after. luke took clarisse’s spot once you both left. he propped his feet up on the small table in front of him, leaning back on his seat. he waited patiently for the sound of the showers to turn on before he spoke, “she’s hot.” 

“yeah, she is,” chris said, hitting play on their game. 

“don’t even think about it, castellan. when i said start a relationship with her, this is not what i meant,” connor remarked, shaking his head, “we are not gonna fuck up our relationship with mr. d because you can’t keep it in your pants.” 

“oh, you’re talking about y/n?” the three boys stared at chris, who sunk into his seat, blushing furiously. luke narrowed his eyes at chris, a playful smile on his lips. he’ll have to ask him about that later. 

travis blinked, bringing his attention to his brother, “s’not like castellan has a chance anyway.”

luke’s head snapped to travis, “what’s that supposed to mean?” 

“i mean she’s out of your league, big guy,” travis shrugged. 

“well, yeah,” luke rubbed his jaw. he wasn’t that dumb to believe that you were in his league. you were lightyears ahead of him. he’d been rejected before, of course he had, but not since poisoned mercury got big– again, really bad for his ego – but he’d never been counted out before he even threw his hat in the ring. 

“i’m with trav on this one, luke. don’t fuck it up.” 

luke stared at his friends in disbelief, “can’t y’all have a little faith in me?” 

“no,” they said in unison. 

“fuck you guys,” luke flipped them off, ignoring their snickers. “i’m going for a smoke.” 

he really needed to get you out of his head.

[neuvistar]

hai .,.,..,.,. fingering robin before her performance w/ her pretty skirt hiked up giggles 🎀🎀

❝ A SINGER’S DISTRACTION ?! ❞ — robin x fem!reader. cw. v4ginal fingering, face sitting. | small a/n. ANONNN THIS IS MELTING ME 2 THE BRIM. :( i love robin so much… the sounds she makes r probs REALLY pretty (shut up maryse) ++ i’ve been doing a lot of thirsts lately… i promise i’ll write a full fic somewhere this week :,3

lawd… guys idk abt u i personally think she’s capable of being a soft dom if she tried :3 she def loves eating pussy n getting her face rode on after such a stressful day 🙈💓

robin couldn’t resist your sweet gaze when you were asking her, she was drawn to the way you rubbed ur breasts against her arm :(( but she didn’t know you would finger her for that long! she’s almost about to go on stage! her beautiful dress that was carefully ironed was now ruffled up all the way to her thighs, her legs spread prettily for you :3

WAHAAA i know for a fact that robin’s moans r extra pretty, she’s tryna be quiet bc she knows there r still ppl out there, setting up the microphones and all that, setting everything up while wondering where robin has gone! hearing her moans r like hearing a siren’s melodies, you wanted to hear more of it! her pretty hands caressed your face, whispering sweet nothings in your ear while your digits curled up within her soaking wet entrance, begging to ride her face just for a little while! “honey… i—i need to preform soon..” robin knew she wanted this as much as you did, enjoying the thrill of potentially getting caught. biting her lip at the sight of u grinding ur pussy against her thigh passionately :(( robin knew the walls were thin, but the excitement of being discovered added another level of intensity to this sweet encounter!

“robin.. please? can i?” you pleaded, practically rubbing your breasts against her own.. seeking comfort in her arms. ugh.. she should’ve stayed at home with you! adding another finger. you watched as robin’s eyes fluttered closed, her moans growing louder. you wanted to feel her come.

“you know we can’t, my song bird.. here, i—i’ll let you ride my face all night when this is all over, ‘kay? i’ll give you all the attention you want, alright? i promise.” robin cooed, arching into your touch. you knew she was close, the wetness coating your fingers evidence of her arousal.

well… she wasn’t lying when she said she’d give you all her attention tonight. she was exhausted after her performance, bonding with her fans, opening fan mail, she was absolutely stressed! you were scared you were suffocating her, she wouldn’t even come up for air! “robin," you panted, your hips bucking wildly as you rode her face. the excitement, the desire, it was palpable. the moans that left you both filled the room, electrifying the air. seeing robin like this, so lost in the moment, stressed.. pushing your pretty pussy closer against her face sent waves of lust coursing through you. the halovian loved your pussy so damn much, but she wouldn’t admit it to you straight up :3

“sweet bird," robin’s muffled voice tickled your folds, his tongue darting out to lick your clit. robin savoured the taste of you, and your scent.. desperate to wash away all the stress that was forced upon her. she’s never get enough of you. "you’re so adorable.." robin murmured, her hands gripping your thighs.robin’s thumb brushed against your clit, gently circling the sensitive nub. robin watched as your eyes fluttered closed, their moans growing louder.. her own cunt pulsing when she listened to how you moaned her name, “robin.. robin”..

you knew for sure that you both are gonna do more of this from now on :3 it’s just for relieving stress, right? <///3

[ms0milk]

𝟏𝟕 | 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐥𝐥 (𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 & 𝐭𝐰𝐨.)

ー✧ 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

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Captain Hawks has one job and you’ve made it so much more difficult than necessary. He’s had one job for fifteen years. Red feathers brick out southern wind from the hiding place he’s made above your window and he glares through gusts and goggles to watch you finally return to Prince Touya’s room. You crumple in a pile at the foot of the bed when the door clicks closed. You’re rotting. Sulking. The Alderan dragon everyone’s so worried about, you who his king assigned him to watch– 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 you’re 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. It’s 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 wouldn’t 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. She’s cold, she’s sick of sending maids to find you and the ball is today. Master Aizawa is securing perimeters somewhere too far away to be helpful, Uraraka’s finalizing guest lists, and Bakugou is getting stitches because he’s 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 doesn’t look silly in white. Todoroki sits outside beside the sea. Deku holds his hand tight to keep him from jumping in.

In the king’s 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 didn’t have the heart to bark when he stumbled through Excuse mes and My Ladys. The quiet wasn’t helping. You could trust Bakugou with his champion for a day but your prince’s 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, “From Princess Fuyumi.”

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 wouldn’t think to find you, curled in the deepest sconce of the north wing watching staff fly past. Today is the ball. It’s why the princess ordered you a dress and it’s why you’re pulling gold lace through your fingers by candlelight. Aizawa’s training pit echos pretty like the sea when it’s empty and the uniform room has a mirror. It’s 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 he’d just hated you properly. You lean back to inspect neatly laced boots– Alderan dancing knots– boots so delicate they couldn’t 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 kingdom’s 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.

“Steady,” you whisper to the gods.

It’s 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 they’re 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 can’t help staring. Jeanist’s 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, you’ve pretended not to feel, you did half your best, you snacked instead of training and sat in pleasant company you love, why wouldn’t 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. “What do you want?”

“Apologies, Captain.”

At that, air falls loose from your nostrils. Your lips don’t dare part to make a sound. Your self-important posture doesn’t have time to settle before red pleats freeze and the candle cracks like a knuckle in your palm because the horror of this hadn’t occurred to you. That voice will never leave.

“Y/n?” the flame mage murmurs again.

Why would Aldera want you back? Playing princess instead of posting sentinel. Knowing you’re 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 you– you knew what was watching you– something worse than flying captains. It’s why this horrible place remains horrible and the cold like frost can never be shaken off the back of your neck. It’s 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 prince’s backwards attention. You should have killed yourself to kill him before his body hit the water. Why wouldn’t an assassin slip through the cracks of your distraction? And why wouldn’t 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 it– might have even killed a ghost– if you hadn’t 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 doesn’t have the energy to be surprised by you. He is not fazed by your drawn weapon and doesn’t flinch in the dark, but he remembers your name, “Captain Y/n?”

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, “Highness,” you stammer to the ground, “I–”

“Do you dance, Captain?”

You do, and you quirk an eyebrow at the floor. It’s 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 there’s a dread just behind the prince’s every word. Your Alderan senses are dulling in this kingdom. Your ghost never sounded so nervous. “I’m sorry, sir,” you lift only your head from the stiff bow, “I don’t understand.”  

Prince Natsuo’s 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. He’s 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, “May I escort you to the party, sir? You’ve made a wrong turn,” rising fully as the prince gathers his thoughts and keeps well away from you– 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 you’ll take from the kitchens to ask if you’ll need a bath– 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.

“Please excuse my being started.”

“It’s your job,” he musters just as you scoop up your blade and tip it back into its sheath amongst skirt folds. “Thank you– for your job.” He’s 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, “I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry, Bakugou’s heartbroken voice parrots. Don’t cry. He pleads with his hands on your cheeks. You can’t change what you’ve done. Bakugou Katsuki can haunt you til death, but you don’t get to hide from him.

“Your Royal Highness, it would be my pleasure to escort you upstairs.” You square yourself to the blue bottle prince, “Humble Y/n, apprentice to the Captain of Her Alderan Majesty’s Royal Guard. My apologies. You had to come all this way just for a proper introduction.” And extend your hand to him, a polite smile on your lips. To death then. You’ve 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 moonlight– candlelight– and tense as the room’s 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, “Magic candles.”

“Magic candles,” 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?

“And a medal,” Natsuo continues. You follow his line of sight to the object in your hand. It’s silver. It fits right in the cleft of your palm. The inscription around the edge is in a language you don’t 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. “The medal of honor.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s yours.”

“It certainly is not,” 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.

“I’ve seen you. I heard about…my father’s arrival in your training exercise and I, I didn’t, I don’t think my sister’s champions would have been fast enough to stop him if you hadn’t. You kept my mother from the mad magician and I doubt anyone has thanked you and I, I just– my father wouldn’t allow honors on your gown and mine is more than I deserve.” 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. “It’s much less than you’re owed.”

Prince Natsuo bows to you deeply and turns so quickly that arena-sand clouds his feet. He does not accept your escort and he doesn’t turn around. He only strides across the room, thirty-three candles, and out the dark but open doors. It’s easy to imagine him judging his own performance just where you can’t see him; he exudes the nervous energy of someone who cringes when they turn your back to you. You’re smiling before you realize. Fourty.

It’s slightly warmer than you’ve 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.

Aizawa’s 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 realization– at everything you now realize he was trying to say, to show you. You’re 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 he– he took you by the shoulder and branded the shape of his palm to your flesh, when your arm was relieved of its socket– 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, he’s 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 charge– not tasting his lips when you wet yours at the edge of the party– 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. You’d have imagined the warmth of Bakugou’s 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 wasn’t flickering in a clear and lonely shade of blue.

Fifty.

“Find cover!” you hiss at the squire who collapses to the floor rather than get knocked down the stairs in your charge, “Douse the rugs!”

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 prince– 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. “Captain Hawks!” You bellow with the last bit of air between strides.

He’s watching you, he didn’t abandon his assignment for a party. You burst from servants’ 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 sword’s hilt through the glass and shout, “Hawks!” louder, between flying shards, into the night, “Fire!”

Candles instead of your dress, a candle instead of your flesh. He could be anywhere, nearby, outside, straddling corpses, you don’t know the rules his magic follows and every step you take without bursting into flames is a second you can’t waste. Your prince will fight to the death, you cannot let him. Your prince will die for his friends, you can’t 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. “Run,” 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 don’t 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 boots– 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.

“Highness!” You shout into the blue before realizing the silence of the ballroom doesn’t 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. Shinsou’s hair isn’t 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 band– did you scare the trumpets too?– weeping a waltz for the dancers who crane away from their partners to watch what you might do. Their every gown is white, blue, green– 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.

“Y/n?”

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 you’ve arrived and then Mina, full of worry with her hands in Fuyumi’s 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, “Y/n.” He glows. You have hidden from this all day, and tonight his war cape arcs sanguine circles around him. 

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, “It’s a dogshit party,” and a few pieces of hair fall over a stitched gash on his cheek, “but I doubt a swordfight will fix it.”

You don’t understand and you don’t try to speak through volley after volley of embarrassment. 

“Won’t,” he rumbles, “won’t let you look crazy alone.” 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 embroidery– 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.

“Highness,” 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. “I didn’t– I–” 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.

“Sir,” you manage and wince when you dare a peek past his shoulders towards onlookers.

He is embers, “I have a surprise.” 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 Katsuki’s 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. 

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 you’ve 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 cello– 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, “I’m so sorry,” and it is the loudest thing in the room.

“The candles are blue at the queen’s request,” he rumbles, sacrificing posture to watch you properly, to correct you. “That must…I, I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have let them.” 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, “Captain,” the second-loudest thing in the room, “will you dance with me?”

It’s 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.

“Peruro?” 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, “Mind your ears, dragonne.”

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.

“Dance!” Bakugou’s 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, “or die.”

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, “How?”

But your prince is still grinning wide so you must be too. “Bribed em,” 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 shepherd’s 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 Mitsuki’s 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, “Miss firelight!” Her dress envelopes yours and the spinning doesn’t stop until you’ve 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.

“Lady Mina!” 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 mage’s 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 Mina’s three step dips. He stands at the base of his parents’ 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 you’ve 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. It’s 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 you’re Alderan from the sheer intoxication of the sound.

Sero’s long arms wrap behind you and you’re off your feet before you can speak. “Return of the Red Captain!” 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, “Are you armed?” He chuckles and tugs you up and close, back to chest.

“Me? Never.” 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 suit– the cost– you can’t 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. “Are you armed?!” 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. Eijirou’s 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. There’s 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 broke– Kirishima’s 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 queen’s 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. There’s no sun here. Did you ever think you’d hate him? That you’d miss him? Where is he? Your prince likes plums best because they’re sour and he blows on dandelions when no one’s 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.

“Red suits you, dragonne!” Bakugou roars and you land square in his arms to the coo of a shepherd's pipe. You blink and his, him, he– 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. “You,” he attempts to speak, “Captain, you,” 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.

“You’re beautiful,” 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. There’s a hand on your back to keep you close. I’m afraid. It hurts to be so close to you. He presses his forehead to yours.

“Y/n, ’m sorry.” You fight yourself not to fight the closeness. It’s 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 Kirishima’s 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 doesn’t 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 prince’s heart where it landed. Missed, you grin feebly. He’s 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

[lurkinglurkerwholurks]

As promised, links to my crossposted fics (at least as many as I could find), in chronological order.

Mother Bruce And His Baby Birds [multi-chapter]

Much That Once Was Is Lost [multi-chapter]

Nature and Nurture [multi-chapter]

The Robin Manual

Dry Drowning

Breathing

Battle Royal

It Wasn't Real (But We Were Happy) [multi-chapter] - apparently not crossposted??

I've Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts - not linked; each chapter is a new prompt, so it's too unwieldy

By the Sea, By the Beautiful Sea

Trapped

Little Thieves

Teenage Mutant Power Rangers

Choco Bombs

With a Chance

Single Dads Club [multi-chapter]

Safe House

A Walk Up the Road

He's Shorn We're Torn

Look for the Helpers

Stop! It's Fanon Time - not linked; each chapter is a new prompt, so it's too unwieldy

Jason's First Christmas

Precious Fragile Little Thing

Caring for His Boy

Carried

If the Sky Comes Falling Down (For You) [multi-chapter]

Kitten

Choose - Lose

No Lifeguard on Duty

Shoulder to Shoulder

Listening

O'er These Mountains I Would Fly

Wishes & Dreams

Blue Eyes and Moth Wings - did not crosspost

Sunrise

Why Should a Star, a Star Ever Be Afraid of the Dark - did not crosspost

You've Always Been the Sweetest Song

Even When the Words Went Wrong

Hello from the Other Side - did not crosspost

You Are the Sun and I—

My Head Is Stripped - apparently did not crosspost in full

Catch Me

In My Arms

Chicken Bones - previously posted under a different title

Bang

With a Whimper [multi-chapter]

The End of the World

Bloody Brilliant

Collapsing Star with Tunnel Vision

Busted

Mended

Take the Spade from My Hands

Hay Is for Horses

Hidden

A Child of the Manor

To See the Stars

Yes Ma'am

Steel Blues

Resonant Frequency

Sentinels - apparently did not crosspost in full

I'm Done With Having Dreams - apparently did not crosspost in full

Oh You Drain All the Fear From Me

Emergency Contact

The Return [multi-chapter]

What's a Penny Worth

Old Blood

Hello Fadduh

Pup

A Quick Pinch [multi-chapter]

Ghost [multi-chapter]

Can't Let Me Go

The Caretaker and the Night

The Cave

Last of a Dying Breed

Write Our Names in the Wet Concrete

Professional Distance

Mr. Wayne, We Have Your Son

Fix This

White Lights / Afterglow

Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Hood

And After the Storm

The End of Infinity (With You) [multi-chapter]

Sleepyhead

Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien

Ulcers

(S)kittish

Call From

Red to the Wrists

The Rain Again

Hey, Sister [multi-chapter]

May Tomorrow Never Come

It might be your wound, but they're my sutures

Hounded - did not crosspost in full

There's an Endless Road to Rediscover - did not crosspost in full

Nowhere Safer - did not crosspost in full

Satisfaction - did not crosspost in full

[unforgivenn]

Hai a request for writing how about a whumpee that gets washed ashore by the river in a forest and someone finds them ( that someone can be either a whumper or stranger your choice :D )

CW: Isolation, betrayal, minor injuries, panic, desperation, false sense of security, abduction, drugging

Whumpee's figure lay motionless across the riverbank. The currents had carried them, like a fragile leaf in a storm, until finally depositing them gently onto the soft bed of moss and ferns.

The fresh breeze blew gently on their face as their eyes blinked open slightly, trying to figure out just what the fuck happened. They sat up coughing violently. With trembling hands, they clawed at their parched throat, desperate to expel the water that still lingered within.

But it wasn't just the water that sent shivers down their spine. It was the eerie silence that enveloped the forest, broken only by the distant whisper of the river. The usual cacophony of bird songs and rustling leaves was conspicuously absent, as if nature itself held its breath in anticipation.

Whumpee looked down to see the small cuts and bruises on them that had formed during their little swim. They hissed slightly forcing themselves to stand up their survival instinct kicking in.

"H-Help! Someone! Plea-!" They were cut off from their shouting by the spluttering from their dry and hoarse throat that hadn't gotten water for god knows how long.

Whumpee's heart raced as panic surged through their veins like wildfire. The realization of their isolation sank in like a heavy stone, pressing down upon them with suffocating weight. Each labored breath felt like a desperate plea echoing into the void of the silent forest.

Disoriented and vulnerable, they stumbled forward, limbs trembling with exhaustion and fear. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig beneath their feet, sent a jolt of adrenaline coursing through their battered body. The forest seemed to close in around them, its towering trees casting sinister shadows that danced mockingly upon the forest floor.

Tears blurred Whumpee's vision as they frantically scanned the treeline, searching for any sign of salvation amidst the oppressive silence. But there was no one—no comforting voice to answer their cries, no friendly face to offer solace in the face of their terror.

And then, just when Whumpee's resolve began to falter, they heard it—the unmistakable sound of footsteps crunching through the undergrowth. Their head snapped behind him to see a person, an actual man.

Whumpee squinted their eyes, blinking them for a while to make sure they weren't hallucinating before they broke down in wracking sobs stumbling over to the figure.

"P-Please" Their voice sounded high-pitched as they gasped for breath between cries.

The man walked towards Whumpee looking down at the younger person. His gaze was calculating, boring into whumpee's tear-filled eyes. Whumpee could feel that they were almost judging them.

Whumpee knew they looked absolutely pathetic on the layer with torn clothes and cuts in a state of broken sobs. But as the man neared, Whumpee's hope turned to horror. The calculating gaze bore into their soul, stripping away the façade of safety. In that moment, they knew—they were not the savior they had prayed for. The injection pierced their skin like a dagger, the venom of betrayal coursing through their veins.

As consciousness slipped away, Whumpee's last sight was the mocking smirk of their assailant, their fate sealed in the darkness that closed in around them.

[dragon-teaparty]

Safe and Sound - Leon Kennedy x reader

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

hai pretty people! am back but with a leon story :3

i will try to write as much as i can here

also this story is kinda long sorry XD

cws: mention of ptsd, a bit of gore

other tags: gn reader, re2 leon cuz he's a cutie<3 based on the song safe & sound from taylor swift

summary: leon wakes up from a nightmare and you are there to comfort him

———

based off of this cover :3

"No!"

His throat felt stripped of its tissue as he screamed out but there was barely a sound.

Leon stood in the ruined police department. He couldn't move no matter how hard he tried, he was stuck in place.

He watched as his coworker was torn apart and eaten alive. He wanted to run over and help his coworker, he wanted to pull out his gun and blow that zombies brains across the tile floor.

But he couldn't. He could only watch, tears streaming down his face. Leon was angry, he was desperate as he tried to move even an inch but it was as if every bone in his body was broken, crippling him.

The rookie cops screams turned into sobs, coming out at as short heaves. It was all he could do.

The undead crouched at the other officer's body slowly stood up and turned to Leon. Its skin was grey and rotting off of the bone, the eyes a milky blue color. It held a chunk of flesh in its mouth before choking it down like some sort of bird. It began to limp towards him.

Leon began to panic. He felt like he couldn't breathe as his heartbeat thumped hard against his chest.

"Move! Move! Move!" The thought rattled in his head as the zombie approached, but any effort was futile.

Before Leon could even blink, the rotting reanimated corpse lunged at him.

—

Leon jolted up in bed in a cold sweat. He took a moment to look around and take a few deep breaths.

He was safe, he was in his apartment. He tried to control his breathing as he wiped sweat and tears from his face.

He then sat on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands. He wasn't sure how much more of these nightmares he could take... They seemed to get worse each night.

It suddenly hit him that his close friend was downstairs on the couch. They were drinking and his friend got a little too drunk to drive home safely so he allowed them to stay here.

Leon stood up and quietly crept downstairs. He spotted your sleeping form on the couch, slowly moving up and down as you breathed.

"Don't be afraid to wake me up if you have another nightmare." Y/n's voice echoed in his head. It wasn't the first time y/n had comforted Leon through nightmares or panic attacks. Leon always felt bad about it but you were more than happy to help him and calm him down.

The young man stopped and contemplated for a moment. He didn't want to wake you up but, at the same time, he really needed you right now.

With a deep breath, Leon walked over to the couch and gently shook your shoulder. "Y/n..."

Slowly but surely, you stirred awake and your sleepiness faded as you saw Leon before you.

"Hey, Lee," you said, your voice a little raspy from sleep. "Another nightmare?"

Leon nodded and sighed. "I'm sorry, I really don't want to be alone right now."

You shook your head and opened your arms. Leon immediately crawled on the couch and buried his face into your chest.

"I told you to never apologize." you said as you wrapped your arms around your friend. "You've done absolutely nothing wrong."

Leon relaxed in your arms. He already felt so much better being here with you.

You were used to Leon coming to you about his nightmares and flashbacks but it wasn't very often that you actually spent the night at his apartment. Usually, if you weren't with him, he would call you and vent to you about his bad dreams.

"Y/n?" Leon spoke up, his voice slightly muffled as his head rested on your chest.

"Mhm?" You hummed in response.

Leon hugged you just a little tighter. "Can you sing that song? Y'know, the one you sing to me when I call you?"

You smiled sweetly. "Of course." You replied.

You and Leon laid down on the couch. Leon's face nuzzled into your neck and your hand found its way to his hair.

After you knew that you both were comfortable, you began to sing softly.

"I remember tears running down your face when I said I'll never let you go..."

Your fingertips gently grazed Leon's scalp as you ran his hand through his hair.

"When all those shadows almost killed your light..."

This song was very special for both you and Leon. You had chosen this song because it perfectly described the way you felt about Leon and how much you cared about him.

"I remember you said, don't leave me here alone..."

Leon's muscles relaxed and he closed his eyes, admiring your soft voice.

"But all that's dead and gone tonight..."

Memories flashed through your mind as you sang. The song brought back memories of you and Leon. The way he'd melt in your embrace and the way he stopped crying when you sang to him.

"Just close your eyes, the sun is going down..."

The comfort you gave Leon was unbelievable to him. You were his person, his light. If it weren't for you, he'd be drowning himself in alcohol. Your touch alone was enough to help him calm down. He had to admit that he loves you, he really loves you but he didn't want to admit his more romantic feelings for you.

"You'll be alright, no one can hurt you now..."

You two weren't even dating but you might as well have been. It was normal for you two to hug and cuddle up next to each other. To tell the truth, you loved Leon, maybe more than you should've. Feeling the way he buries his face into the crook of your neck makes your heart flutter. You didn't admit your feelings in fear of ruining your friendship if he didn't feel the same.

"Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound..."

Leon was drifting off, all worries and fears from his nightmares slipping out of his mind. You smiled at this. It was usually at this point in the song that he'd begin to fall asleep. Your hand gently ran through his soft hair, lulling the young man even further into sleep.

"I love you." Leon mumbled quietly before he finally fell asleep in your arms.

You were surprised but it was a welcome one. You smiled and held Leon closer as a light blush crept onto your cheeks.

"I love you too."

[mousetoe-wc]

I Got bored one time awhile ago and made a list of every prefix plus some into organised sections so I thought I might as well share.

All the ones that aren’t cannon to warriors, yet at lest are bold

Describing names

Colours: red, russet, copper, golden, amber, yellow, green, blue, violet, pink, white, gray, black, ebony, dark, pale, silver, brown, tawny, fallow

Pattern, Texture + Size: spot/ted, dapple, speckle, freckle, brindle, patch, mottle, ragged, tangle, kink, bristle, fuzzy, curl/y, wooly, soft, sleek, little, tiny, small, slight, short, tall, long, big, heavy, crooked, broken, half, stumpy, shred, torn, jagged

Actions + Character: flip, pounce, bounce, jump, hop, crouch, down, low, drift, flail, strike, running, fidget, mumble, whistle, snap, sneeze, shiver/ing, shining, flutter, fallen, lost, rush, fleet, quick, shy, sweet, brave, loud, quiet, wild, hope, wish,

Other: claw, whisker, dead, odd, one, spike, fringe, echo, song, hallow, haven

Elements

Time + Weather: day, night, dusk, dawn, morning, sky, sun/ny, moon, storm, lightning, thunder, cloud/y, mist/y, fog, snow, blizzard, ice, frost, dew, drizzle, rain, clear, wind, breeze, gale, shadow, shade, bright, light,

Earth/Water/Fire names: stone, rock, boulder, slate, flint, pebble, gravel, sand/y, dust, mud/dy, meadow, hill, rubble, river, ripple, whorl, float, rapid, shimmer, lake, swamp, marsh, wave, wet, bubbling, splash, puddle, pool, creek, fire, flame, flicker, flash, blaze, scorch, ember, spark, ash, soot, cinder, smoke

Plants

Trees: alder, aspen, birch, beech, cedar, cypress, pine, elm, willow, oak, larch, maple, bay, rowan, timber, bark, log, wood, twig, acorn, cone, seed, spire

Berry/Nut/Fruit/Herb: juniper, elder, sloe, holly, yew, mistle, bramble, hickory, hazel, chestnut, nut, apple, cherry, cranberry, olive, pear, plum, peach, chive, mint, fennel, sage, basil, mallow, parsley

Flowers: aster, poppy, primrose, rose, bluebell, marigold, tansy, pansy, briar, cherry, daisy, dandelion, daffodil, tulip, violet, lily, myrtle, thrift, yarrow, heather, lavender, blossom, bloom, flower, petal

Other: leaf, frond, fern, bracken, sorrel, hay, rye, oat, wheat, cotton, reed, pod, cinnamon, milkweed, grass, clover, weed, stem, sedge, gorse, furze, flax, nettle, thistle, ivy, moss, lichen, bush, vine, root, thorn, prickle, nectar

Animals

Mammals: mouse, rat, mole, vole, shrew, squirrel, hedgehog, bat, rabbit, hare, ferret, weasel, stoat, mink, marten, otter, hog, wolf, hound, fox, vixen, badger, deer, doe, stag, fawn, sheep, cow, pig, lion, tiger, leopard, lynx, milk

Birds: robin, jay, cardinal, thrush, sparrow, swallow, shrike, starling, rook, swift, dove, pigeon, crow, raven, duck, goose, heron, wren, finch, swan, stork, quail, gull, lark, owl, eagle, hawk, kestrel, buzzard, kite, hoot, feather, bird, egg, talon

Fish, Reptiles + Amphibians: pike, perch, pollack, trout, tench, cod, carp, bass, bream, eel, minnow, fin, snake, adder, lizard, turtle, frog, toad, newt

Bug type Names: bug, lady or ladybug, moth, spider, ant, snail, slug, beetle, bee, wasp, dragon or dragonfly, bumble, worm, maggot, cricket, fly, midge, web, honey

Skyclan + Warriorclan: Bella, Billy, Big, Harry, Harvey, Snook, Ebony, Monkey

[strangerthingsstuff4]

A Story of Another Us- Chapter Seven

Warnings- Swearing, mentions of sick animals, masturbation and perving (kinda), LOOOOTTTTSSS of sexual tension

It was like be a child all over again, falling asleep somewhere and waking up in her own bed, although it was usually the security guard of the club her mother worked at that was carrying her up to the little fold out bed that was set up for her in the dressing rooms. Unless Dwayne now worked on Dragon Stone Ranch then Dahlia woke up with no idea how she had gotten into bed. It wasn’t until midday that she managed to find out.

Alicent had whisked Aegon off with her to some meeting with a media company to get the farm some more recognition and funding, leaving Dahlia and Aemond to tend to all of the animals on the farm. The mud was sloppy beneath her wellies as she trudged over the open field towards the metal ring feeder that Aemond was fighting to close as the cows herded around him eating greedily.

‘Just wait a second you fat prick’ she heard Aemond grumble as he was nudged and nipped.

‘Looks like you’re having fun’ Dahlia teased as she pushed her way through the large heifers and helped him close the metal frame around the bale of hay.

Aemond only offered her a stare of discontent before pushing his way through to continue with his jobs.

‘Do you know how I got to bed last night? I can’t remember if I woke up to go up or not’ Dahlia blushed lightly at the idea of having fallen asleep in front of everyone.

‘Yeah, I er… I took you up… you were out cold’ Aemond chuckled gently while scrubbing the cattle’s grooming brushed against each other.

Dahlia’s face now burnt hot! He had carried her up to bed! She could have been snoring! What if he thought she was heavy?! What if she had drooled on him?! Never having wanted the floor to swallow her up more, she offered him a nervous smile.

‘Oh thank you! You should have just woken me up!’

‘I tried but you couldn’t hear me over your snoring, you might wanna get that checked out’ Aemond teased, forcing himself to keep his face straight while he looked at her.

‘Oh god’ Dahlia cringed.

‘I’m joking! You were fast asleep and I didn’t wanna disturb you’ Aemond grinned, proud at the annoyed look that was painted across her face.

‘You’re such a dick’ she grumbled back at him with a growing grin on her face.

The light breeze that washed over them carried a few birds songs from the shrubbery that surrounded the farm, and the gently hum of traffic from the nearby carriageway. It also held the raw scent of Aemond, the rich leather aroma weaving it’s way through Dahlia’s senses and almost making her head swirl. Gods he smelt good, even standing in a field of cattle and their droppings all she could smell was him.

‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ she asked eagerly, before she started salivating.

‘You could brush that annoying fuck for me, she wouldn’t stop walking away from me’ Aemond grumbled pointing to one of the brown heifer twins that tenanted their farm and passing her the brushing paddle that he had shoved in one of the pockets of his cargo pants.

‘You’re ridiculous!’ she laughed as she began gently grooming the animal as it feasted.

Aemond stopped attempting to put an antiseptic cream of the piercing wound of the cow Dahlia had treated a few weeks back, to give her an expectant look.

‘These are some of the gentlest , most beautiful caring animals you will find in this kind of job! You act as though they were hideous evil beasts!’

‘They’re lazy, they do nothing but eat and shit and they stink!’ he states back to her in a very matter of fact tone.

‘They do not! they are amazing animals you’re just a grumpus’ Dahlia grumbled, ignoring the raised eyebrow he offered her at her curious choice of insult. 

‘I’ll agree that they taste great but that’s as far as it goes’

‘Aemond!’ Dahlia gasped, quickly grabbing the ears of the cow she was grooming.

‘Oh don’t cover its ears!’ he laughed at her.

‘They just don’t have the same personality that horses do, there’s no intellect in them they’re… blank’ he explains.

‘There’s actually been studies done proving them to be quite intelligent, there was an experiment done where a cow followed sound through a maze to find a food source showing they have the ability to make decisions and they can hold a grudge so I’d mind your tongue around these lovely ladies’ Dahlia grinned at him as he shook his head at her.

The pair finished their duties with the cattle and allowed Vhagar to herd them back into their open field where they pastured. Aemond and Dahlia tidied the barn back to an acceptable standard before heading back towards the road to head home.

‘How can they hold a grudge? What to they have to be… grudgy about?!’ Aemond asked Dahlia curiously as both of their wellies squelched through the wet soggy mud.

‘Lots of things, if another cow threatens them or their calf. If a bull were to take a liking to another cow over them. If a human was threatening or abusive to them they have extremely advanced social skills’ she grins up at him as she notices their steps fall into stride with each other.

It happened so quickly to quick for her to do anything about it. As Aemond opened his mouth to make yet another comment, the ground beneath his feet turned into a slip and slide. The wet mud did little to soften his fall as his long legs flew up almost as high as his stomach and he crumbled to the floor. Landing on his back with a discomforting wet slap he groaned from the sheer contact of his body meeting the floor. Dahlia couldn’t help the gasp that left her mouth as she looked at him wincing on the floor. It only took a second of his looking up at her from the floor, mud flecked over his face and in his platinum hair, before she burst out laughing.

Dahlia held her stomach as her eyes watered and she continued to howl out laughter. The look on his face as he hit the floor would be imprinted in her brain forever. Her laughter died off the second she felt the warmth of his big hand wrapping around her ankle through her wellie, she could barely let out a small plea before she followed his tracks through the air and landed almost right on top of him. The left side of her chest pressed flush against his while the other lay absorbing the moisture from the damp floor. They both groaned in pain as her body collided with his on the floor, her ginger hair now having been dunked on the mud looking similar to his own.

‘Oh you’re such a prick’ she grumbled at him as her body wracked with a dull ache.

‘That’s what you get for laughing at me you bitch’ Aemond chuckled gruffly, placing his hands against her hips to try and deter her from moving her knee any higher into his crotch.

Dahlia released a breathy laugh as she leant up enough to look down at him lay underneath her. His purple eyes glimmered as he looked up at her with shaded eyes, having given in to the strain in his neck and letting his head sit in the wet mud beneath him. Even with the dirt spattered across his face he was still by far the most beautiful man she had ever seen, His pale skin seemed to sparkle even on the dullest day, almost like he was a marble statue standing on a pedestal in the famous museum that contained precious artifacts of old Valyria.

The flick of his amethyst iris’ shooting down to her parted lips pulled Dahlia from her admiration of him. She watches his eyes scan over her lips, looking at them unphased by the shift in her breathing or the way her body had tense against him. Her hands curling into themselves gripping at his chest, Dahlia took a deep breath in feeling Aemond’s hands tighten their hold on her hips ever so slightly, his fingertips burns holes into her being that would be perfectly fit for him. Her mind hazed over and she didn’t allow herself to think about what she was doing, didn’t let herself think about how it was her best friends brother that lay beneath her, whose nose she brushed with her own, whose breath fanned over her face.

The popping of heavy tires rolling over the gravel drive tore the two of them out of their bubble and back into the world around them, their attention being driven to the vehicle approaching the turn in to the farm. Dahlia, having looked over her shoulder, turned back to look at Aemond, him having lifted his head off the mud to inspect the interruption. Not sure whether the air between them was now heavy with tension, Dahlia scanned over his features looking for any give. Relieved to see the gentle amused smile he offered her she chuckled back gently before climbing to her feet, offering him a hand to aid him in his ascent.

‘You have a bit of mud in your hair’ Dahlia teased as they continued their walk.

‘Dickhead’ Aemond grinned shaking his head as he watched his feet carefully move through the slippery earth.

Once reaching the stables Aemond offered a small wave and the promise of ‘seeing her later’ before he joined a tall figure of a man waiting for him at the entrance of the building. With a messy attempt of platting her hair to get the mud out of the way, Dahlia continued on with her chores. The sheep were fed and watered before she moved on to filling the chickens grandpa feeders, she stood pouring the grain from her bucket into the metal stand when she caught movement on the other side of the farm. Aemond appeared from the Stables with the exotic figure that had ripped them from their almost intimate moment. A distressed look graced Aemond’s face as he rubbed his hand over her filthy head of hair. Catching his attention as she walked to the mesh fence of the chickens enclosure Aemond trudged his way over, meeting her at the fence.

‘You okay?’ Dahlia asked concerned.

‘Erm Balerions… Cole found a lump on his stomach, could just be a cyst but… could be something worse’

‘Oh my god’

‘He’s gonna take him for a scan and take some bloods…mum’s gonna be crushed’ Aemond grumbled, leaning his elbows on the fence and burying his face into his hands.

‘Is he your mum’s horse?’ Dahlia questioned softly, watching Criston Cole drive his trailer down towards the stables.

‘No he was my dads, last thing she has of him not that she ever really bothers with him. There was a whole bunch of drama when dad passed over who was going to keep him us or my sister, mum fought tooth and nail to keep him here’ Aemond sighed, looking up at her where she stood straight in front of his hunched over form.

‘Well hopefully it won’t be anything too serious’ Dahlia offered him a comforting smile, squeezing his arm gently.

‘Do you need me to do anything?’

‘No I’m just gonna help get him in the trailer’

‘Well I’m gonna go take a shower and stuff but if you need me for anything just give me a shout okay?’ she smiled at him, exiting the chicken coop and beginning up the hill to the house.

Aemond agreed with a small nod and watched her stroll up the grass, her hips swinging gracefully, mesmerizing him even if she was covered in mud.

Dahlia had managed to dodge questions hurled at her by Haelena over why her fathers horse was being taken off the farm, feeling it best to leave that topic for Aemond to explain. Her hot shower worked wonders getting the dirt out of her hair and off her hands and face but it did little to wash away the memory of being lay on top of his hard toned body, his breath fanning over her face from being so close, still sweet from the candied oranges Haelena had offered everyone for breakfast.

Opting for her gym leggings and an oversized jumper Dahlia returned downstairs to assist in the making of dinner, Baela had suggested making a pasta bake as something easy to get the family through the heavy news that Aemond had just delivered to his mother. She watched through the kitchen door as Aemond sat comforting a weeping Alicent.

‘So what’s going on with you two?’ Baela questioned, pulling her gaze from the sorrowful family.

‘What?’ Dahlia asked confused with expecting looks she was receiving from Jace, Luke and Rhaena, who had been instructed to set the table.

‘You and Aemond?’ Baela pressed

‘What about us?’ she continued playing innocent.

‘Come on! It’s so obvious that there’s… heat between you guys, I saw the look last night!’ Baela grinned while continuing to dish up the pasta bake evenly onto plates.

Dahlia scoffed in disbelief, like the very idea of her having sexual tension with what she believed to be one of the most attractive men she had ever met was unthinkable.

‘Oh look she’s blushing’ Luke teased

‘There is nothing between me and Aemond! We’re just friends!’ Dahlia attempted to defend herself.

‘Oh right friends… didn’t you guys hate each other like two days ago?!’ Rhaena joined in.

‘Who hated who two days ago?’ Aegon questioned joining them in the kitchen, along with a teary Alicent and Haelena and an exhausted Aemond.

‘Dahlia and Aem-‘ Rhaena started blurting out before Jace clamped his hand over her mouth and Baela yelled over her.

‘DINNERS READY!’

Everyone seated themselves and tucked into their dinner, eating mainly in silence other than the short conversations that Aegon attempted to break the heavy silence. Alicent didn’t stay for post dinner conversation, vacating the kitchen as soon as she had eaten her fill. Aegon retreated to his room not long after to avoid having to help clean up.

Aemond retreated out to the bench that sat just outside of the sliding kitchen doors, slumping down onto the wooden seat and letting out the breath he felt he had been holding in all night. His head was pounding and his back was hurting from the tumble and he just wanted to sleep but the grey clouds looming over head made him aware that his jobs for the day were likely not finished.  

His eye focused on the stables just down the hill, the building that should be housing the big stallion, he sat just staring out over the land, feeling his chest get tight at the unpredictability of the test results. How was he supposed to wait two days to find out?! The rain began to patter against the ground lightly, granting him a soothing white noise while he sat out on his own.

The doors slid open after a half hour and interrupted his serenity with the chatter and radio music pouring out of the kitchen.

‘Hey, you okay?’ Dahlia asked gently, sliding the doors shut behind her.

‘Yeah, just getting a bit loud in there and my heads booming’ He smiled, trying to playoff the severity of the pain resonating behind his eye.

Dahlia didn’t say a thing before disappearing back inside, leaving the doors open behind her. Aemond sat watching the space that she had just vacated before she returned with a glass of water and a box on pain killers. She nudged his leg with her knee prompting to slide over and allow to sit next to him.

‘Here’ she mumbled handing him the glass and tablets.

‘Thank you’ Aemond grimaced after throwing them in his mouth and gulping the water down.

He leant back in his seat and huffed, nibbling on the dry skin on his lip and watching the rain that continued at a relenting pace.

‘Is there anything I can do?’ Dahlia asked, hoping to be able to relieve some of the pressure he was so obviously feeling.

‘Not really, just got to wait for the test results and go from there… I just have no idea what’s gonna happen if it comes back as something worse than a cyst’ he grumbled rolling his head back onto his shoulder, his long silver hair now clean and tied loosely in a messy bun at the base of his neck.

‘This isn’t your fault you know’ she said abruptly, meeting his eye when it shot to her.

‘You’re obviously blaming yourself but you couldn’t have known’

‘Bullshit, I was the one that was supposed to be looking after him, I was the one that mum trusted to take care of him and I’ve missed a lump the size of a golf ball!’

‘Anyone could have missed it! Besides if he was in pain or feeling off he would have let you know and you know he would have, there isn’t anything you could have done differently’

‘Cole found it!’ he argued, standing up and leaning forward against the small wooden fence opposite the bench.

‘I should have been checking him properly instead of just running over him with a brush, I should’ve paid more attention, I should’ve-‘

‘Aemond there is nothing you could have done, even if you had been the one to find it! He would still have to have the tests’ she retorted, sitting up straighter and examining all the curves of his back.

‘I just don’t think mum is gonna be able to deal with it if it’s bad news, she’s gonna be a wreck’ he mumbled.

‘Well then you’ve got Hel and Aegon to help you get her through it and you guys are stuck with me for another few weeks so’ Dahlia offered him a comforting smile as she stood to stand next to him.

‘That doesn’t make me feel better’ he chuckled lightly.

‘And here I was feeling bad for laughing at you falling before… look just don’t assume it’s going to be bad news, it could be nothing’.

Aemond inhaled deeply and straightened his back, making him tower over her small form. He dodged her eye contact for a moment, trying to let himself untense.

‘You’re right… it could be nothing I’m just… it’s been a shitty day’ he sighed.

‘Oh I don’t know, seeing you lying in the mud brightened my day up’ Dahlia smirked.

‘It’s a good thing you’re cute you know otherwise you’d be on your ass right now’ Aemond grinned, chuckling at her until he realised what had slipped out of his mouth.

Dahlia locked eyes with him and couldn’t help the blush that crept up her neck, her face growing hotter by the second, she didn’t miss the same colour peaking through his porcelain skin. The eye contact between them became too heavy for her to uphold and she averted her gaze to her right, watching the rain fall grow alarmingly heavy as black clouds loomed overhead, promising a stormy night.

‘We should probably make sure all of the bales are covered’ Dahlia muttered, her heart pounding in her ears as her blood rushed through her body, he thought she as cute!

‘Yeah, I should probably check in on the horses’ Aemond stuttered back, not waiting for her to grab her coat or even grab his own before wandering out into the heavy downpour, shirt becoming saturated and clinging to his form almost instantly.

Dahlia couldn’t help the grin that slipped onto her face as his obvious discomfort, she liked that she had that effect on him. Adorning her raincoat and wellies, she padded her way down and off the farm with Aegon, assisting him in ensuring all of the animals in his care were okay and sheltered, making sure that their stock of Hay was wrapped or in a dry place away from the downpour.  

‘Malary!’ Haelena yelled at the duck waddling away from her, after having just nipped at her finger causing the woman to drop the bird allowing it to wander back to the puddle in which she had just collected it from.

‘I’ll usher her from this way you just get ready to open the door!’ Aegon yelled over the clashing of rain as he joined his sister in the small, fenced pen.

Watching her best friend chasing small birds through the pouring rain with her brother filled Dahlia’s chest with something she couldn’t quite pinpoint. It could have been envy, seeing Haelena have the family dynamic that she had dreamed of having since she was a child. It could have been joy from seeing her best friend so happy, loved the way she deserved or it could have been that she was feeling accepted as one of the family, that she was part of something that wasn’t toxic and set to destroy her.

Her attention was pulled away from the siblings by a loud clatter and an indistinct yell from inside the barn. Upon entering she found Aemond struggling to lead SunFyre into the same pen as Meleys. She let out a small chuckle at the sight of him soaked to the core, arguing with a horse and fighting with a wooden gate, all while trying not to get trampled by the panicking horse already in the enclosure.

‘Once you’re done laughing, would you mind helping me out?’ Aemond grumbled, seeing her in the doorway just watching him.

The rain hammering on the roof of the stables only made Meleys all the more nervous, Aemond allowed Dahlia to take control of SunFyre while he entered the pen first and did his best to calm the animal down. Once they had both horses inside, they began fitting their reins and tying them off onto the hitching post.

‘SunFyre is his calming buddy right?’ Dahlia asked while threading the leather rein through the loop she had created.

‘Well, it’s usually Balerion but Meleys seems to get on with SunFyre so he should be good’ Aemond answered from behind her.

The pair of them were wedged between the two horses, backs almost flush against each other while they secured the Palfreys. The more the horses stomped and wiggled about the more the pair were pressed into each other. She couldn’t feel his warmth or toned back through her raincoat but she could smell him, the intense scent of his aftershave mixed with the dampness of the down pour that had soaked through his shirt. Dahlia could barely concentrate on her hands while her brain was swimming in him.

‘Shit’ she whispered when her knot came undone almost instantly, SunFyre managed to stomp away from the rear wall slightly.

‘Here’ His voice rumbled down her ear as he turned his body in the small space to face SunFyre, his body pressing against hers, his arms coming around her and guiding her hands to tie a secure knot.

Dahlia’s mind was drowning, his breath fanning over her ear and neck, her ass cheeks fitting into the curve of his crotch perfectly, she felt like she was going to scream. Her entire body was on fire, delicious shivers running through her body leaving her with goosebumps. Once his long fingers were done guiding hers through the process of securing the horse, he retracted his left arm while the right patted down the smooth coat. Dahlia closed her eyes and took a deep breath, preparing to move herself out of the heated situation. She only got as far as turning slightly to walk away but was blocked by his arm that was still petting SunFyre, she could feel his eyes burning into her. Dahlia caved almost instantly and turned to face him. Her back now brushing against the soothing horse, her chest grazed over his with each breath they took, reluctantly her eyes lifted and found his looking right back at her, searching her eyes for any sign of reluctance or regret. She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to be able to see how much she was burning for him, how badly she wanted him to just grab her and take her right there, or if she should just act as though he had no effect on her, like he was just another guy, the same guy that she almost loathed a few days ago.

Dahlia didn’t have much time to decide before she felt Aemond’s left hand on her side, his big fingers splaying out across hip, pressing into her flesh through her clothing. The heat from his breath spread a tingling warmth across her cheeks as his head moved closer to her, Aemond didn’t break eye contact with her, not when her breath hitched or when her hand moved and pressed against his chest softly, gripping his shirt tightly. It wasn’t until he felt his nose brush against hers and smelt her hot sweet breath floating over him, did he move his eyes to look down at her lips. Dahlia’s eye lashes fluttered as she closed her eyes, the faintest brush of their lips setting her on fire. She waited, waited to feel his mouth envelope hers, to see what he tasted like and to feel that rush of finally getting to kiss him. She waited… and waited but it never came. What came instead what the sound of boots slapping through the rain and wet mud outside and then a voice, that pulled them straight from the steamy situation they had happily found themselves in.

‘Hello?! Can someone come and help me cover the plant beds? They’re flooding!’ Jace’s voice boomed off the walls of the stables over the rain.

Aemond closed his eyes and released gentle sigh, his fingers digging into hips a little as Dahlia pulled her head back and inhaled deeply.

‘Yeah I’ll be out now!’ she managed to choke out, her heart still pounding in her ears but still able to hear Jace walk away.

Aemond’s iridescent purple eyes scanned through hers, both of them still a little breathless. Dahlia broke the eye contact and looked down at her boots, swallowing heavily before ducking under his arm that was blocking her exit, leaving him stood there. She followed Jace out of the barn back into rain, she almost slipped in the wet mud as she jogged over to where Jace was struggling to get the dustsheet evenly over the plant beds.

She could still smell his breathe, his aftershave in her. Hells she could practically taste him! Dahlia’s head was swimming with pictures of kissing him, touching him and being consumed by him! She imagined his tongue would taste like chamomile tea and spiced apples. His bare chest would be hard but his pale skin would be warm under her hands, his hair would float through her fingers like silk and it would smell like the guava shampoo she assumed he used.

Aemond watched her walk away from the stables from his position leaning against the door, he loathed his nephew for pulling her out of his arms, almost as much as he loathed her raincoat from covering her behind. Pulling all of his strength together Aemond pulled himself back to securing his horses and padding out their stalls with extra straw.

She hadn’t said anything she had just walked out like they weren’t seconds away from kissing! This was the second time today they had been on the brink of falling of the edge of that cliff, where there was no coming back from that heat. Was she just trying to get into his head? Using her body to make him vulnerable before crushing his ego and humiliating him?! Aemond knew that was farfetched, she wasn’t the type of girl to demean herself like that just to embarrass him. Maybe it was the fact that he was her best friend’s younger brother, that she didn’t want to jeopardize her friendship with Haelena over what could potentially turn out to be just a fling. Or perhaps she was feeling just as frustrated and confused as he was, with all the fleeting touches and heavy breathing.

Whatever the reason was, he had made his way from the stables, through the rain and up the stairs towards her room. Either he could talk to her about what was happening and settle the air between them… or he could fuck her senseless. As Aemond padded his way up the last few of the stairs onto the third-floor landing, he took a deep breath, he needed to prepare himself no matter what the outcome was. The closer he got to her door the more his palms seemed to sweat, Aemond wasn’t used to getting shot down, granted he didn’t tend to ask people out but when he did the answer was very rarely a no.

Aemond lifted his hand to knock on her bedroom door, knuckles gliding through the air but coming to a dead stop before that rapped against the heavy oak of her door. The faint whimpers were muffled by the blocking door between them, the soft hum of Dahlia’s voice floating through his ears like music, it was almost pained. He would have burst into the room to ensure she was not hurt but after taking a step closer and holding his ear to the door he knew; she was not in any form of pain.

The hairs on his arm stood on end with the delicious shiver that ran through his body listening to her, she was pleasuring herself, at least he hoped she was by herself and didn’t have Aegon or someone in there with her. She moaned and gasped, clearly enjoying whatever depraved action she was inflicting on herself. Aemond knew he should walk away, stop listening in on her personal moment and give her some privacy but his feet remained planted to the carpet outside of her room. He was glued to the sound of her, the image her moans were painting in his mind made his heart race and his pants grow tighter. He had no intention of grabbing himself through his jeans but he couldn’t help himself, they had grown incredibly uncomfortable.

Her moans were like sweet music to his ears, sweet taboo music. He knew he could just twist that handle, walk into her room and take over for her but he just stood there and listened. He was not the type of person that did this kind of thing, he couldn’t even watch porn without feeling disgusting and foolish. He knew he needed to leave and he tried. Turning on his heel with a heavy sigh he took one step away from Dahlia’s door, hand still rubbing his hard cock through his pants. That one step was all he managed to take however before the irritating sound of Aegon’s awful singing voice sounded from the bottom of the staircase to the third-floor landing. Aemond was screwed, his brother now being halfway up the stairs he knew he wasn’t going to make it to the other end of the hallway without him or his raging erection being seen. His only escape was to slide into the airing cupboard adjacent to Dahlia’s room, shutting the door softly behind him.

His plan was to just wait until Aegon had gone into his room and then he was going to slip out of the cupboard and head straight back to his room, whether he copied Dahia’s idea and dealt with himself was a decision he would make in the safety of his own abode. However once again his plan was thwarted as soon as he noticed the small beam of light coming into the otherwise pitch-black cupboard, Aemond had an inkling what sight was waiting for him on the other side of the wall that held the puncture, Dahlias moans had begun to pierce his ears a lot clearer. Despite all of his self-respect and honour screaming at him not too, he moved his face closer to the gap and peered through, and just as he had suspected there she was. He could see no more that her head and chest but he didn’t need to, her face alone sent his mind swirling into the dirtiest thoughts. Her eyes closed and mouth open with her lips pouted, eyebrows scrunched as she concentrated on whatever it was that he hands were doing.

‘Fuck’ Aemond mumbled to himself pulling his gaze away from the luxurious sight in front of him.

He shouldn’t be doing this, Aegon would surely be in his room by now, he could just slip out and go back to his room and forget that any of this happened. No matter how much he rubbed himself through his pant it would never feel as good as it would if he just went back and got himself comfy, he could just memorise what he had seen. But no one knew he was there or what was going on and he wasn’t going to say anything so who was he hurting really? Despite his best efforts to control himself Aemond still unbuttoned his jeans and released his hardness. Breathing deeply as the sudden contact of his cold hand he placed his face back against the wall, looking in on the girl he so desperately wanted.

Aemond palmed the head of his sensitive cock gently and slowly worked his hand down his shaft, all the while watching Dahlia’s face contort with pleasure, her chest rises and falling as she gasped and whimpered. He let out a soft groan, sliding his hand up and down his cock, listening to the sounds coming out of her. He bit his lip, working himself faster to relieve the pressure that growing in him the closer Dahlia evidently got to her climax. He could just envision what was going on behind the wall that was blocking his view from the rest of her perfect body, her legs spread, her hand moving over her wet pussy, rubbing over her tender clit or fucking herself with her own fingers, maybe even both. Gods he wanted to bury his face between her legs, he would never leave. He worked his hard on faster and faster, jerking his hips lightly into his hand.

It was the soft groan on his name that flowed from Dahlia’s lips that sent him over the edge, his available hand jolting up to grab hold of the door frame to steady himself as his eyes rolled back and hot strings of cum coated his hand and trousers. His heart pounded heavily in his ears that it almost blocked out the continuing noises that seeped from her mouth. It only took a few seconds for it to sink in what he had just done, that sickening feeling of guilt and disgust seeped into his bones.

He was stood in an airing cupboard, cock going soft in his cum covered hand after he had spied on his sister’s friend playing with herself, this was something his brother would do not him! He was a pervert! The fact that she had been playing with herself to the thought of him had made him cum and he would have loved to watch her finish herself and hope that he was the one that had gotten her there but he couldn’t stay to watch. He needed to leave and act like it had never happened, he felt like scum.

Calming his breathing down enough, he grabbed a hand towel off the shelf above him and cleaned his hand, shoving his cock back into his pants. Once he was sure the coast was clear he slipped out of the cupboard and padded back to his bedroom, shutting the door gently behind him. Aemond headed straight for the shower, to scrub himself clean.

[sanest-bsd-delegate]

𝗝𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗮 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝘂𝘁𝗲

Oneshot: For a minute, everything will be fine Genre: Fluff, nothing particular A/N: Just had a mental convo with Dazai on this →Masterlist

As the sun begins to set over the horizon, casting a warm and golden glow over the land, the world seems to come alive with a majestic energy. The rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze, the distant sound of birds singing their evening songs, and the way the clouds dance across the sky - it's all a symphony of beauty that cannot be ignored.

"Death sounds pretty good right now" Dazai spoke, his head on your lap as you both sat near the edge of the cliff, the Yokohama city the sun's rays slowly reducing it's luminance.

Your hand ran through his dusty darkish brown hair, as you took a deep breath, each passing moment making you feel like it was your last.

Was Dazai right all along? Is their truly a worth living when everything around you is chaotic? that a simple mere human mind was able to think beyond the way of living confused you, but in this world, where possibilities are endless, one cannot hold back and stop.

"You alright?" You spoke, your voice as quiet as possible, as your finger played with Dazai's hair, (S/T) skin on brown, as little rays of light dance across the area, golden on yellow, and yellow on green.

A soft sound of reassurance was heard from Dazai's mouth, as turned and tilted himself, his face now buried inside of your lap, his breath tickling your thighs as you laugh and shove him off you, before you stood— dusting off the tiny hay like grass.

You couldn't decipher Dazai's face, yet he got up when you did, only to lose his balance again and end up back on the ground.

You extended your hand, as you watch Dazai fell face flat on the ground, before he reached out his hand, you pulling him up as he stood.

"Well aren't you quiet feisty today belladonna?"

"I saw that," You spoke as you crossed your hands over our chest, a playful smirk on your face.

With a smirk, Dazai dusted off his clothes and chuckled, "Ah, you know, a little tumble just adds some excitement to the day."

You raised an eyebrow playfully, "Excitement or not, you do have a talent for making dramatic entries."

He flashed a mischievous grin, "Life's too short for anything less, my dear belladonna"

You both started to walk back to the city, thanking the wind for letting you have peaceful time near the cliff.

As you continued walking, You couldn't help but ask, "So, what trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?"

Dazai placed a hand over his heart in mock offense, misinterpreting your question, "Me? Trouble? I'll have you know, I was merely exploring the boundaries of gravity."

You rolled your eyes, obvious to his ignorance, but still replied "Exploring the boundaries of gravity? Is that what you call tripping over your own feet? Considering that, I will thanking Chuuya for making you interested in gravity"

He laughed, a sound that seemed to dance through the air, "Ah, you see through all my secrets, don't you?"

"I've had plenty of practice," You replied, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips.

Dazai's expression turned momentarily serious, as he looked at you with a glint of genuine warmth in his eyes. "Well, I'm glad someone's keeping track of my antics."

You nudged him playfully, "Someone has to make sure you don't accidentally fall into any more 'gravity exploration' missions."

His laughter echoed once again, and for that moment, as you strolled down the path with the sun casting a warm glow, it felt like the troubles of the world were distant and inconsequential.

Right now, it's hard not to feel small when faced with something so amazing. The world is tough to live in, but there are people who bring good luck to others. It's a reminder that these people are just regular folks, living in a world that's both dangerous and mysterious. But it's also a message that they need to do their part to take care of this world we used to call home.

[madrone33]

I finally listened to Hadestown! 🎉

Starting with the Original Cast Recording, ‘cause might as well do it in release order. Loved it! Groovy music. Snickered. Cried. Wrote down my reaction as I went, so if you're chill with rambled thoughts and observations, here you go lol

(Soz for any typos, I was touch typing most of the time, and I've edited it but probs missed stuff)

Road to Hell (Live)

Oh it’s JAZZY. Huh. Didn't expect that, but I am living.

I like how at the start they’re simulating a train’s chugging.

Those call and response harmonies tho *chef's kiss*

Kinda reminds me of Udad.

Oh that’s Hermes!

“It’s a sad song” he says, while singing the boppiest of bops.

I like that “suitcase full of summertime” line.

“About someone... who tries.” Oho, we’re gettin into it now! *rubs hands together*

Also, I completely get now why Jorge said that first draft of EPIC: The Musical Hermes was like Hadestown.

Livin' It Up on Top (Live)

That’s a smooth transition👌

Persephone’s voice is really cool. Kinda rough texture?

Oh I didn’t realise Persephone and Hades would be having a turbulent relationship in this.

Oooh Orpheus’ voice is smooth.

They’re all so happy huh. Welp, you know there’s gonna be a crash in their future.

Orpheus seems really grateful for Persephone’s... graciousness? When he said that she'll always fill their cups and they'll raise them to her and stuff. Theory: either she’ll have a soft spot for him later, or he’ll feel betrayed and blindsided by the more cold side of her later.

All I've Ever Known (Live)

I don’t know anything about Eurydice, but is this her song?

Ah yeah Orpheus is singing, so it must be.

Oop. Foreshadowing.

Way Down Hadestown (Live)

Hermes is back!

“Bored to death” HA

“Graveyard” wow the puns/metaphors are going hard XD

I can’t tell who’s singing lmao. This is like when I listened to Hamilton for the first time. I’ll need lyrics, or familiarity RIP

The coins as the percussion/tambourine is a nice touch.

Hades’ voice is DEEP.

They haven’t mentioned gods yet, I don’t think? Just the Fates, right? It sounds more like a mining operation metaphor for mythos right now, hmm.

Epic II (Live)

King of diamonds and spades - like the playing card suits, but also like the mining operation.

It’s the La la la la thing from Wolfy’s animatic! Almost. A different rendition - I bet I'll hear that later 👀

Why is it called Epic II? Where’s 1? Am I missing something?

Chant (Live)

Oh they’re doing overlapping meodies!!

Ah wait this is Eurydice now, gotta go back a few seconds to catch that. I keep getting her mixed up with Persephone 😅

Oh now we’ve got Eurydice and Orpheus relationship troubles? Huh, I kinda assumed they’d be the perfect couple till her death.

And a semi callback to her song, nice.

Hay Little Songbird (Live)

DAMN his voice is deep!

Is this Eurydice??

Is- Is Hades seducing her? To work for him of smth? Ummm.

Not the canary!

That shaker sounds like a rattlesnake, and it does not bode well for a little bird.

When the Chips are Down (Live)

Oh hey I was right! It is a metaphorical rattlesnake!

Does she choose to go to the Underworld of her own volition? I thought she like- died.

Gone I'm Gone (Live)

She does??

Ouch. She sounds so resigned.

Is this a metaphor for her starving to death? Oof.

The harmonies!!

Wait for Me (Live)

“Six feet under” oh yep.

“Lay low, stay outta sight” - getting Hamilton's Stay Alive vibes.

“Don’t look back” ah. FORESHADOWING.

Ohhh the River Styx being a high wall is so smart!

“And don’t look no one in the eye” I must be too deep in the Odyssey related fandoms, because I'm seeing puns where there are none lmao

The HARMONIES!

Poor Orpheus, but I mean, he was kinda being a bit… naive? If he didn’t prepare for winter and just went off in his own head to make songs?

Why We Build the Wall (Live)

Free from who?

Enemy? 👀

(Yes, I'm aware I'm being led into asking all the questions he wants me to ask, but in my defence, it's very effective.)

Oh huh. Wasn't expecting it to be poverty, tho maybe I should've.

Him calling them “My children” plus the chanting is uh. Why does this sound like cult propaganda?

His voice sounds like the Ozymandias poem guy.

Also giving Frollo “She ran, I pursued” vocal vibes.

“Behind closed doors” - ominous.

Ha! Ok nice subversion.

Our Lady of the Underground (Live)

Persepone is a drug dealer XD

That’s a strange note on “there’s a crack in the wall”

Oh no, am I supposed to remember all these band member names? *crying*

Way Down Hadestown II (Live)

Bringing back motifs I see.

The pickaxes as percussion is cool.

Oop, Eurydice is getting a bit of a wake up call.

Chant II (Live)

Ooooh does the ‘backdoor’ Hermes meant, mean that Orpheus doesn’t have to ‘die’ to get there? ‘Cause he didn’t sign anything, which is a metaphor for him not actually being dead in the myth, so he can still leave.

“Hungry for the underworld” - the pomegranate?

And now Eurydice and Orpheus are singing half the La la la la tune each as if to each other from across the Underworld!

Ooh I LIKE those slant rhymes! "Young man, you can strum your lyre, I have strung the world in wire."

Oh this is where Orpheus sings his plea!! I know this is a thing because of Udad's Underworld Blues lol.

Epic III (Live)

The harmonies 🥺

Oh! It’s that part from Wolfy's animatic :O

I’m tearing up bro.

Just thinking that Eurydice was so upset with Orpheus for focusing on writing his song about Hades and Persephone, but it's that very song that is giving him a chance to sway Hades' mind. But on the other hand, if he'd focused less on the song, he never would've had to use it, y'know?

Word to the Wise (Live)

Ha the Fates(?) doing Hades’ inner monologue like, yeah bro u screwed yourself.

Uh oh this is probs where Hades comes up with the ultimatum. Wait no don't-

His Kiss the Riot (Live)

Those strings are creepy.

Belladonna? Oh the poisonous flower.

Did he call Orpheus the Jack of Hearts?

That acordian is awesome.

Fuck, I knew it.

He sounds like the guy who does the creepily ominous monologue in Micheal Jackson's Thriller.

Promises (Live)

Oh huh. It’s my theory from the 2nd song but it's Eurydice feeling betrayed that the world isn't always plentiful and not Orpheus?

Those strings are gorgeous!

Oh! A duet!

When the couple actually works out their shit:

“I do” omgggg!

KEEP WALKING. DONT LOOK BACK.

Wait for Me II (Live)

Aww that’s nice. Persephone and Hades are gonna try too!

Oh no not the “wait” like in Hurricane-

Doubt Come In (Live)

Oh noooooo

KEEP GOING. JUST KEEP GOING. SHE’S WITH YOU

OH NOOOO DON’T FALTER

LISTEN TO HER! HOLD ON! KEEP GOING!

... Oh god

Road to Hell II (Live)

NO THERE'S A FUCKING AD

Hermes sounds so sad but resigned. Like, 'Oh well. I knew it would turn out like this, but I'd hoped.' Which like. SAME.

The instruments stripped away so it's only silence and one voice is so good.

I can just imagine Orpheus collapsed shell shocked on stage as Hermes not unkindly pushes him to go on.

That reprise and ending is so fucking good AHHH omg no regrets. Some regrets. Whatever, it was good.

... Time to listen to it again with lyrics :D

And then I'm gonna listen to the Original Broadway Cast Recording!

[roboyomo]

the pinned post

finally making one!!

anyway hai helloo people i am roboyomo :] usually go by yomo (or robo but that's a rare one). i use he/him and masculine terms despite being agender

more info about my blog below the cut :)

current interests are:

#projmoon - Mostly lobcorp and ruina!! Probably one of my biggest interests at the moment,, adam and the fascinating worldbuilding could be some of the main reasons why

#pokemon - Still fairly new to pokemon, but nonetheless i still enjoy the games :) (even though i can only watch gameplays since i don’t have a nintendo ds. cruelty to me)

#yuppie psycho - Yuppie Psycho has been here with me for a long while, but It mostly stayed like a vague memory from a few years ago. Still, I absolutely enjoy the game and everything about it!! domori and rei sintra my beloveds,,

#utaite - A REALLY BIG utaite fan. literally 99% of the songs i listen are just utaite originals or utaite covers of vocaloid songs. (and only just a bit of actual vocaloid songs)

#ocs - LISTEN this may not qualify for an interest to some people. but it does to me. i love hearing about the little critters other people have created from their mind. and i love talking about my beasts. Basically hand over your beasts. i need to hold them like a dove it is urgent and of upmost importance

#studio investigrave - i. Did Not post about these games yet but i have a lot of art ideas for these games i love all of the current 5 games released urhfuwhrhwh,,,, biggest favorite out of the 5 is elevator hitch!!!!

#reverse 1999 - i am still fairly new to the game but i have been playing for like 3 something weeks by now and i fucking adore medpoc I LOVE YOU MEDPOC R1999 THEY COULD NEVER MAKE ME HATE YOU

I also have my own tags for this blog!!

#yomoposting : General posts and such. i use this to post mostly random stuff

#yomoart : my art tag!!! all of my sketches, drawings and illustrations are under this tag :]

#yomoasks : the tag for asks i receive! pretty straightforward

#yomo and his beloveds : i don’t use this tag as much,,, but generally i use this to tag posts that are centered around my most beloved/comfort characters!!

#yomo ocs?! : THE TAG FOR OC CRITTERS!!! Everything about them goes here - ranging from lore rambles to random joke stuff with them involved

and some character-specific tags!!

#adam the greatest : the tag for my most beloved adam lobcorp!! “all hail adam christ”, as i used to say. everyday i hold him like an injured bird because he is precious to me

#carmen the beloved : the tag for carmen projmoon :] i love carmie i hold her dear to my heart. which might be a bad idea considering what she does but i’m doing it anyway

#volo my bestfriend volo : the tag for volo from pokemon!!!! i adore him i love me some cool long-haired male characters with some very clear issues. and also with some religious motifs going on

#N the greatest : the tag for N (or Natural Harmonia Gropius) from pokemon!! i still need to get through the entirety of the story for pokemon bw and b2w2 but i love him nonetheless. cool green guy :]

i am also on Artfight!! My profile is here if you want to check it out :)

An index section for my oc master rantposts just to keep track of them:

Azrael and Kenix and their story

some additional stuff: i am an artist for as long as i can remember, i really really really like adam lobcorp, volo, carmen, cynthia, N and medpoc and i heavily obsess over characters that are just. long haired and have some sort of plan for the world and the humanity. <- and i do not mean “oh this is a good thing to do” NO they need call it a good deed but in reality it will absolutely ruin everything instead. plus i am also really obsessed with my own ocs and their lore so please please please ask about them i will happily ramble about my little critters. also please be careful with the things you say in my direction! i am. sensitive and i WILL be sad over what you have said about me.,,

my blog is welcome to everybody :] that is unless you are an asshole and/or a creep so please leave if you are anything like that. that being said, please do not make yaoi/yuri, fujoshi/fudanshi and himejoshi/himedanshi jokes on my blog! i am not comfortable with those terms exactly so please avoid using them in the comments or reblogs. thank you for your cooperation!!!

yea this post turned out to be a bit tooo long for my standards but who cares

[atticnotebook]

"Hawthorne and His Mosses" by Herman Melville

A papered chamber in a fine old farm-house--a mile from any other dwelling, and dipped to the eaves in foliage--surrounded by mountains, old woods, and Indian ponds,--this, surely is the place to write of Hawthorne. Some charm is in this northern air, for love and duty seem both impelling to the task. A man of a deep and noble nature has seized me in this seclusion. His wild, witch voice rings through me; or, in softer cadences, I seem to hear it in the songs of the hill-side birds, that sing in the larch trees at my window.

Would that all excellent books were foundlings, without father or mother, that so it might be, we could glorify them, without including their ostensible authors. Nor would any true man take exception to this;--least of all, he who writes,--"When the Artist rises high enough to achieve the Beautiful, the symbol by which he makes it perceptible to mortal senses becomes of little value in his eyes, while his spirit possesses itself in the enjoyment of the reality."

But more than this, I know not what would be the right name to put on the title-page of an excellent book, but this I feel, that the names of all fine authors are fictitious ones, far more than that of Junius,--simply standing, as they do, for the mystical, ever-eluding Spirit of all Beauty, which ubiquitously possesses men of genius. Purely imaginative as this fancy may appear, it nevertheless seems to receive some warranty from the fact, that on a personal interview no great author has ever come up to the idea of his reader. But that dust of which our bodies are composed, how can it fitly express the nobler intelligences among us? With reverence be it spoken, that not even in the case of one deemed more than man, not even in our Saviour, did his visible frame betoken anything of the augustness of the nature within. Else, how could those Jewish eyewitnesses fail to see heaven in his glance.

It is curious, how a man may travel along a country road, and yet miss the grandest, or sweetest of prospects, by reason of an intervening hedge, so like all other hedges, as in no way to hint of the wide landscape beyond. So has it been with me concerning the enchanting landscape in the soul of this Hawthorne, this most excellent Man of Mosses. His "Old Manse" has been written now four years, but I never read it till a day or two since. I had seen it in the book-stores--heard of it often--even had it recommended to me by a tasteful friend, as a rare, quiet book, perhaps too deserving of popularity to be popular. But there are so many books called "excellent," and so much unpopular merit, that amid the thick stir of other things, the hint of my tasteful friend was disregarded; and for four years the Mosses on the Old Manse never refreshed me with their perennial green. It may be, however, that all this while, the book, like wine, was only improving in flavor and body. At any rate, it so chanced that this long procrastination eventuated in a happy result. At breakfast the other day, a mountain girl, a cousin of mine, who for the last two weeks has every morning helped me to strawberries and raspberries,--which like the roses and pearls in the fairy-tale, seemed to fall into the saucer from those strawberry-beds her cheeks,--this delightful crature, this charming Cherry says to me--"I see you spend your mornings in the hay-mow; and yesterday I found there 'Dwight's Travels in New England'. Now I have something far better than that,--something more congenial to our summer on these hills. Take these raspberries, and then I will give you some moss."--"Moss!" said I--"Yes, and you must take it to the barn with you, and good-bye to 'Dwight.'"

With that she left me, and soon returned with a volume, verdantly bound, and garnished with a curious frontispiece in green,--nothing less, than a fragment of real moss cunningly pressed to a fly-leaf.--"Why this," said I, spilling my raspberries, "this is the 'Mosses from an Old Manse'." "Yes," said cousin Cherry, "yes, it is that flowery Hawthorne."--"Hawthorne and Mosses," said I, "no more: it is morning: it is July in the country: and I am off for the barn."

Stretched on that new mown clover, the hill-side breeze blowing over me through the wide barn door, and soothed by the hum of the bees in the meadows around, how magically stole over me this Mossy Man! And how amply, how bountifully, did he redeem that delicious promise to his guests in the Old Manse, of whom it is written--"Others could give them pleasure, or amusement, or instruction--these could be picked up anywhere--but it was for me to give them rest. Rest, in a life of trouble! What better could be done for weary and world-worn spirits? what better could be done for anybody, who came within our magic circle, than to throw the spell of a magic spirit over them?"--So all that day, half-buried in the new clover, I watched this Hawthorne's "Assyrian dawn, and Paphian sunset and moonrise, from the summit of our Eastern Hill."

The soft ravishments of the man spun me round in a web of dreams, and when the book was closed, when the spell was over, this wizard "dismissed me with but misty reminiscences, as if I had been dreaming of him."

What a mild moonlight of contemplative humor bathes that Old Manse!--the rich and rare distilment of a spicy and slowly-oozing heart. No rollicking rudeness, no gross fun fed on fat dinners, and bred in the lees of wine,--but a humor so spiritually gentle, so high, so deep, and yet so richly relishable, that it were hardly inappropriate in an angel. It is the very religion of mirth; for nothing so human but it may be advanced to that. The orchard of the Old Manse seems the visible type of the fine mind that has described it. Those twisted, and contorted old trees, "that stretch out their crooked branches, and take such hold of the imagination, that we remember them as humorists and odd-fellows." And then, as surrounded by these grotesque forms, and hushed in the noon-day repose of this Hawthorne's spell, how aptly might the still fall of his ruddy thoughts into your soul be symbolized by "the thump of a great apple, in the stillest afternoon, falling without a breath of wind, from the mere necessity of perfect ripeness"! For no less ripe than ruddy are the apples of the thoughts and fancies in this sweet Man of Mosses.

"Buds and Bird-Voices"--What a delicious thing is that!--"Will the world ever be so decayed, that Spring may not renew its greeness?"--And the "Fire-Worship." Was ever the hearth so glorified into an altar before? The mere title of that piece is better than any common work in fifty folio volumes. How exquisite is this:--"Nor did it lessen the charm of his soft, familiar courtesy and helpfulness, that the mighty spirit, were opportunity offered him, would run riot through the peaceful house, wrap its inmates in his terrible embrace, and leave nothing of them save their whitened bones. This possibility of mad destruction only made his domestic kindness the more beautiful and touching. It was so sweet of him, being endowed with such power, to dwell, day after day, and one long, lonesome night after another, on the dusky hearth, only now and then betraying his wild nature, by thrusting his red tongue out of the chimney-top! True, he had done much mischief in the world, and was pretty certain to do more, but his warm heart atoned for all. He was kindly to the race of man."

But he has still other apples, not quite so ruddy, though full as ripe:--apples, that have been left to wither on the tree, after the pleasant autumn gathering is past. The sketch of "The Old Apple Dealer" is conceived in the subtlest spirit of sadness; he whose "subdued and nerveless boyhood prefigured his abortive prime, which, likewise, contained within itself the prophecy and image of his lean and torpid age." Such touches as are in this piece can not proceed from any common heart. They argue such a depth of tenderness, such a boundless sympathy with all forms of being, such an omnipresent love, that we must needs say, that this Hawthorne is here almost alone in his generation,--at least, in the artistic manisfestation of these things. Still more. Such touches as these,--and many, very many similar ones, all through his chapters--furnish clews, whereby we enter a little way into the intricate, profound heart where they originated. And we see, that suffering, some time or other and in some shape or other,--this only can enable any man to depict it in others. All over him, Hawthorne's melancholy rests like an Indian summer, which, though bathing a whole country in one softness, still reveals the distinctive hue of every towering hill, and each far-winding vale.

But it is the least part of genius that attracts admiration. Where Hawthorne is known, he seems to be deemed a pleasant writer, with a pleasant style,--a sequestered, harmless man, from whom any deep and weighty thing would hardly be anticipated:--a man who means no meanings. But there is no man, in whom humor and love, like mountain peaks, soar to such a rapt height, as to receive the irradiations of the upper skies;--there is no man in whom humor and love are developed in that high form called genius; no such man can exist without also possessing, as the indispensable complement of these, a great, deep intellect, which drops down into the universe like a plummet. Or, love and humor are only the eyes, through which such an intellect views this world. The great beauty in such a mind is but the product of its strength. What, to all readers, can be more charming than the piece entitled "Monsieur du Miroir"; and to a reader at all capable of fully fathoming it, what at the same time, can possess more mystical depth of meaning?--Yes, there he sits, and looks at me,--this "shape of mystery," this "identical Monsieur du Miroir."--"Methinks I should tremble now, were his wizard power of gliding through all impediments in search of me, to place him suddenly before my eyes."

How profound, nay appalling, is the moral evolved by the "Earth's Holocaust"; where--beginning with the hollow follies and affectations of the world,--all vanities and empty theories and forms, are, one after another, and by an admirably graduated, growing comprehensiveness, thrown into the allegorical fire, till, at length, nothing is left but the all-engendering heart of man; which remaining still unconsumed, the great conflagration is naught.

Of a piece with this, is the "Intelligence Office," a wondrous symbolizing of the secret workings in men's souls. There are other sketches, still more charged with ponderous import.

"The Christmas Banquet," and "The Bosom Serpent" would be fine subjects for a curious and elaborate analysis, touching the conjectural parts of the mind that produced them. For spite of all the Indian-summer sunlight on the hither side of Hawthorne's soul, the other side--like the dark half of the physical sphere--is shrouded in a blackness, ten times black. But this darkness but gives more effect to the evermoving dawn, that forever advances through it, and cirumnavigates his world. Whether Hawthorne has simply availed himself of this mystical blackness as a means to the wondrous effects he makes it to produce in his lights and shades; or whether there really lurks in him, perhaps unknown to himself, a touch of Puritanic gloom,--this, I cannot altogether tell. Certain it is, however, that this grat power of blackness in him derives its force from its appeals to that Calvinistic sense of Innate Depravity and Original Sin, from whose visitations, in some shape or other, no deeply thinking mind is always and wholly free. For, in certain moods, no man can weigh this world, without throwing in something, somehow like Original Sin, to strike the uneven balance. At all events, perhaps no writer has ever wielded this terrific thought with greater terror than this same harmless Hawthorne. Still more: this black conceit pervades him, through and through. You may be witched by his sunlight,--transported by the bright gildings in the skies he builds over you;--but there is the blackness of darkness beyond; and even his bright gildings but fringe, and play upon the edges of thunder-clouds.--In one word, the world is mistaken in this Nathaniel Hawthorne. He himself must often have smiled at its absurd misconceptions of him. He is immeasurably deeper than the plummet of the mere critic. For it is not the brain that can test such a man; it is only the heart. You cannot come to know greatness by inspecting it; there is no glimpse to be caught of it, except by intuition; you need not ring it, you but touch it, and you find it is gold.

Now it is that blackness in Hawthorne, of which I have spoken, that so fixes and fascinates me. It may be, nevertheless, that it is too largely developed in him. Perhaps he does not give us a ray of his light for every shade of his dark. But however this may be, this blackness it is that furnishes the infinite obscure of his background,--that background, against which Shakespeare plays his grandest conceits, the things that have made for Shakespeare his loftiest, but most circumscribed renown, as the profoundest of thinkers. For by philosophers Shakespeare is not adored as the great man of tragedy and comedy.--"Off with his head! so much for Buckingham!" this sort of rant, interlined by another hand, brings down the house,--those mistaken souls, who dream of Shakespeare as a mere man of Richard-the-Third humps, and Macbeth daggers. But it is those deep far-away things in him; those occasional flashings-forth of the intuitive Truth in him; those short, quick probings at the very axis of reality:--these are the things that make Shakespeare, Shakespeare. Through the mouths of the dark characters of Hamlet, Timon, Lear, and Iago, he craftily says, or sometimes insinuates the things, which we feel to be so terrifically true, that it were all but madness for any good man, in his own proper character, to utter, or even hint of them. Tormented into desperation, Lear the frantic King tears off the mask, and speaks the sane madness of vital truth. But, as I before said, it is the least part of genius that attracts admiration. And so, much of the blind, unbridled admiration that has been heaped upon Shakespeare, has been lavished upon the least part of him. And few of his endless commentators and critics seem to have remembered, or even perceived, that the immediate products of a great mind are not so great, as that undeveloped, (and sometimes undevelopable) yet dimly-discernible greatness, to which these immediate products are but the infallible indices. In Shakespeare's tomb lies infinitely more than Shakespeare ever wrote. And if I magnify Shakespeare, it is not so much for what he did do, as for what he did not do, or refrained from doing. For in this world of lies, Truth is forced to fly like a scared white doe in the woodlands; and only by cunning glimpses will she reveal herself, as in Shakespeare and other masters of the great Art of Telling the Truth,--even though it be covertly, and by snatches.

But if this view of the all-popular Shakespeare be seldom taken by his readers, and if very few who extol him, have ever read him deeply, or, perhaps, only have seen him on the tricky stage, (which alone made, and is still making him his mere mob renown)--if few men have time, or patience, or palate, for the spiritual truth as it is in that great genius;--it is, then, no matter of surprise that in a contemporaneous age, Nathaniel Hawthorne is a man, as yet, almost utterly mistaken among men. Here and there, in some quiet arm-chair in the noisy town, or some deep nook among the noiseless mountains, he may be appreciated for something of what he is. But unlike Shakespeare, who was forced to the contrary course by circumstances, Hawthorne (either from simple disinclination, or else from inaptitude) refrains from all the popularizing noise and show of broad farce, and blood-besmeared tragedy; content with the still, rich utterances of a great intellect in repose, and which sends few thoughts into circulation, except they be arterialized at his large warm lungs, and expanded in his honest heart.

Nor need you fix upon that blackness in him, if it suit you not. Nor, indeed, will all readers discern it, for it is, mostly, insinuated to those who may best undersand it, and account for it; it is not obtruded upon every one alike.

Some may start to read of Shakespeare and Hawthorne on the same page. They may say, that if an illustration were needed, a lesser light might have sufficed to elucidate this Hawthorne, this small man of yesterday. But I am not, willingly, one of those, who as touching Shakespeare at least, exemplify the maxim of Rochefoucauld, that "we exalt the reputation of some, in order to depress that of others";--who, to teach all noble-souled aspirants that there is no hope for them, pronounce Shakespeare absolutely unapproachable. But Shakespeare has been approached. There are minds that have gone as far as Shakespeare into the universe. And hardly a mortal man, who, at some time or other, has not felt as great thoughts in him as any you will find in Hamlet. We must not inferentially malign mankind for the sake of any one man, whoever he may be. This is too cheap a purchase of contentment for consious mediocrity to make. Besides, this absolute and unconditional adoration of Shakespeare has grown to be a part of our Anglo Saxon superstitions. The Thirty-Nine Articles are now Forty. Intolerance has come to exist in this matter. You must believe in Shakespeare's unapproachability, or quit the country. But what sort of belief is this for an American, an man who is bound to carry republican progressiveness into Literature, as well as into Life? Believe me, my friends, that men not very much inferior to Shakespeare, are this day being born on the banks of the Ohio. And the day will come, when you shall say who reads a book by an Englishman that is a modern? The great mistake seems to be, that even with those Americans who look forward to the coming of a great literary genius among us, they somehow fancy he will come in the costume of Queen Elizabeth's day,--be a writer of dramas founded upon old English history, or the tales of Boccaccio. Whereas, great geniuses are parts of the times; they themselves are the time; and possess an correspondent coloring. It is of a piece with the Jews, who while their Shiloh was meekly walking in their streets, were still praying for his magnificent coming; looking for him in a chariot, who was already among them on an ass. Nor must we forget, that, in his own life-time, Shakespeare was not Shakespeare, but only Master William Shakespeare of the shrewd, thriving business firm of Condell, Shakespeare & Co., proprietors of the Globe Theater in London; and by a courtly author, of the name of Chettle, was hooted at, as an "upstart crow" beautfied "with other birds' feathers." For, mark it well, imitation is often the first charge brought against real originality. Why this is so, there is not space to set forth here. You must have plenty of sea-room to tell the Truth in; especially, when it seems to have an aspect of newness, as American did in 1492, though it was then just as old, and perhaps older than Asia, only those sagacious philosophers, the common sailors, had never seen it before; swearing it was all water and moonshine there.

Now, I do not say that Nathaniel of Salem is a greater than William of Avon, or as great. But the difference between the two men is by no means immeasurable. Not a very great deal more, and Nathaniel were verily William.

This too, I mean, that if Shakespeare has not been equalled, give the world time, and he is sure to be surpassed, in one hemisphere or the other. Nor will it at all do to say, that the world is getting grey and grizzled now, and has lost that fresh charm which she wore of old, and by virtue of which the great poets of past times made themselves what we esteem them to be. Not so. the world is as young today, as when it was created, and this Vermont morning dew is as wet to my feet, as Eden's dew to Adam's. Nor has Nature been all over ransacked by our progenitors, so that no new charms and mysteries remain for this latter generation to find. Far from it. The trillionth part has not yet been said, and all that has been said, but multiplies the avenues to what remains to be said. It is not so much paucity, as superabundance of material that seems to incapacitate modern authors.

Let American then prize and cherish her writers, yea, let her glorify them. They are not so many in number, as to exhaust her good-will. And while she has good kith and kin of her own, to take to her bosom, let her not lavish her embraces upon the household of an alien. For believe it or not England, after all, is, in many things, an alien to us. China has more bowels of real love for us than she. But even were there no strong literary individualities among us, as there are some dozen at least, nevertheless, let America first praise mediocrity even, in her own children, before she praises (for everywhere, merit demands acknowledgment from every one) the best excellence in the children of any other land. Let her own authors, I say, have the priority of appreciation. I was very much pleased with a hot-headed Carolina cousin of mine, who once said,--"If there were no other American to stand by, in Literature,--why, then, I would stand by Pop Emmons and his 'Fredoniad,' and till a better epic came along, swear it was not very far behind the 'Iliad'." Take away the words, and in spirit he was sound.

Not that American genius needs patronage in order to expand. For that explosive sort of stuff will expand though screwed up in a vice, and burst it, though it were triple steel. It is for the nation's sake, and not for her authors' sake, that I would have America be heedful of the increasing greatness among her writers. For how great the shame, if other nations should be before her, in crowning her heroes of the pen. But this is almost the case now. American authors have received more just and discriminating praise (however loftily and ridiculously given, in certain cases) even from some Englishmen, than from their own countrymen. There are hardly five critics in America, and several of them are asleep. As for patronage, it is the American author who now patronizes the country, and not his country him. And if at times some among them appeal to the people for more recognition, it is not always with selfish motives, but patriotic ones.

It is true, that but few of them as yet have evinced that decided originality which merits great praise. But that graceful writer, who perhaps of all Americans has received the most plaudits from his own country for his productions,--that very popular and amiable writer, however good, and self-reliant in many things, perhaps owes his chief reputation to the self-acknowledged imitation of a foreign model, and to the studied avoidance of all topics but smooth ones. But it is better to fail in originality, than to succeed in imitation. He who has never failed somewhere, that man can not be great. Failure is the true test of greatness. And if it be said, that continual success is a proof that a man wisely knows his powers,--it is only to be added, that, in that case, he knows them to be small. Let us believe it, then, once for all, that there is no hope for us in these smooth pleasing writers that know their powers. Without malice, but to speak the plain fact, they but furnish an appendix to Goldsmith, and other English authors. And we want no American Goldsmiths, nay, we want no American Miltons. It were the vilest thing you could say of a true American author, that he were an American Tompkins. Call him an American, and have done, for you can not say a nobler thing of him.--But it is not meant that all American writers should studiously cleave to nationality in their writings; only this, no American writer should write like an Englishman, or a Frenchman; let him write like a man, for then he will be sure to write like an American. Let us away with this leaven of literary flunkyism towards England. If either we must play the flunky in this thing, let England do it, not us. While we are rapidly preparing for that political supremacy among the nations, which prophetically awaits us at the close of the present century; in a literary point of view, we are deplorably unprepared for it; and we seem studious to remain so. Hitherto, reasons might have existed why this should be; but no good reason exists now. And all that is requisite to amendment in this matter, is simply this: that, while freely acknowledging all excellence, everywhere, we should refrain from unduly lauding foreign writers, and, at the same time, duly recognize the meritorious writers that are our own,--those writers, who breathe that unshackled, democratic spirit of Christianity in all things, which now takes the practical lead in the world, though at the same time led by ourselves--us Americans. Let us boldly contemn all imitation, though it comes to us graceful and fragrant as the morning; and foster all originality, though, at first, it be crabbed and ugly as our own pine knots. And if any of our authors fail, or seem to fail, then, in the words of my enthusiastic Carolina cousin, let us clap him on the shoulder, and back him against all Europe for his second round. The truth is, that in our point of view, this matter of a national literature has come to such a pass with us, that in some sense we must turn bullies, else the day is lost, or superiority so far beyond us, that we can hardly say it will ever be ours.

And now, my countrymen, as an excellent author, of your own flesh and blood,--an unimitating, and perhaps, in his way, an inimitable man--whom better can I commend to you, in the first place, than Nathaniel Hawthorne. He is one of the new, and far better generation of your writer. The smell of your beeches and hemlocks is upon him; your own broad prairies are in his soul; and if you travel away inland into his deep and noble nature, you will hear the far roar of his Niagara. Give not over to future generations the glad duty of acknowledging him for what he is. Take that joy to yourself, in your own generation; and so shall he feel those grateful impulses in him, that may possibly prompt him to the full flower of some still greater achievement in your eyes. And by confessing him, you thereby confess others, you brace the whole brotherhood. For genius, all over the world, stands hand in hand, and one shock of recognition runs the whole circle round.

In treating of Hawthorne, or rather of Hawthorne in his writings (for I never saw the man; and in the chances of a quiet plantation life, remote from his haunts, perhaps never shall) in treating of his works, I say, I have thus far omitted all mention of his "Twice Told Tales," and "Scarlet Letter." Both are excellent, but full of such manifold, strange and diffusive beauties, that time would all but fail me, to point the half of them out. But there are things in those two books, which, had they been written in England a century ago, Nathaniel Hawthorne had utterly displaced many of the bright names we now revere on authority. But I content to leave Hawthorne to himself, and to the infallible finding of posterity; and however great may be the praise I have bestowed upon him, I feel, that in so doing, I have more served and honored myself, than him. For at bottom, great excellence is praise enough to itself; but the feeling of a sincere and appreciative love and admiration towards it, this is relieved by utterance; and warm, honest praise ever leaves a pleasant flavor in the mouth; and it is an honorable thing to confess to what is honorable in others.

But I cannot leave my subject yet. No man can read a fine author, and relish him to his very bones, while he reads, without subsequently fancying to himself some ideal image of the man and his mind. And if you rightly look for it, you will almost always find that the author himself has somewhere furnished you with his own picture. For poets (whether in prose or verse), being painters of Nature, are like their brethren of the pencil, the true portrait-painters, who, in the multitude of likenesses to be sketched, do not invariably omit their own; and in all high instances, they paint them without any vanity, though, at times, with a lurking something, that would take several pages to properly define.

I submit it, then, to those best acquainted with the man personally, whether the following is not Nathaniel Hawthorne,--to to himself, whether something involved in it does not express the temper of this mind,--that lasting temper of all true, candid men--a seeker, not a finder yet:--

A man now entered, in neglected attire, with the aspect of a thinker, but somewhat too rough-hewn and brawny for a scholar. His face was full of sturdy vigor, with some finer and keener attribute beneath; though harsh at first, it was tempered with the glow of a large, warm heart, which had force enough to heat his powerful intellect through and through. He advanced to the Intelligencer, and looked at him with a glance of such stern sincerity, that perhaps few secrets were beyond its scope.

"'I seek for Truth,' said he."

Twenty-four hours have elapsed since writing the foregoing. I have just returned from the hay mow, charged more and more with love and admiration of Hawthorne. For I have just been gleaning through the "Mosses," picking up many things here and there that had previously escaped me. And I found that but to glean after this man, is better than to be in at the harvest of others. To be frank (though, perhaps, rather foolish), notwithstanding what I wrote yesterday of these Mosses, I had not then culled them all; but had, nevertheless, been sufficiently sensible of the subtle essence, in them, as to write as I did. to what infinite height of loving wonder and admiration I may yet be borne, when by repeatedly banquetting on these Mosses, I shall have thoroughly incorporated their whole stuff into my being,--that, I can not tell. But already I feel that this Hawthorne has dropped germinous seeds into my soul. He expands and deepens down, the more I contemplate him; and further, and further, shoots his strong New-England roots into the hot soil of my Southern soul.

By careful reference to the "Table of Contents," I now find, that I have gone through all the sketches; but that when I yeterday wrote, I had not at all read two particular pieces, to which I now desire to call special attention,--"A Select Party," and "Young Goodman Brown." Here, be it said to all those whom this poor fugitive scrawl of mine may tempt to the purusal of the "Mosses," that they must on no account suffer themselves to be trifled with, disappointed, or deceived by the triviality of many of the titles to these Sketches. For in more than one instance, the title utterly belies the piece. It is as if rustic demjohns containing the very best and costliest of Falernian and Tokay, were labeled "Cider," "Perry," and "Elder-berry Wine." The truth seems to be, that like many other geniuses, this Man of Mosses takes great delight in hoodwinking the world,--at least, with respect to himself. Personally, I doubt not, that he rather prefers to be generally esteemed but a so-so sort of author; being willing to reserve the thorough and acute appreciation of what he is, to that party most qualified to judge--that is, to himself. Besides, at the bottom of their natures, men like Hawthorne, in many things, deem the plaudits of the public such strong presumptive evidence of mediocrity in the object of them, that it would in some degree render them doubtful of their own powers, did they hear much and vociferous braying concerning them in the public pastures. True, I have been braying myself (if you please to be witty enough, to have it so) but then I claim to be the first that has so brayed in this particular matter; and therefore, while pleading guilty to the charge, still claim all the merit due to originality.

But with whatever motive, playful or profound, Nathaniel Hawthorne has chosen to entitle his pieces in the manner he has, it is certain, that some of them are directly calculated to deceive--egregiously deceive--the superficial skimmer of pages. To be downright and candid once more, let me cheerfully say, that two of these titles did dolefully dupe no less an eagle-eyed reader than myself, and that, too, after I had been impressed with a sense of the great depth and breadth of this American man. "Who in the name of thunder," (as the country-people say in this neighborhood), "who in the name of thunder, would anticipate any marvel in a piece entitled "Young Goodman Brown"? You would of course suppose that it was a simple little tale, intended as a supplement to "Goody Two Shoes." Whereas, it is deep as Dante; nor can you finish it, without addressing the author in his own words--"It is yours to penetrate, in every bosom, the deep mystery of sin." And with Young Goodman, too, in allegorical pursuit of his Puritan wife, you cry out in your anguish,--

"Faith!" shouted Goodman Brown, in a voice of agony and desperation; and the echoes of the forest mocked him, crying--"Faith! Faith!" as if bewildered wretches were seeking her all through the wilderness.

Now this same piece, entitled "Young Goodman Brown," is one of the two that I had not all read yesterday; and I allude to it now, because it is, in itself, such a strong positive illustration of that blackness in Hawthorne, which I had assumed from the mere occasional shadows of it, as revealed in several of the other sketches. But had I previously perused "Young Goodman Brown," I should have been at no pains to draw the conclusion, which I came to, at a time, when I was ignorant that the book contained one such direct and unqualified manifestation of it.

The other piece of the two referred to, is entitled "A Select Party," which in my first simplicity upon originally taking hold of the book, I fancied must treat of some pumpkin-pie party in Old Salem, or some Chowder Party on Cape Cod. Whereas, by all the gods of Peedee! it is the sweetest and sublimest thing that has been written since Spenser wrote. Nay, there is nothing in Spenser that surpasses it, perhaps, nothing that equals it. And the test is this: read any canto in "The Faery Queen," and then read "A Select Party," and decide which pleases you the most,--that is, if you are qualified to judge. Do not be frightened at this; for when Spenser was alive, he was thought of very much as Hawthorne is now--was generally accounted just such a "gentle" harmless man. It may be, that to common eyes, the sublimity of Hawthorne seems lost in his sweetness,--as perhaps in this same "Select Party" his; for whom, he has builded so august a dome of sunset clouds, and served them on richer plate, than Belshazzar's when he banquetted his lords in Babylon.

But my chief business now, is to point out a particular page in this piece, having reference to an honored guest, who under the name of "The Master Genius" but in the guise "of a young man of poor attire, with no insignia of rank or acknowledged eminence," is introduced to the Man of Fancy, who is the giver of the feast. Now the page having reference to this "Master Genius", so happily expresses much of what I yesterday wrote, touching the coming of the literary Shiloh of America, that I cannot but be charmed by the coincidence; especially, when it shows such a parity of ideas, at least, in this one point, between a man like Hawthorne and a man like me.

And here, let me throw out another conceit of mine touching this American Shiloh, or "Master Genius," as Hawthorne calls him. May it not be, that this commanding mind has not been, is not, and never will be, individually developed in any one man? And would it, indeed, appear so unreasonable to suppose, that this great fullness and overlowing may be, or may be destined to be, shared by a plurality of men of genius? Surely, to take the very greatest example on record, Shakespeare cannot be regarded as in himself the concretion of all the genius of his time; nor as so immeasurably beyond Marlowe, Webster, Ford, Beaumont, Johnson, that those great men can be said to share none of his power? For one, I conceive that there were dramatists in Elizabeth's day, between whom and Shakespeare the distance was by no means great. Let anyone, hitherto little acquainted with those neglected old authors, for the first time read them thoroughly, or even read Charles Lamb's Specimens of them, and he will be amazed at the wondrous ability of those Anaks of men, and shocked at this renewed example of the fact, that Fortune has more to do with fame than merit,--though, without merit, lasting fame there can be none.

Nevertheless, it would argue too illy of my country were this maxim to hold good concerning Nathaniel Hawthorne, a man, who already, in some minds, has shed "such a light, as never illuminates the earth, save when a great heart burns as the household fire of a grand intellect."

The words are his,--in the "Select Party"; and they are a magnificent setting to a coincident sentiment of my own, but ramblingly expressed yesterday, in reference ot himself. Gainsay it who will, as I now write, I am Posterity speaking by proxy--and after times will make it more than good, when I declare--that the American, who up to the present day, has evinced, in Literature, the largest brain with the largest heart, that man is Nathaniel Hawthorne. Moreover, that whatever Nathaniel Hawthorne may hereafter write, "The Mosses from an Old Manse" will be ultimately accounted his masterpiece. For there is a sure, though a secret sign in some works which proves the culmination of the power (only the developable ones, however) that produced them. But I am by no means desirous of the glory of a prophet. I pray Heaven that Hawthorne may yet prove me an impostor in this prediciton. Especially, as I somehow cling to the strange fancy, that, in all men, hiddenly reside certain wondrous, occult properties--as in some plants and minerals--which by some happy but very rare accident (as bronze was discovered by the melting of the iron and brass in the burning of Corinth) may chance to be called forth here on earth, not entirely waiting for their better discovery in the more congenial, blessed atmosphere of heaven.

Once more--for it is hard to be finite upon an infinite subject, and all subjects are infinite. By some people, this entire scrawl of mine may be esteemed altogether unnecessary, inasmuch, "as years ago" (they may say) "we found out the rich and rare stuff in this Hawthorne, whom you now parade forth, as if only yourself were the discoverer of this Portuguese diamond in our Literature."--But even granting all this; and adding to it, the assumption that the books of Hawthorne have sold by the five-thousand,--what does that signify?--They should be sold by the hundred-thousand, and read by the million; and admired by every one who is capable of Admiration.

[thoughtsandbones]

An ex-citing surprise

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!MedicDoc OC (codename: Blue) 💀💙

WARNINGS: Mention of profanity, self harm scars, scars, fluff, panic attack, anxiety, medical inaccuracies and just getting the POV of our friendly neighbourhood masked menace.

Plot: Doctor Ruhari Hari Kaur (OC is South Asian ☺️) joins the 141 again, but this time as their doctor. After the betrayal of Shepherd and Graves, Task Force 141 begins their hunt on his whereabouts and locating Makarov.

PLEASE reblog and like! Hope folks are enjoying the series, I am building up characters and plots, cos I have a lot ideas and just been enjoying writing :D

Song inspo: Bleed it Out - Linkin Park, Shadow of the Day - Linkin Park

Word count: 4.3k

A/N: Flashbacks are getting messed up when I am indenting them and I am getting lots of errors when publishing the work, please bare with some mistakes and spelling issues.

I grew up with the OG MW2 game, so there are some references to the old one, so kind of a mix of both the OG and the new timeline... (Also I'm ignoring the OG Shepherd betrayal and keeping in line the one with the new timeline..)

All rights reserved to the rightful owners of Call of Duty Modern Warfare.

spelling and some grammar mistakes as I am bad at times... :/

(FYI: bold sentences... that are like this... are supposed to describe redacted data/info to the plot... ;] .. )

Please do let me know how you all are finding this fanfic! :D

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 7, PART 8, PART 9, PART 10, PART 11 and PART 12

Part 13

The birds had begun chirping, greeting the new day. The sun soon started to it's daily early ascent into glorious England in June.

Pollen is going to be high, hay fever season descends upon us all. You think to yourself, grabbing your phone and adding 'hay fever szn' to your adding list of things to be on the look out for whilst being the 141's doctor... and... team member?

Try not to push it, I gotta earn that spot You scold yourself, hitting your head against the pillow underneath; a soft beating.

You had been laying awake for about 20 minutes. Checking the time on your phone, 4:34am.

Might as well get started on the day

Rolling out of bed you then start with the first task, making the bed. A good soldier keeps things neat and tidy. The next task, shower. A cold shower to awaken your nerves.

Once you had showered, gotten ready, braided your long hair first into two french braids and then tying the two together with an hair band, you then had several swigs from your flask. hydrate hydrate hydrate

It was 5:39am, you leave your room and lock your door. You make your way down the stairs at a quick pace, you were nearly at the bottom, only to see the lieutenant descending down the last few steps.

Ghost turned around has heard the quickening steps approach from behind him. It was you, donning black fatigues, green top and black combat boots.

"Mornin' Doc" He said stepping aside to let you come down the final steps

"Morning Sir" You say "How are you?" He was donning his skull balaclava again today, his eyes covered with black paint.

"Good, slept well" He said, who started to walk out of the corridor of the building.

"The medicine worked, that's nice to hear" You respond "Any drowsiness currently?" You

Ghost looks down at you as you walk beside him. It knocked him out that he felt a little cautious

"Nothin' apart from the metallic taste" He replied

You nod "Squash will help"

Ghost nods back, he holds the door open for you and lets you walk ahead, his eyes linger over your back again, the tattoo of yours catching his eye again.

Get it together he snaps

"Trainin' this mornin', 10 minute sprint, basic strength assessment and maybe a bit of sniper trainin'" He says, hoping that'll perk you up a bit.

A smirk appears on your face. "Where do I sprint?" You ask

"On track, I'll time you" He brings out a stop watch that was wrapped around a small burgundy journal. Both of you head of the track, Ghost counts you down and you set off, Ghost keeps his eye on you, your form then glances to his stop watch. As you approach he watches your stern face focused on what is in front of you.

After ten minutes, he blows a whistle and you stop. He walks over to you and hands you your flask. You take a few sips, slowly catch your breathe.

Walking over to the gym, Ghost runs through the tests he wanted you to complete. The gym was partly empty, there were a few soldiers, mainly marines who were up and training, but most of them were commanders as they nodded and saluted Ghost. Ghost nodded back. You were struck with awe of the respect and reputation he garnered, along with Captain Price too.

First assessment was chin ups, how many can you do? Ghost had said to you.

You're gonna be so weak, taking in a deep inhale, you reach for the bar and using your core and arms you pull up, exhale, you felt your arms wobble. Eyes flickering over to Ghost who just held out his stopwatch and then glared at you hanging, feeling your face going red. You try again, and only managed 3 chin ups in total. Feeling so weak, you continue with the next set of commands given out by Ghost.

Ghost watched you struggle lifting the 5kg plate over your head, your legs shaking, knees locking every now and then and arms shaking.

In his notebook he scribbled lacking core strength amongst his other critiques. A small part of him felt he was being harsh, but he knew he had to treat you fairly, like everyone else. Especially since you were going to be coming along with missions so dangerous, he had to make sure you could handle yourself.

"Alrigh' that'll do" He says and watches you bring the weight plate down gently and placing it back where it came from. He sees you take a long swig of water, some of drips down your chin and splashes on your shirt on near your breast. Ghost scans your physique, you were fit, but clearly lackin' in strength.

His eyes go back to the dark patch made by the water droplet, just above your right breast... His eyes lingered too long, when he noticed your eyes narrowing at him, he flicked his eyes back to his notebook, feeling his cheeks become warm and blood rush to his ears. Focus

Is he actually staring at my boobs You think, glaring at him. But then you notice the wet patch on your shirt. That? Or the boobs?

"You were alrigh'" He said clearing his throat "Need work on strength trainin', what exercised you normally do?"

"Running, swimming and Taekwondo" You say. "But it's been a few months since I've done swimming and Taekwondo"

"Righ'" Ghost says, vaguely remembering you doing some sort of martial arts. His memories of you were so misplaced and broken.

"I'll work out a trainin' schedule for you" He adds "We got some martial arts classes, may want to join? After this mission we'll assess sparring" He continues

"Yes sir" You say taking in his assessment of you. Dammnit, you were weak, but there's always room to improve

"Sniper practise next" Ghost says and he walks in front of your to the practise shooting range. Ghost gets a sniper rifle and ammunition and hands it to you.

You head over to a spot and set yourself up. Out of all the guns you tried and used, sniper rifles were your favourite. After setting up, Ghost presses a remote with buttons on it, targets come up and you shoot them down. When reloading, you kept your eye in the scope as you reloaded your magazine.

Very well remembered Ghost thought

Soap had entered the shooting range, he saw Ghost who turned to look at him and nodded and turned back to someone who was shooting. Soap realised it was you. He walked to Ghost and stood by him as he also watched you.

"She's good" Soap says to Ghost

"Gettin' there" Ghost replies trying not to feed into Soap's eagerness

You've ran out of ammo, the targets were shot down. You get back up taking the sniper rile and empty magazines. Checking your watch, it was nearing 8am and you had to go to the infirmary soon, after another shower and changing. And breakfast of course.

"Morning Doc" Soap says

"Morning Soap" You say "You good?"

"Aye, all dandy here" He says smiling at you giving you that same grin when he caught you staring at his naked torso. You look away

Ghost felt stuck in between you and Soap. Soap was grinning like a fox at you and you were staring wide-eyed at the sniper rifle drumming you fingers against the barrel.

"I'm going to go clean this" You say lifting the rifle briefly and walking away.

Soap chuckles and looks at you as you walk away. Ghost figured out he was still teasing.

"What you doin' here Johnny?" Ghost grumbled

"Came to see how our new team member was doin'" Soap quirked, giving Ghost a grin.

Ghost scoffed at him. He looked over and saw you sat down on the benches, cleaning the rifle, like it was something you did everyday.

Soap came closer to him.

"You tell her yet Lt?" Soap whispered.

Ghost glared back down at Soap. Did Price rope him into this now?

"C'mon Lt, you can't leave it til it's too late" Soap said giving Ghost a pat on the arm.

"It's bit complicated Johnny" Ghost said, lowering his tone

"Maybe she needs some good news after Siberia eh?" Soap whispered quickly to Ghost

Looking at Johnny and taking in what he said, he became slightly agitated.

"Take my advice Lt" Soap said finally and patted him on the shoulder and went to the weapons locker to grab a gun for his own practise shooting.

Ghost walked over to you, focused on cleaning each part of the gun thoroughly, he watched your hands use the tools, cleaning each part of the rifle carefully.

"Good effort today Doc" He said finally, you look up and smile

"Just need to work on getting better sir" You say looking back down at the barrel in your hands, polishing it with your cloth.

"I'll email over a schedule before the mission tomorrow" He said

"Thank you sir" You focus remained on the gun.

Ghost felt his right hand twitch, his arm trying to move up to his head. He fought off the urge to try and reveal himself here...

The sudden click of you sliding the barrel back brought him back to reality. He was drawn to your gaze, you look back down at the reassembled sniper rifle.

"I'll be heading back if that's good sir?" You ask

"'Course Doc" He replied and watched you get back up, sliding the sniper rifle over your shoulder, it was a motion you did so casually, you've done it before. You've been here before.

"Come by between 10-12 for your blood pressure check lieutenant" You said, trying not to sound too commanding.

"Yes Doc" He says, he gets up and looks down at you stepping back as you walk to put the rifle away. He sees Soap grin at you again as you leave.

Ghost looks back down at his notebook in his hand and opens it up scanning the list of things he noticed you lacked and needed improvement on.

Soap comes over to him after shooting a few rounds.

"What's goin' on between those gears Lt?" Soap says sitting on the bench.

Ghost backed up a bit.

"Nothin' Johnny" he grunted to which Soap gave him a look that called his bluff and scoffed.

"Yer right" Soap responded "C'mon Lt, what's the worse that can happen?" he added extending his leg to attempting to tap Ghost, but he moved away and sat on the bench opposite Soap and looked around, no one was within earshot.

Soap watched has Ghost scanned with his painted blue eyes the area around him.

"What if she goes-" He trails off and then looks directly at Soap "-gets angry? he finishes

"I doubt it Lt" Soap begins, leaning closer to him "You have yer reasons Simon, she a nice lass, she'll understand" He added smiling towards him, Soap noticed Ghost narrow his eyes and scoffed slightly.

It was the first time in a long time that someone other than Price said his name. He hung his head down briefly and then looked up.

"One can hope eh Johnny?" Ghost responded "We got stuff to do before we leave tomorrow, need to see Doc about somethin' at 11, let's get movin' then" He added getting up, Soap follows him as they leave.

Mean while in the infirmary

It was 9:30am and you sat at your desk unsure of what next to do. Reports were done so far for the team, it's not like you could have a proper in-depth review with them the day before a crucial mission.

'Hey, mind if I draw some blood to further analyse if you have any health issues which seem super trivial to you?' You mutter to yourself in a high-pitched mocking tone. As you twirl yourself around in the chair.

The was a rapid knock on your door, you stopped the spinning motion with your left food and quickly got up and opened the door.

It was Price

"Mornin' Hari" He said smiling

"Morning Captain" You say, moving away from the doorway and letting him walk in, you close the door

"How was training with lieutenant Ghost?" Price said turning back to you, watching as you take your seat and Price sits on the other side of the desk.

"Good, well- don't think I did well in the fitness assessment bit" You sigh leaning back in your chair, but then straightened up a bit, not sure how casual you could be...

"Always room for improvement" Price said chuckling leaning forward.

You sense that Price had an ulterior motive, Siberia...

"Are you here to ask about Siberia sir?" You ask, getting straight to the point, tilting your head back

"Came to ask how would you feel about going back?" Price said, also cutting to the chase. "Laswell wants us to do a recovery mission" He adds

"Shouldn't we be more concerned with tomorrow's mission Cap?" You retort

Going back huh? You wonder

Price leans back, smiling slightly.

"Of course, but you up for it?" Price asks again

"Once you and lieutenant Ghost are happy with my training, then yes." You say bluntly. You weren't going back unless you were at a competent level of being able to look after yourself in that harsh environment again.

"That's the plan" Price chuffed, his objective completed with ease.

"What time are you leaving tomorrow?" You ask "Or is that classified?" you added smirking slightly

"4am" Price said looking out the window, blue skies over base, the distant fields feeling

"Come by my office this evening at 6, we're havin' a pre-mission gathering, tea and biscuits" Price chuffed looking back at you.

"Of course sir" You nod back at him smiling.

After a brief conversation of mission details and what your job was (standby during end of mission for injuries during when they are RTB) Price left the infirmary leaving you alone again. You checked the reports on your laptop again. You click onto Ghost's report.

Much of his personal information was redacted. But you knew his age was 34, which meant he was born in 1988. You hesitated putting this information into the report. Price had told you that Ghost's identity is a secret for a reason.

You went through the other reports for Gaz, Soap and Price. Adding in your notebook things you needed to do, blood tests was one thing.

Sitting back in your chair again, you spin around, enjoying the motion tilting your head back. You stop and then go back to your laptop, after placing an order through the RAMC pharmacy for more hay fever tablets, you lean back in the chair again.

Siberia. Siberia. Your mind wonders back the frozen place.

"Get the disk and get out Blue" echos in your head again, you shake your head and run your left hand through your hair. It was still braided, bringing your right hand up, unravelling both braids, you comb your hair roughly with your hands.

There was a knock at the door, you couldn't be bothered to get up so you simply shouted 'Come in' to the person on the other side. You looked up and saw Ghost opening the door, his entire stature taking up the doorway.

"Alrigh' Doc?" He lets out, breathing heavily, almost like he ran up here.

"I'm good, you okay?" You ask curiously looking at him as you observe his chest heaving.

"Yeah, just jogged here" He said leaning on the med bed whilst you remained seated.

"You can sit back on the bed if you need a breather sir" You suggest

Ghost looks up you, trying to catch his breathe. He doesn't move, continuing to lean slightly back on the bed behind him. It was the nerves and the damn talking Soap was doing whilst they checked their equipment that got him rattled, and you. He felt his chest get tighter, he breathed in but the air didn't help, he could feel his hands tremble against the cold railing. He turned around facing away from you.

You noticed the change in his body straight away, you got up and moved closer to him.

"Lieutenant what's wrong?" You ask, you grab your stethoscope, as you get closer Ghost moves further away, grabbing the railing of the bed for support, his legs tremble. You watch carefully has be bends over, his right hand moving, clutching his chest.

"Let me just che-" You move to him grabbing his shoulder with your left hand but his right hand quickly grabs it, pulling you away from him, his hold on your arm becomes tight, you feel like he was trying to crush the bones within. You didn't wince at the pain.

"Get away" He rasps head bent down trying to control his breathing, pins and needles running up his legs. He could feel the bone beneath as he gripped your flesh.

You narrow your eyes, you stay in the same place, planting your feet on ground, unsure if he was going to swing at you...

"Do you have pain in your left arm?" You ask, his grip on your arms loosens, you pull it back, the gripping sensation tingling lingers.

"No" Ghost let out. "Jus-t- pani-c att-ack" he stifles, struggling to get the actual words out, bending further over the med bed.

You move behind, a few paces back giving him room to move.

"Get up on the bed sir" You say

"Can't legs froz'n" He spat, just then he grabbed the curtain with his left hand and tried to pull it around him, but it only moved slightly. You wanted to laugh at the attempt, but taking it as a sign that he wanted a bit of privacy, you walk over and close the curtain surrounding the bed, Ghost watches, he tilts his head to the side, there's a small gap left and you turn, your back now facing him again.

"I'm going to walk you through what to do sir" You start, standing behind the curtain.

"Okay" He rasps again watching your back from the corner of his eyes.

"Breathe in through your nose for four and hold for four" You add, loudly breathing in from your own nose, hoping he'll follow.

Ghost yanks up his mask and follows, breathing in steadily through the nose, holding for four, and then back out slowly for four. He listens as you do the same.

"Close your eyes and focus on breathing in and out for four" You say calmly, demonstrating by loudly breathing in again.

Ghost closes his eyes, and breathes in for four. He could feel his heart slow down, the pain in his chest subdue. He looks back at you, still there with your back turned, but then you walk away.

No He thought Don't leave me like this

He hears you walk around the infirmary, then the bubbling of the water cooler, and your footsteps approach. He turns, mask half up still, he felt his heart stumble. Through the gap of the curtain comes your arm, your hand holding a cup of water. He felt a warm iciness shred through him.

"Here, take slow sips" You say.

Ghost reaches out and takes the cup, moving closer to the curtain, where you stood on the other side. He takes a small sip from the cup, letting the water pass down him, whilst moving his feet slightly.

You could hear him take small sips, struggling a bit between to take calm breathes. In these situations saying things like don't worry and think happy thoughts felt useless. What personally helped was taking back control of one thing that one thing that makes us

"Need more water?" You ask through the curtain

Through the gap, Ghost's arm appeared, his bare hand holding the empty cup. You take it from him and refilling it and then head back, you put your hand through the gap, this time peaking inside.

You see Ghost standing, leaning back against the med bed. With a quick glance to his face, his fingers were rubbing against bare nose, there was a bit of black paint on his pointed and sharp nose, glancing down at the stubble lining his jaw, you spot the mole on his jugular. His eyes dart to yours and quickly pulls his mask down walking towards your outstretched left arm.

Ghost takes the cup from your grasp with his left hand, with his right he gently takes ahold of your arm. You try to retract your arm, but Ghost lightly grips the same spot, you wince slightly this time.

"I need to check you lieutenant" You slyly say looking at him, he looks back and doesn't respond, just giving you daggers with his blue eyes.

Setting the cup on the empty spot of the tray he lifts the sleeve of your white coat. He sees his red handprint on the top of your forearm, his turns your arm over, on the other side he sees white horizontal scars faintly scattered on your arm, his also sees his fingers marked in red. It'll form into a bruise he thought

Guilt was riling up in him again. He looked up at you, remaining stoic.

"It just needs some ice, not even that" You pulling your hand back to you. Ghost watches as you pull away from him, no anger coming from you, you smile slightly at him.

"You feeling okay?" You ask, face now shifting to concern.

"Alrigh'" He grumbled. He couldn't get the words out to say his was sorry. He couldn't get the words out that said sorry for grabbing you. He was at a loss when he was with you.

You pull back the curtain and you watch as Ghost sits up on the bed, taking his black sweater off, revealing a think black t-shirt. You could see the outline of his shoulder muscles and the name tags underneath the thin black layer.

"Check you blood pressure then if it's okay to check your heart and breathing?" you say motioning with to your stethoscope around your neck.

"Yeah" Ghost says as you bring the blood pressure machine next to him. As you wrap the cuff around this left arm your cold hand brushes against his skin.

Taking the reading again, 132/80.

You frown and look up at him.

"Still high then?" He asks looking at you and then at the flashing numbers

"Given you had a panic attack, there would be a spike in blood pressure" You say "But it's lower than yesterday" You add smiling at him.

Ghost watches as you get up head to your desk, writing in on a post it and then sticking it in your journal.

"I'm sorry doc" Ghost said "Abou' your arm, didn' mean to hurt you" he added looking at you as you look up.

"Don't worry, it's not broken" You say smiling. You look at Ghost and he looks back down, his shoulders hunched over

Perhaps some tea will help? You wonder

"Would you fanc-" You start, Ghost looks up at you as you begin to ask him something, but there was loud knocking on the door both of you look at the door, you roll your eyes and get off the chair.

"Just a minute" You call out looking at the door and then back at Ghost.

"I should get goin'" He said, putting his sweater on and getting up from the med bed. He looks over at you, your mouth open, as if you wanted to say something, but the person behind the door was knocking again.

"Wait one sec" You say then scrunching your face towards the door, you open the door and there stood a tall blonde haired woman wearing the same blue scrubs and white coat. Looking at the face of the woman standing in front of you your jaw dropped.

"Hey girly girl!" The woman said, slight Texan accent, brightly smiling and shaking her blonde hair that reached the edge of her jaw.

Your ex.

"What the fuck" You exclaim loudly

Ghost was surprised by the harshness in which you swore. He took a step forward to see who was at the door. A woman with blonde hair wearing the same clothes as you. His eyes met hers. She looked at him and smiled.

"Sorry, I'll come back later Ru" She said smiling at you and then at Ghost

"Dr Marie, it's Dr Kaur" You snap

"Dr Marie?!" She snorts "Jeez I'm your ex not your oncologist" She laughs

Ghost took in the words your ex...

This is her... He thinks scanning her

"Not now Peyton, I'm working" You snap back shoving her away from the door with your hands. Peyton laughs and walks away as you close the door. You lean back against the door sighing, hitting your head against the door.

"That is.." Ghost starts looking at you, crossing his arms across his chest.

"The succubus that is my ex" You say meeting your eyes with his.

He tried to suppress a snort. But ended doing snort/scoff out of his nose. He walks closer to you.

"Guessin' you didn't know she works here?" He asks only a few steps away from you now

"Knew she worked with RAMC, but didn't know it was this base" You say bitterly scrunching your nose whilst looking at Ghost.

"Hmm" Ghost said, continuing to look down at you.

You move aside and open the door slightly, allowing the lieutenant to leave. But he doesn't move. You close the door again, savouring the moment between the two of you.

"Sure it ain't broken" he says motioning towards your arm. You look back him, bringing your left arm and give him a jazz hand.

"It'll just bruise" You say "Don't worry about it" You add smiling at him.

He looks down cautiously at you. He hurt you and you are trying to be brave about it.

"Ain't lyin' to me doc?" He asks, stepping closer to you, towering over you.

You straighten up, lifting your head up curtly and tilting it to the side.

"No, but you owe me cup of tea" You say smirking testing the ground, trying to be playful with him.

"Owe you a Yorkshire Tea" He says nodding at you, Ghost heads to the door and you open it for him, watching as you smile at him. Leaving the infirmary he watches as you close the door.

Down the corridor he sees the same blonde woman, leaning against the door of your quarters. She looks at him and gets up walking up to him.

"She free now?" She asks him pointing to the door of the infirmary

"Yeah" Ghost grunts, looking down at the woman in front, she had a grin like a cheshire cat on her face.

"Wonderful" She grins, her blue eyes boring into his, he watches as she opens the door and walks in

"Oh piss off-" You moan aloud from the inside and then the door closes, Ghost walks closer to the door trying to listen in. All he could hear was muffled bickering and then some laughing. He sighed and walked away.

He walked down to his room and let himself in. Looking down at his right hand, he gripped it tightly.

How fuckin' stupid was I to grab her he scolded to himself kicking the leg of his desk as he walked to the bathroom.

But what was more interesting was the return of your ex. Ghost takes off his mask and looks at himself in the bathroom mirror, then grabs his bar of soap.

Soap'll be happy to hear about this He thinks to himself as he washes off the black paint off his eyes. Simon then dried his face, and put a bit of moisturiser on and headed to his bed where he laid down.

Looks like I have a bit of competition Simon thought to himself and then sunk his head in the pillow.

[gogglemouse]

"Maud Muller"

"Maud Muller, on a summer’s day, Raked the meadow sweet with hay.

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But when she glanced to the far-off town, White from its hill-slope looking down,

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast,—

A wish that she hardly dared to own, For something better than she had known.

The Judge rode slowly down the lane, Smoothing his horse’s chestnut mane.

He drew his bridle in the shade Of the apple-trees to greet the maid,

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed Through the meadow across the road.

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, And filled for him her small tin cup,

And blushed as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.

“Thanks!” said the Judge; “a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed.”

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, Of the singing birds and the humming bees;

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown And her graceful ankles bare and brown;

And listened, while a pleased surprise Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.

At last, like one who for delay Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.

Maud Muller looked and sighed: “Ah me! That I the Judge’s bride might be!

“He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine.

“My father should wear a broadcloth coat; My brother should sail a painted boat.

“I’d dress my mother so grand and gay, And the baby should have a new toy each day.

“And I’d feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door.”

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Muller standing still.

“A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne’er hath it been my lot to meet.

“And her modest answer and graceful air Show her wise and good as she is fair.

“Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay:

“No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,

“But low of cattle and song of birds, And health and quiet and loving words.”

But he thought of his sisters proud and cold, And his mother vain of her rank and gold.

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, And Maud was left in the field alone.

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, When he hummed in court an old love-tune;

And the young girl mused beside the well, Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.

He wedded a wife of richest dower, Who lived for fashion, as he for power.

Yet oft, in his marble hearth’s bright glow, He watched a picture come and go;

And sweet Maud Muller’s hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise.

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, He longed for the wayside well instead;

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.

And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, “Ah, that I were free again!

“Free as when I rode that day, Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay.”

She wedded a man unlearned and poor, And many children played round her door.

But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, Left their traces on heart and brain.

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,

And she heard the little spring brook fall Over the roadside, through the wall,

In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein.

And, gazing down with timid grace, She felt his pleased eyes read her face.

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls;

The weary wheel to a spinet turned, The tallow candle an astral burned,

And for him who sat by the chimney lug, Dozing and grumbling o’er pipe and mug,

A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty and love was law.

Then she took up her burden of life again, Saying only, “It might have been.”

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, For rich repiner and household drudge!

God pity them both! and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: “It might have been!”

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes;

And, in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away!" -John Greenleaf Whittier

[spicybylerpolls]

I don’t believe they will show some racy or explicit love scene with byler but if they do choose to either show a more tame love scene or imply they are sexually active in some capacity, which I believe would be more likely, how would you guys like to see that play out?

1) Jancy 2.0. A passionate kiss followed by them disappearing into another room to leave the rest up to our imagination, all sexy times strictly implied.

2) Morning after. We don’t see the events that lead up to it but cut to their disheveled selves crawling out from under the covers or from a hay loft or something like it’s normal for them now.

3) Caught in the act. Someone walks in on them and it’s implied by everyone’s reaction that they were doing something naughty or about to.

4) The Murray Special. That man reads Mike and Will to filth, spilling that he knows that they know that he knows that they know that he knows what they are up to.

5) The Stancy 2.0. A little more than Jancy. Kissing on a bed. A shirt gets removed. Romantic song swells. You don’t need to be a scientist to see where this is heading, then it fades out.

6) The 3 Inches Rule. Hopper slams the door open mid kiss. He warns them about his rule and birds and the bees talk starts. Call back to his mileven make out talk in S3 but much, much more awkward.

7) some other scenario that I will send in via anon or if I am brave enough, by comment

Please note that the purpose of this blog is not to be creepy or to make anyone uncomfortable. That's why I created the #spicy byler tag (I will tag all polls with this). If you don't want to see this blog or anything related to it on your feed, please block that tag. Not everyone is comfortable with this sorta stuff, and that's okay.