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joelmillerisapunk · 3 months ago

Text

Howdy Honey II. Beautiful Mess

Series Masterlist * Masterlist * Wordcount 6.6K

Summary: Joel grapples with his frustration and fear after you push him away

Warnings: the fluff before the smut! Some angst and mentions of loss

Notes: Thank you for the long wait for this chapter. Getting back into it with these two has been so much fun! I am very excited for the next chapter heheh. I can foresee three more chapters, which I will hopefully have out at a decent pace. Ty @evolnoomym for reading this over ♏️🌙

You

The first rays of morning light filter through the gauzy curtains, casting a warm glow across the living room. The ranch outside is waking up, the sounds of hooves and rustling hay mingling with the birds' early songs, but inside, there is a stillness. The air is cool, soft, and peaceful before the day fully begins. You lay on the couch, the blanket Joel brought you tucked snugly beneath your chin, feeling the comforting weight of it. The soft fabric smells faintly like him—like the dust and leather of the ranch, with a hint of something deeper you can't quite place. Your body aches from the injury, a constant reminder of your fragility, but the blanket is a small luxury, an oasis of warmth amid the discomfort.

The potted plant in the corner catches your eye as its leaves flutter in the breeze coming through the open window. The subtle movement is a welcome distraction, drawing your focus away from the twinges of pain in your side, from the dull ache that’s become your constant companion. It's not the worst pain you’ve felt in your life, but right now, in the stillness of the room, it feels like the only thing that matters. You wish you were in your own bed, in the comfort of your familiar space. You can almost picture it—your room upstairs, the soft quilts, the shelves filled with books you've collected over the years. But the reality of your situation makes that impossible. The mere thought of climbing the stairs sends another sharp wave of pain through your body, reminding you that independence is a luxury right now, not a reality. You’ve always been fiercely independent—too proud, maybe, to admit when you need help. The idea of relying on Joel, especially now, when every moment around him seems to stir something inside you, feels almost too much to bear. When you were healthy, those stairs were nothing. You could run up them without thinking twice, bounding up two steps at a time. Now, the idea of even attempting it is enough to make your chest tighten, a reminder that things have changed. You can’t ignore it.

Joel has offered more than once to carry you up to your room, insisting that you’d be more comfortable in your own bed. But each time, you've turned him down. It’s not because you don’t trust him. You know he’s kind, that he genuinely wants to help, but the thought of him lifting you, of feeling his strong arms around you... it stirs something in you—something complicated. It's not just physical pain you need to recover from. There’s a tangle of emotions you can't unravel yet, especially not with Joel so close. Instead, you remain on the couch in the living room, finding comfort in its familiar layout. The space is small, but it feels like everything you need is within reach. The kitchen is just a few steps away, and the thought of being able to grab something to eat or drink without too much effort is a small but significant source of relief. You don't have to ask anyone for help every time you need something. The books and movies you've scattered around the room are close enough that you can slip into another world with little more than a turn of your hand. There’s something reassuring about having everything within arm's reach, a reminder that you still have some control, some autonomy, even if your body doesn’t quite feel like your own right now.

But perhaps the most comforting part of this setup is Joel—always nearby. You know he’s there, moving around the ranch just out of sight, yet still within earshot. You can hear the faint sounds of him tending to the animals, the creak of the barn doors, the rustle of hay and boots on the dirt. It's not quite company, but it's enough. If something were to go wrong—if the pain in your side flared up again or you needed assistance in a way you couldn’t manage—Joel would be there in an instant. The thought of him close by, ready to step in, is both a comfort and a quiet reminder of how much you rely on him these days. You tell yourself that you don’t need him, but there's an undeniable warmth that settles in your chest knowing he’s just a room away. Still, the idea of needing help from him, especially in such a vulnerable state, stirs something deeper in you. Something that makes your heart flutter unexpectedly, a feeling that you can’t quite define. It’s easier this way—on the couch, within your little bubble of semi-independence, where your emotions can stay tucked away, just like the soft blanket Joel brought you.

You glance over at the cover of one of his daughter’s western novels, the title catching your eye. There's something about it that piques your curiosity, stirring questions you hadn’t meant to ask. Who is she, this daughter of his? Was she older? And then, the question that sits uncomfortably in your mind: Is Joel married—or was he? You’ve never seen a wedding band on his finger, never heard him speak about a wife. The mystery about him lingers, unresolved. You know you should be resting, but your mind refuses to settle. You shift slightly, adjusting the blanket as you try to distract yourself. Your eyes drift back to the book on the table—a well-worn copy of Lonesome Dove, its spine cracked and pages dog-eared. Something about the worn edges calls to you. It's a link to the world you grew up in, a reminder of the ranch life, of the toughness and independence that runs through your veins. You never could quite leave the ranch, even when you tried. You reach for the book, your fingers brushing against the paper's texture, the act of holding it feeling almost like coming home. You open the cover to the first page, the familiar scent of ink and aged paper filling your senses. As you dive into the world of Gus McCrae and Woodrow Call, the stories of cowboys and cattle drives pull you in. You’re captivated by Gus and Woodrow—two men bound by their pasts but so different in their approach to life.

As you read, you find yourself identifying with Lorena Wood, Gus's girlfriend. Her fight for her place in the world, her refusal to let others define her, resonates with you deeply. The scene where she insists on joining the cattle drive despite the objections of the men speaks to something inside you. The words, “I ain’t afraid of a little hard work,” echo in your mind, a mantra of defiance that you wish you could adopt fully. You can’t be weak. You won’t be.

"Dreamin’ is free, Lorena," Gus says to her, his voice a mix of wisdom and weariness. "It don’t cost nothin' extra to dream good dreams."

The words settle over you, and for a moment, you close your eyes. You think of Joel—his gruffness, his strength, the way he moves through the ranch with a quiet intensity. He’s always there, a steady presence in your life. You can’t help but wonder what kind of man he was before, what dreams he once had, what kind of life he led. Your thoughts drift, pulled back into the story before you can get too lost in them. The sun climbs higher in the sky, its light streaming through the windows, warm now, settling into the room. You glance at the book beside you and set it aside with a small sense of pride. You've made it through several chapters without letting your mind wander too much.

Your side aches more now from sitting too long, and you know it’s time to try standing. It’s been too long since you felt any sense of control over your own body. You push the blanket back, and slowly, you swing your legs over the side of the couch. The room tilts slightly as you plant your feet on the floor, and you take a steadying breath, trying to ignore the sharp twinge in your side. You hate this. Hate feeling weak. Hate needing help. But you can’t let that stop you. You refuse to let it define you. You're determined to regain some independence, to show Joel that you're not just some fragile thing that needs constant watching over.

You push yourself up, wincing as another wave of pain stabs through your ribs. The movement is slow, deliberate. Each step feels like an accomplishment, even as the pain pulses beneath the surface. You make it to the kitchen, though you're panting by the time you reach the counter. You grip it for support, feeling the cool edge beneath your fingertips. The simple act of pouring yourself a glass of water feels like a triumph.

Then you hear the creak of the front door. You don’t have to look to know it’s Joel. The sound of his boots on the floor, the low murmur of his voice as he moves about the ranch—it's all so familiar now. You hear him pause, then step into the kitchen. His eyes widen when he sees you standing there, gripping the counter like it’s your lifeline.

"Well, look at you," he says, a note of surprise and admiration in his voice. "You're up and about."

You offer him a small, self-conscious smile, glad he’s not rushing to fuss over you. "I thought it was time," you say softly, setting the glass of water down with careful movements. "I can't just lie on the couch all day."

Joel chuckles, his gaze sweeping over you with that same intensity that sends a warm flutter through your chest. He steps closer, cautious. "Reckon not," he agrees, voice low. His eyes linger on you, and you can't tell if it's concern or something else. "But don’t go pushin’ yourself too hard now."

"I’m fine," you insist, a little too quickly. "But you look like you’ve been at it all morning. Would you like something to drink?" You try to sound casual, but the offer feels like an excuse to keep him there, a way to ease the tension building between you.

"S’alright, I can get it," he says, but his voice is strained, tired. He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, a visible sign of the work he's been doing.

Before he can protest, you start toward the fridge. "Shut up," you say with a teasing smile. "I got it. Iced tea, right?"

He chuckles softly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "That’d be perfect, darlin’."

The fridge door opens with a soft creak, and you pour the tea, the cool liquid filling the glass with a satisfying sound. The simple act requires more focus than it should, but you take your time, savoring the moment of normalcy. You hand him the glass, your fingers brushing his ever so briefly. The touch is light, fleeting, but it sends an unexpected jolt through you, a spark that neither of you can ignore. For a moment, you both stand there, neither of you speaking, as if waiting for something to break the silence. His gaze flickers to the floor, then back to you, and he clears his throat, taking a small step back.

"Thanks," he says, his voice steady but low, and his eyes meet yours briefly before he raises the glass in a small salute. He drinks deeply, closing his eyes as the cool tea washes over him.

"You're welcome," you reply, your voice quieter than usual. You busy yourself with straightening up the kitchen, your hands shaking slightly as you try to ground yourself in the mundane. But even in the simple act of tidying, you can feel his gaze on you, the weight of it making you feel exposed in a way you can't quite understand.

"You’ve found some use for the blanket and books, I see," Joel says, his voice soft, but you catch the hint of something more in it, something like pride.

"They've been a good distraction," you answer, a little more casually than you feel. "I'm curious about your daughter’s books. She’s got good taste."

At the mention of his daughter, Joel’s face softens, a wistful look crossing his features. "She always did love a good story," he says, his voice quiet, distant. "Used to read to her every night when she was little. We'd get lost in all sorts of adventures together.”

The conversation takes a quiet but significant turn, pulling you both into uncharted emotional territory. You sense it the moment Joel’s expression softens at your question, his guarded demeanor cracking just enough to let a sliver of vulnerability through. It feels fragile, like holding a bird in your hands, its rapid heartbeat thrumming beneath your fingers. You tread carefully, hoping not to press too hard but unwilling to let the moment pass unacknowledged. "What’s her name?" you ask gently, your voice soft but steady. You’re careful, wanting to open the door without forcing him through it.

He hesitates for just a breath before answering, his lips curving into a small, wistful smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "Sarah," he says, his voice tinged with warmth and something deeper—something bittersweet. "Named after my grandmother. She is—" His voice catches, the present tense faltering mid-sentence like a misstep on uneven ground. "She was a special kid."

The weight of that single word, was, hangs in the air between you like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples of meaning outward. It cuts through the small warmth his smile brought, replacing it with a heaviness that settles deep in your chest. Your heart clenches, the realization landing like a blow. You try to keep your voice steady, though your stomach twists. "Was?" you venture cautiously, the single syllable feeling heavier than it should.

Joel’s expression shifts immediately—his jaw tightening, his eyes narrowing just slightly as if bracing for an impact. You see the pain flash through him, raw and unguarded, before he wrestles it back under control. For a moment, you think he won’t answer, that he’ll shut you out completely. But then he takes a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet and steady, though it trembles at the edges. "Sarah passed away a few years back." The words are spoken simply, but their weight is unmistakable, each syllable heavy with grief he’s learned to carry in silence.

The room feels smaller suddenly, the air thinner. You struggle to find something to say, some way to acknowledge the enormity of what he’s shared without reducing it to a hollow platitude. "Joel, I’m so sorry," you finally manage, your voice barely above a whisper. The sincerity in your words is palpable, your own troubles momentarily forgotten in the face of his loss.

Joel nods, his gaze distant, focused on something you can’t see. He doesn’t brush off your condolences or wave them away as you might have expected. Instead, he accepts them with a quiet grace that’s heartbreaking in its simplicity. "S’been tough," he admits, his voice low, almost a murmur. "But you find a way to keep goin’. Life doesn’t stop, even when you wish it would."

His words linger in the air, stark and unvarnished, and you feel the ache in them like a bruise pressed too hard. There’s no bitterness in his tone, no anger—just a quiet resignation, a weariness that feels like it’s etched into his very being. You wonder how often he’s spoken these words, if at all, or if he’s kept them locked away until now. Your gaze drifts to his hands—strong, calloused, and steady even now, despite the weight he carries. You reach out before you can think better of it, your fingers brushing against his forearm in a gesture that feels both small and monumental. "I can’t imagine," you say softly, your words feeling inadequate but heartfelt. "I’m sorry you had to go through that."

Joel looks down at your hand, his gaze lingering there for a moment before he lifts his eyes to meet yours. There’s something in his expression that makes your breath catch—a flicker of gratitude, of recognition, and something else you can’t quite name. "Thank you," he says simply, his voice rough but sincere. He shifts slightly, covering your hand with his own. The warmth of his touch is startling, grounding, and you’re acutely aware of how solid he feels, how present. "For listening," he continues, his voice softening. "I don’t... I don’t talk about Sarah much. It’s hard, you know?" His eyes hold yours, and you see the weight of the years he’s carried this pain, the quiet strength it’s taken to keep moving forward.

You nod, unable to look away. "I think you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for," you say quietly, the words slipping out before you can second-guess them. "Just... holding onto her memory like that. Letting her still be a part of you."

His brow furrows slightly, his gaze searching yours as if he’s trying to decide whether to accept your words. "Don’t feel strong most days," he admits after a pause, his voice so low you almost miss it. "Just feel tired."

The honesty in his words makes your chest tighten, and you press your hand against his arm just a little more firmly, as if to anchor him. "Maybe that’s what strength is," you offer, your voice soft but unwavering. "Getting up every day, even when it feels impossible. Carrying her with you, even when it hurts."

Joel doesn’t respond immediately, but you see something shift in his expression—something almost imperceptible but deeply significant. He exhales slowly, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction, and when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than before. "Maybe," he murmurs, the word more of a concession than a conviction.For a long moment, neither of you says anything. The silence is heavy but not uncomfortable, filled with the weight of everything left unsaid. You let it linger, sensing that Joel needs this space, this moment of quiet connection. When he finally releases your hand, moving his arm slightly, the warmth of his skin lingers, a quiet reminder of the moment you’ve shared. "Thank you darlin’," he says again, his voice steady but soft. There’s something in his eyes now—something lighter, as if the act of sharing, of being heard, has eased the weight he carries, if only a little. "Means more than you know."

—-------

As you prepare to settle onto the couch for the night, the creak of the wooden floor under Joel’s boots pulls your attention. Before you can process what’s happening, he’s beside you, scooping you into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The warmth of his hands against you and the solid strength of his hold leave you momentarily breathless.

"What are you doing?" you protest weakly, though your body betrays you by instinctively wrapping an arm around his shoulders for balance.

He doesn’t stop moving, his tone gruff but resolute. "Takin’ you to your room. You’ll be more comfortable there, and it’s about time you used it again." You start to protest again, murmuring something about being too heavy, but he only huffs. "You think this is the first time I’ve carried someone? You’re fine. Quit fussin’."

Before you know it, he’s carrying you up the stairs, each step steady and sure despite the burden you’re sure you must be. The faint scent of leather and woodsmoke clings to him, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. When he reaches the top, the hallway stretches ahead, dimly lit and quiet except for the faint creak of the floorboards beneath his boots.

Your bedroom door creaks as he nudges it open with his foot. The room feels foreign, almost untouched since your injuries—a time capsule of your life before everything fell apart. Joel sets you down on the bed with a gentleness that belies his rough exterior, his hands lingering briefly to ensure you’re steady before he pulls away.

"There," he says, adjusting the covers around you with meticulous care that makes your chest ache. "Now you get some rest. I’ll be right downstairs if you need anything."

You watch him turn, the broad slope of his shoulders framed by the faint hallway light. A sudden unease wells up in your chest, irrational and overwhelming. The thought of being alone in this room, in this moment, feels unbearable. The words leave your lips before you can stop them.

"Joel, wait."

He stops in the doorway, his silhouette pausing against the light. "What is it, darlin’?" His voice is calm, but there’s an edge of concern beneath it.

Your fingers grip the edge of the blanket as you force yourself to speak. "Could you... stay? Just for a little while. Until I fall asleep."

For a moment, he’s quiet, the furrow of his brow barely visible in the shadows. He looks at you like he’s weighing something heavy, something he’s not sure he can carry. But then he nods, his voice softer when he speaks. "Yeah. I can do that."

He grabs a chair from the corner of the room, pulling it close to the bed and settling into it with a quiet sigh. The room feels smaller now, his presence filling the space in a way that should be comforting, and yet... you feel the weight of it pressing against you.

Joel sits silently, his hands resting on his knees, the flickering light from the bedside lamp casting deep shadows across his face. His gaze flicks toward you occasionally, careful and guarded, as if afraid to linger too long. You watch him through half-closed eyes, noting the subtle lines etched into his features—lines of exhaustion, loss, and something else you can’t quite place. There’s a tension in his posture, a quiet restraint that makes your chest tighten.

"Joel," you say softly, the quiet sound of his name pulling his gaze to yours. He raises an eyebrow, waiting, but the words you wanted to say catch in your throat. What could you even say? Thank him for his kindness? For caring when you’d tried so hard to convince yourself you didn’t need it. Instead, you settle on something you instantly regret. "You don’t have to stay, you know. I’ll be fine."

His expression shifts, the corners of his mouth tightening ever so slightly. For a moment, he doesn’t respond, but when he does, his voice is quieter, almost unreadable. "If that’s what you want."

You open your mouth to correct yourself, to say something that might soften the blow, but the words don’t come. Joel stands, his movements slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to change your mind. You don’t.

"Goodnight, then," he says, his tone even, though there’s a weight behind the words that you can’t ignore. Joel stands, the chair groaning slightly as he pushes it back. He doesn’t move hurriedly, but there’s a deliberateness in his movements that makes your chest tighten. The air between you feels heavier, laced with something unspoken, something you’re not ready to name. And then he’s gone. You stare at the ceiling, your heart heavy with regret, the words you wish you’d said echoing in your mind.

"Stay. Please stay."

But you didn’t. Instead, you let him walk away, the distance between you growing not just physically but emotionally. The warmth of his presence lingers faintly, like the scent of his leather and woodsmoke, but it isn’t enough to fill the void. The ache in your ribs pales in comparison to the one in your chest. You lay there, staring at the ceiling, what was this feeling that had taken root inside you? It wasn’t just gratitude anymore—it was something else, something harder to define. You’d always prided yourself on not needing anyone, but Joel had a way of making that wall crumble, brick by brick. It was confusing. Maybe you were reading too much into it. Or maybe... maybe you were just afraid to hope again. But the way he’d left, the quiet disappointment in his eyes—it made you feel small, stupid even. What were you so afraid of? You hated yourself for pushing him away when all he’d ever done was try to be there for you. But it was too late now. The door was closed, and so, it seemed, was he.

The room is dark, save for the faint glow of the moonlight spilling in through the curtains. You hadn’t noticed Joel still standing there, silent as a shadow. He lingers by the doorway, his silhouette sharp against the dim light. He’s watching you, his brow furrowed, torn between staying and leaving.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” he mutters, more to himself than you.

You turn your head slightly, startled. You thought he'd left. His gaze meets yours for a moment, but the weight of it is too much to hold. You look away, biting the inside of your cheek. “I’m fine,” you say, your voice tight and unconvincing.

Joel lets out a low scoff, shaking his head. “Fine,” he repeats bitterly. “That your favorite word or somethin’?” His boots barely make a sound as he crosses the room, sitting back down on the chair beside your bed. His presence is overwhelming, filling the small space like a storm cloud about to break. You feel the heat of him, as you try to keep your breathing steady. “I know what you're doin',” he says quietly, his tone softer now. “Pushin' me away. But you don’t have to.”

You close your eyes, willing the tears to stay put. His words are gentle, but they cut deep, peeling back the layers you worked so hard to hide behind. You struggle for words, your breath uneven. "I... I don’t know how to do this," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "Letting someone—letting you—"

"You don’t have to know," he says quietly. "You just gotta let me in."

His voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it now, like he's fighting against his own limits, his patience fraying. You want to reach for him, to let yourself lean into him, but the weight of your own walls is too heavy. You want to let go, but something inside you holds you back, paralyzes you with fear. Fear of what letting him in might mean. Your throat tightens as you try to form the words, but nothing comes. His gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t push you—he waits. The tension hangs thick in the air, heavy with unspoken thoughts. But the longer he waits, the more it seems like he’s losing the battle inside himself.

You finally meet his eyes again, but it’s like something’s shifted. There’s still care there, but it’s mixed with frustration, something raw and real. He stands, his movements slow but resolute. "You can’t keep doing this," he says, his voice low but intense. "I can’t keep doing this. You want me to stay, and then... then you push me away.”

His words strike you like a physical blow, the sting of truth cutting through the silence. You don’t know what to say, your heart pounding in your chest, but nothing feels right. The space between you is growing, and you’re helpless to stop it.

The chair scrapes against the floor as he moves it back, the sound harsh in the heavy silence. His words strike you like a physical blow, the sting of truth cutting through the silence. You don’t know what to say, your heart pounding in your chest, but nothing feels right. The space between you is growing, and you’re helpless to stop it.

He moves toward the door, the floor creaking beneath his boots, and you want to scream—to tell him to stay, to tell him you’re not fine, but the words are lodged in your throat, like you’re choking on your own fear.

You sit up in bed, your breath shallow, but you don’t call out. You don’t stop him.

Joel pauses at the doorway, his back to you. For a long moment, it seems like he might turn around, like he might say something else, something to bridge the gap between you. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, his shoulders stiff, his head slightly bowed as though he’s already made his peace with walking away.

Finally, his voice breaks the silence. "You need anything, you holler. I’ll hear ya."

And then the door clicks softly shut behind him.

You sit there, staring at the empty space where he was, the weight of his words still pressing down on you. Your fingers curl around the blanket, but it offers no comfort. Your mind races, a mess of emotions, regret, and frustration. You want to call him back, but it feels like it’s too late.

The room is silent once more, and the emptiness is suffocating. You close your eyes, your chest aching, and for the first time in a long while, you realize how alone you truly are..

Joel

The soft glow of the kitchen light spills across the empty room as Joel leans against the counter, nursing a cup of coffee he doesn’t really want or need at this hour. He stares into the dark liquid, his thoughts elsewhere, running over the events of the evening like a song stuck on repeat.

He shouldn’t feel disappointed. You’d made it clear you didn’t want him there, and he respected that. Hell, he’d been in your shoes before—pushing people away because it felt safer. He couldn’t blame you for it. But that didn’t make the sting of it any easier to shake.

Joel sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. He’d seen the hesitation in your eyes, the conflict. He’d wanted to tell you it was okay, that he’d wait as long as you needed. But the truth was, he wasn’t sure how long he could wait. Every moment he spent with you, every quiet exchange and fleeting touch—it all felt like it was building toward something he wasn’t sure either of you were ready for. "Should’ve known better," he mutters under his breath, his voice barely audible over the hum of the fridge. But even as he says it, he knows he’d do it all over again—because for you, he would wait.

The coffee in Joel’s mug has gone cold by the time he finally pushes himself off the counter and trudges to the living room. He sits heavily on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees as he stares at the darkened television screen. Sleep isn’t coming—not after the way the evening ended.

He rubs a hand down his face, trying to shake off the frustration welling in his chest. It wasn’t your fault, not really. Joel knows that better than anyone. But the way you’d looked at him, the way you’d pulled back, it felt like a door slamming shut in his face. Like he was stupid for even hoping.

“Should’ve just stayed downstairs, fuck sakes,” he mutters to himself. He knows better than to get too close, to expect anything. It’s not fair to you, not when you’ve got enough to deal with. And yet, here he is, hoping like a damn fool.

The faint creak of the floor above reminds him you’re still there, probably lying awake just like he is. Joel shakes his head, dragging a heavy quilt over himself as he stretches out on the couch. Tomorrow, he decides, he’ll keep his distance. Let you come to him if you want.

But the hollow ache in his chest says that might never happen.

—

The next morning the shutting of the door pulls Joel from a restless sleep. He stretches, his back protesting the hours spent on the couch, and grumbles as he sits up. The smell of coffee drifts through the house, but it’s faint—like someone turned the pot off before it finished brewing. Joel frowns. He knows you’re still stiff from your injuries, and the thought of you moving around too much sets him on edge. He stands, rubbing a hand over his face, and heads toward the kitchen.

The sight of the empty space only deepens his unease. The coffee pot is half-full, a mug sitting beside it untouched. He glances out the window, his gut twisting when he spots you trudging toward the barn, determination in every step.

“What the hell are you doin’ now?” he mutters, already grabbing his jacket as he steps outside.

The morning air bites at his skin, but Joel barely notices as he closes the distance to the barn. By the time he reaches the open doors, you’re already climbing onto the tractor, one hand on the seat and the other gripping the wheel.

“Hey!” Joel’s voice echoes sharply in the quiet.

You freeze, your head whipping around to face him. “What?” you ask, your voice defensive, though there’s a flicker of guilt in your eyes.

Joel’s chest tightens, but he doesn’t let it show. “What the hell do you think you’re doin’?”

Your brow furrows, and you straighten your shoulders, your stubbornness flaring to life. “I’m trying to help. You’ve been doing everything, and I thought—”

“You thought wrong.” His tone is sharper than he intends, but the sight of you on the tractor—the very image of Sarah in her last moments—sends a cold wave of fear crashing over him.

You bristle at his words, swinging your legs over the side of the tractor to face him fully. “Excuse me? I’m not a kid, Joel. I can handle this.”

“No, you can’t,” he snaps, his voice louder now. “You don’t even know how to work that damn thing, and you’re in no shape to be tryin’!”

Your eyes narrow, hurt flashing across your face before you mask it with anger. “I’m just trying to pull my weight, Joel. I’m not some burden you have to carry! And yes I can fucking drive the tractor.”

Joel steps closer, his fists clenched at his sides. “You think this is about you bein’ a burden? Dammit, I don’t care about that! I care about you not gettin’ yourself killed because you’re too damn stubborn to listen!”

The words hang in the air, heavy and sharp. Joel’s breathing is uneven, his chest rising and falling as he fights to keep the memories at bay. Sarah’s laughter, the hum of the tractor’s engine, the sickening sound of it tipping over—it’s all there, clawing at the edges of his mind.

But he doesn’t tell you. He can’t.

Instead, he swallows hard and steps back, his jaw tightening. “Just… don’t do this,” he says, his voice quieter but no less firm.

You stare at him, confusion and hurt written all over your face. “Why are you acting like this?” you ask, your tone softer now, but Joel shakes his head.

Joel’s chest tightens, and the fight in his voice only deepens. “Doesn’t matter,” he mutters, but you’re not about to let him brush this off.

“Why the hell not?” You step off the tractor, your foot hitting the ground with a thud, your breath a sharp inhale from the pain and ragged in the cold air. “You’re acting like I’m a damn liability—like I can’t handle myself. You think I want to sit around doing nothing while you work yourself to the bone?”

Joel shakes his head, his eyes dark with frustration. “That ain’t it, and you know it. You think I want to be overprotective? You think I don’t see you fightin’ through every goddamn thing just to prove you’re not weak? I get it, alright? But this—this isn’t the way to do it.”

“You don’t get it,” you snap back, your voice growing more desperate. “I don’t need your pity, Joel. I don’t need you to hold my hand or protect me like I’m some fragile thing you have to save. I’m fine. I can do this.”

“You’re not fine!” Joel’s voice cracks, his patience running thin, and the raw emotion behind it makes you pause, your anger faltering for just a second. He steps closer to you, his face inches away. “You’re not fine, and I’m not gonna sit here and watch you hurt yourself just because you’re too damn proud to accept help.”

Your ribs ache as you take a step back, your hands trembling at your sides. His words, his proximity—they feel like they’re suffocating you, pulling you into a place you don’t want to go. But you can’t stop yourself. “I don’t need help,” you mutter, though the words come out unconvincing, jagged.

Joel’s gaze softens, and for a brief moment, it’s like you’re both standing in some kind of fragile truce. But it doesn’t last. The distance between you, emotional and physical, feels too heavy to bear, and Joel moves in again. His voice is quieter now, but there’s a deep, aching sincerity in it. “I don’t want you to need help. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

You swallow hard, your chest tightening with something you don’t know how to name. It’s the space between your stubbornness and his care, the tension of wanting to push him away but knowing deep down that you can’t. You want to break, to let go, but you won’t—can’t—show him how much you’re falling apart.

You both stand there in the cold, the world around you feeling distant, like it’s no longer real. And then, before you can stop yourself, you say something that takes both of you by surprise. “Why do you care so damn much?” Your voice cracks as you finally let the wall down, the question raw and vulnerable.

Joel’s eyes darken, his breath catching at the depth of the question. He looks at you, really looks at you, and there’s a long silence that stretches between you, thick with everything unspoken. Then, his lips curl slightly, the ghost of a sad smile on his face, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I’ve been where you are,” he says, his voice low. “I’ve lost too much. And I’m not gonna lose anyone else... not like this.”

You don’t know what to say to that. For a moment, your anger falters, replaced with something deeper, something you can’t hide anymore.

Before you realize what’s happening, you’re the one reaching for him, your good hand finding his shirt, pulling him toward you. He hesitates for a second—his body tense, unsure—but then he moves, just like you knew he would. The kiss is sudden, urgent, and the world tilts with it. Your ribs protest, but you don’t care. His hands cradle your face, his lips pressing against yours, rough but soft, like he’s trying to steady himself just as much as you are.

Your heart races in your chest, the ache in your ribs fading as the heat of him seeps into your skin. For a brief, fleeting moment, everything else stops. The fight, the stubbornness, the fear—it all disappears in the space between your mouths. It’s like he’s holding you together, like you’re finally letting him do the one thing he’s been begging you for - to let him in.

When you break away, it’s slow, your breath ragged, but neither of you moves far. You’re still close—too close—and yet, somehow, it feels right. Joel’s forehead rests against yours, his breath warm on your skin. He doesn’t speak at first, just keeps you there, close enough to feel the weight of his every breath. Finally, he whispers, his voice hoarse. “You’re not alone, you know that?”

You nod, the words too hard to say, but the truth of them sits heavy between you. And for the first time in what feels like forever, you believe it.

Taglist @akah565 @anoverwhelmingdin @brittmb115 @hannah9921 @maried01

@mermaidgirl30 @red-red-rogue @wintersquirrel

#joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #tlou fanfiction

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wlntrsldler · 11 months ago

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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.

#frances writes #poisoned mercury #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan pjo #luke castellan fanfic #luke castellan #luke pjo #luke castellan x yn #luke castellan x y/n #luke castellan x you #percy jackson fanfic #percy jackson

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bell-swamp-fitzjames · 6 days ago

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oops all lieutenants! playlists for the terror (2018)

What an auspicious day! Not only did the davechella playlist post early enough for me to enjoy it as usual, I get the joy of sharing my Edward Little playlist. Along with the other lieutenants of my fav show, minus Jopson who I know could & should be on here, but he got dropped with the doctors in honor of DJ Doll Eyes Sunday. Below will be all the playlists linked & every playlist made thus far can be found on the pinned post in my blog. Check it out, I got a lot of guys so far. Thanks to all who listen to me yap (or check out the playlists), as always this is a lot of fun. And without further ado...

Edward Little [LINK]

пачка сигарет by Kino || Angel by Massive Attack, Horace Andy || Tom's Diner by Vega, DNA || Ladies of the Canyon by Joni Mitchell || She's Lost Control by Joy Division || Cherry Came Too by Jesus and the Mary Chain || Don't Know Why by Slowdive || A Forest by The Cure, Mark Saunders || Ana by Pixies || Deep Water by Strawberry Switchblade || My Evil by Palehound || Deep Water by Vundabar || Ghost by Neutral Milk Hotel || Under Ice- 2018 Remastered by Kate Bush || The River Song by Donovan || Sea, Swallow Me- 2024 Remastered by Cocteau Twins, Harold Budd || Static Shape by Chad VanGaalen || There Is a Light That Never Goes Out- 2011 Remaster by The Smiths || Tibetan Pop Stars by Hop Along || Tainted Love by Soft Cell

John Irving [LINK]

Sun Bleached Flies by Ethel Cain || Losing My Religion by Hootie & The Blowfish || Little Big Mistakes by Tom Rosenthal || God Only Knows by The Langley Schools Music Project || Goodnight Bad Morning by The Kills || Everyman Needs a Companion by Father John Misty || Oh Holy Night by Andrew Bird || Troubled Waters by Cat Power || Divine Loser by Clem Turner || Monkey Gone To Heaven by Pixies || Dissonance- Demo by AJJ || O Come O Come Emmanuel by Sufjan Stevens || Jesus Wants Me For A Sunbeam by The Vaselines || This Night Has Opened My Eyes- 2011 Remaster by The Smiths || First Love / Late Spring by Mitski || Don't Get Lost in Heaven by Gorillaz || Knife Going In- Demo by Tegan and Sara || Your Silent Face - 2015 Remaster by New Order || Picture Of My Dress by The Mountain Goats || Unfucktheworld by Angel Olsen

George Hodgson [LINK]

Shangri-La by Electric Light Orchestra || POOR GEORGE by James Supercave || Erreur 404 by L'Imperatrice || Let's Get Lost by Chet Baker || Adoro te devote by Stirps lesse, Enrico De Capitani || Postcards from Italy by Beirut || Theme From New York, New York- 2008 Remaster by Frank Sinatra || Tried And True by Ween || Soil, Soil by Tegan and Sara || Dreamer by Supertramp || Oh l'amour - Edit by Erasure || Heatwave by Martha Reeves & The Vandellas || Radio Ga Ga- Remastered 2011 by Queen || Boys Don't Cry by The Sure || Waterloo Sunset by The Kinks || Send Me An Angel by Real Life || We Three (My Echo, My Shadow, And Me) by The Ink Spots || Love & Pride by King || It's My Life - 1997 Remaster by Talk Talk || Girlfriend In A Coma by The Smiths

Graham Gore [LINK]

Glow In The Dark by Lil Pump || Lucid Dreams by Juice WRLD || EARFQUAKE by Tyle, The Creator || Doomsday by NERO || The Blonde Leading the Blond by Wax Fang || Outsiders by Franz Ferdinand || Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger by Daft Punk || Hit the Ground by No Mana, Bertie Scott || Alien Boy by Oliver Tree || 3005 Childish Gambino || Fade Out by Seether || Pursuit of Happiness by Kid Cudi, MGMT, Ratatat || Hay Ya! by Outkast || Party and Bullshit by The Notorious B.I.G. || Oblivion by Grimes || Dammit by blink-182 || 4th Dimension by KIDS SEE GHOSTS || Feel Good Inc. by Gorillaz || Beast of Burden - Remastered 1994 by The Rolling Stones || All Caps by Madvillain, Madlib, MF DOOM

Henry Le Vesconte [LINK]

Cold Cold Cold by Cage The Elephant || Frostbiter by Saintseneca || Hopscotch by Pinc Louds || Electric Funeral by Slothrust || General Discomfort by Serpent Cobra || Rainbow in the Dark by Dio || Gouge Away by JEFF The Brotherhood || Guts- 2013 Remaster by Budgie || Mansion of Misery by Miniature Tigers || If I Stay (Awake) by The Worn Flints || Feel the Heat by Me Like Bees || Polly's God by Perfekt Square || Don't Forget the Sun by Wailin' Storms || Codeine by Welles || Sick Day by Fountains of Wayne || Keep in Mind by Breakneck Flow || Sick Shit- Live from Lincoln Hall by Together Pangea || What's Done Is Done by Madde || Black Cat Heaven by Dan Luke and the Raid || Grapefruit High by French Thyme

James Fairholme [LINK]

Frostbite by punkett || Beheaded by The Offspring || Barcelone by Tommy Hools || Eleanor by Cake Bake Betty || Surchin 4 U by Naked Giants || The Party's Crashing Us by of Montreal || There Is No God by Mrs. Magician || I Still Love My Body by Yabadum || Shut Me Down by Godflesh || Jazzhole by Free the Robots || Out Of Gas by Modest Mouse || Fuck Off by The Frogs || Winter's Going by DJ Signify, Buck 65 || Bitin' the Bullet by GROUPLOVE || Like a Star by Mike Krol || Cold Cadaver by King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard || Angel Eyes and Basketball by Foot Ox || Fell Down a Hole by Wolfmother || Hello Cruel World by Dent May || Woof Woof by ARTHUR

#terror playlist heaven or hell #edward little #john irving #george hodgson #james fairholme #henry le vesconte #graham gore #davechella

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ms0milk · 5 months ago

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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

PREV | M.LIST | TAGLIST | NEXT

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.

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#bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #welcome back >:)#a hymn to black water #fantasy bakugo x reader #fantasy bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha fantasy au #mha fantasy au #fantasy bakugou #fantasy bakugo

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gothicallybright · 3 months ago

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SHE GETS THE JOB DONE! (2)

⊱ ────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ────── ⊰

you and chappell are left alone in the house, leading to some intimate activities.

w: smut. (it's down there don't worry, you just have to scroll.)

⊱ ────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ────── ⊰

The next morning, sunrise slowly painted the sky with hues of orange and yellow. The soft sun rays streaked through the cracked open barn door, casting a stream of light into the dim interior. The rooster's crow echoed across the quiet countryside, signaling the new day.

You slowly awoke, but not to the sound of the rooster, rather to the sound of a harmonica playing from the barn, its sound adding a touch of peace to the morning. Your husband was thankfully away at work, leaving you alone with Chappell finally.

The morning light grew stronger, illuminating the surrounding countryside. A gentle breeze stirred the air, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass. You sighed softly, inhaling the countryside smells, pushing a stray loose strand of hair over your ear, and approached the barn, your steps softer and calmer now.

You quietly walked to the barn, pushing the door gently. Your eyes fell on Chappell sitting on the hay, harmonica in hand, her hat casting a shadow over her face. You stood there, a soft smile tugging on your lips, watching Chappell play the harmonica, the quiet barn filled with the soft, mellow tune. The soft tune of the harmonica paused, and Chappell looked up, noticing your presence. She stopped playing, her fingers still resting gently against the harmonica. The soft sunlight illuminating the barn, adding a warm glow.

You stepped farther into the barn, your footsteps hushed against the hay-strewn floor. You reached Chappell and lowered yourself down next to her on the hay. You sat quietly, your hands clasped gently over your knees, the atmosphere in the barn feeling more… intimate. You both stayed quiet for a few moments, simply listening to the faint sounds of the countryside and the distant song of birds.

''My husband left for work.'' you said softly, a hint of relief in your voice. Chappell asked to shower quickly, and you nodded. ''Yes, of course you can. I'll show you the way.'' You told her, getting up from the hay and offering her a hand which she accepted. Chappell fed her mare before following you into the house. The echo of her boots hitting the wooden floor brought you great comfort. You took the lead and guided Chappell towards the bathroom. The house was quiet, and soft morning sunlight streamed through the window. You opened the bathroom door for her and turned on the light, indicating where the towels and toiletries were. She lowered her hat and smiled, a simple thank you gesture before leaving outside to take her spare clothes she brought with her.

As Chappell began showering, you decided to make breakfast for the two of you. A little appreciation of her hard work. You moved around the kitchen, starting to prepare breakfast, the smells of bacon, eggs, and coffee filling the air. The clatter of kitchenware and the sound of sizzling bacon filled the home, making it cozy. You worked diligently, your moves familiar in the kitchen, humming softly to a country song, your attention divided between the cooking and the water running from the bathroom.

The breakfast was finished and ready to be served. You carefully placed the two plates opposite of each other, serving the same amount of food on them. You placed the two cups from the cabinet and filled them with coffee. Chappell stepped into the kitchen, her reddish curls still wet from the shower. She was dressed in a clean set of clothes, her outfit simple yet stylish, a hint of country charm. The scent of soap mingled with the aroma of the food, her skin still a bit damp, and her curls a little wilder from the shower. Water droplets clung lightly to her shirt, adding to the just-showered look. You turned and looked at Chappell, the heat instantly flashing on your cheeks. You watched, her clothes clinging slighting to her damp skin, perfectly shaping her figure. Your eyes widened slightly, expression a mix of surprise, admiration and subtle attraction.

''Breakfast? Oh. You didn't have to do that, ma'am.'' Chappell said, a nervous laugh escaping her mouth. You smiled, looking slightly flustered, still holding the coffee machine in your hands. "Oh, it's no trouble," you said, your voice light and sincere, your eyes still tracing Chappell gently. You sat down at the table, shaking your head gently. "I thought you might appreciate something to eat before you start your work," you added.

''Thank you.'' Chappell expressed her gratitude, a soft smile tugged at the corner of her lips. She took a seat at the table, appreciating the food laid out before her. You two ate in a comfortable silence, the quiet only broken by the clinks of silverware and the soft sounds of chewing, the only other sound the murmur of birds outside the window. The sun streamed in, casting a soft, warm glow over the table.

You finally felt at peace while eating breakfast. No yelling and complaining, just silence.

''No antlers on the walls?'' Chappell pointed out, gesturing towards the empty spot on the doorway. You chuckled slightly. ''No. Mating doesn't call in this house.'' Chappell raised an eyebrow, ''How so?'' ''Well, I guess it's just that… he can't satisfy me enough.'' You looked to the side, remembering how disgusted you felt during intimacy with him. Chappell shrugged. ''He just doesn't get the job done.'' She said, wiping her hands on a rag and getting up from the table. She picked up her dirty plate and brought it to the sink, washing it clean and placing it on the dish drainer. You were stunned. Your husband never did that. You always had to wash his plates. Chappell noticed your surprised stare and smiled. ''It's just manners, ma'am.'' she says in her usual accent. You watched her quietly, your eyes following every movement, feeling a strange flutter in your chest.

Your eyes slowly trail away from her and onto the colorful sticky note placed on the fridge door. Your eyes narrow with curiosity as you peel it off, reading the words. It was from your husband.

''Bussiness trip. Will be away for 2 days. I better not see any trace of the carpenter by the time I'm home.''

Your eyes sparkled up with joy and a smile quickly replaced your curious expression. You quickly rushed over to Chappell who was swaying her hips to the songs on the radio, washing the dishes. ''Chappell, Chappell!'' Chappell looked up, her blue eyes meeting yours. You could see a hint of curiosity on her face. "Ah, yes?" she replied, her voice carrying a hint of interest. You took a moment to compose herself, your heart beating slightly faster, anticipation coursing through you. "My husband will be out of town for the next two days. He's on a business trip." You said, your eyes watching Chappell, awaiting her reaction. Chappell tilted her head slightly, a mix of surprise and curiosity in her expression, "Your husband's going on a business trip?" she mused out loud. You nodded, your excitement barely contained, a smile threatening to widen on your lips.

Chappell stared at you blankly, and the next thing you know, you're outside with her, laughing your asses off, your old vintage camera in hands, taking pictures. ''God, you're such an idiot!'' You said through laughter as you hit Chappell playfully. ''What??'' She exclaimed, a confused happiness on her face. ''What even is that face? You look like a duck!'' Chappell pretended to be offended, letting out a scoff. ''Ma'am… it's called duck face for a reason.'' You rolled your eyes with a smile. ''Whatever.''

You started to flip through the other pictures you took, noticing how happier you looked with her than your husband. As you continued to flip, a picture of you came up that you took a few months back. It was a picture of you sitting on top of your favorite cow, Bessie. Chappell's eyes light up, pointing out how cute that is. You suggested that she also takes a picture like that, and she gladly accepted.

With a good-natured grin, you led Bessie into the backyard. Chappell, with her nimbleness, quickly climbed onto the cow's back and posed, balancing herself perfectly, camera in hand ready for the perfect shot. Bessie, usually calm and docile, suddenly seemed to have a change in mood. Her head jerked around, her eyes narrowing, and she let out a low grumble, as if annoyed. A moment later, she abruptly began to toss her head and body, trying to shake off Chappell.

She yelped as she was suddenly set flying off of the cow's back, landing on her ass, the cowboy hat she had been wearing fell off her head. You were taken aback by Bessie's unusual tantrum, but when you saw Chappell laying on the ground, hat knocked off, you burst out into laughter.

Chappell, still laughing softly despite the slight pain in her ass, slowly got up from the ground. Her unruly red curls were even more disheveled now, pieces of hay tangled within them, making her look like she'd just finished a wrestling match with Bessie. You quickly picked up the camera that fell on the ground and snapped a picture of Chappell, hay in her hair and her clothes stained from the dirt. The candid shot captured the moment perfectly, freezing it in time. Chappell, realizing you had taken the picture, pretended being annoyed, pretending to pout. She crossed her arms, a mock frown on her face. "Ay, you took a picture of me when I looked like a mess," she protested, although the playful tone of her voice betrayed her true feelings. You laughed slightly. ''Well, I like that mess.'' You winked at her and her pretended pout was replaced by a grin.

''Oh? I'll give you a mess then.''

She grabbed a handful of hay. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the hay at you, aiming it to land in your hair and on your clothes. You let out a surprised laugh as the hay dusted your hair and landed on your clothes. You placed the camera on the ground and began to frantically swat at the pieces of hay, trying to get them off, but the hay seemed to cling stubbornly, sticking to your shirt and hair. The grin on Chappell's face broadened, her laughter ringing out as she continued to throw more hay, clearly enjoying your 'suffering'. As you were distracted by swatting away the hay, Chappell took the opportunity, grabbed the camera and took a picture of you in a total mess. ''There ya go! Now we're even, miss!'' She teased you as you were shaking your head at her, still swatting away the hay.

Time was passing by fast and you continued to hang out with Chappell outside as the afternoon slowly turned into evening and the sun slowly set, casting warm, golden hues across the sky. The soft, warm light of the setting sun added a cozy ambience to the whole property. You and Chappell, still giggling and covered in hay, decided to retreat inside as the sun was close to setting now. You walked back into the house, the warm, familiar interior awaiting you, still carrying the same laughter and high spirits from the time you had just spent outside.

As dinner concluded, Chappell and you moved to the upstairs bedroom, the warm, gentle feel of the room creating an intimate setting. You settled yourselves on the bed, the television in front of you displaying a show, the artificial light from the screen casting a faint glow on your faces. You were now lying next to each other, your bodies dangerously close, a hint of thrill in the air as your shoulders occasionally brushed against each other.

Your heart was beating fast, your breath rigged a bit. The wedding ring on your finger weighed heavily on your conscience. You were married, but you didn't care about that now. You took off the ring and placed it on the nightstand table which caught Chappell's attention. ''You okay?'' She asked. The gentle smell of soap filled your nose due to the shower you both took a few minutes ago, her hair still a bit wet. The tension between you was palpable, building up like a storm. You noticed Chappell leaning closer to you, your lips now inches apart. Without another moment's hesitation, you closed the distance between you and pressed your lips to hers. You could tell Chappell was taken aback at first, but she quickly deepened the kiss, her hands roaming over your body like a map. You wrapped your arms around her, pulling her closer as your bodies began to sway against each other. You ran your fingers through her hair, feeling the wetness of it as she climbed on top of you. The kiss deepened, your tongues intertwining in a sensual dance. Chappell gripped you tighter, your bodies melding together.

Her hands continued to roam, exploring every curve and line of your body. Chappell's lips descended from your lips to your neck, claiming it in a searing kiss. She sucked gently, relishing the soft skin beneath her lips. You arched your back, your nails raking through her hair. She increased the pressure, leaving a hickey on your delicate skin. When she was satisfied, she unbuttoned your shirt, kissing down your chest, lips trailing on your stomach. The sounds from the TV were slowly getting muffled out from your aroused moaning as Chappell kissed her way down to your inner thigh, her fingers grazing the sensitive skin. She paused, her lips hovering over your core, hot and tantalizing. You squirmed beneath her, your hips lifting, begging for more. She slowly slid the barrier that was sealing your sweet spot and her tongue began circling your most sensitive spot, causing your eyes to water in pleasure and your hips to lift, seeking more of her touch. She noticed your desperation and increased the pressure, her tongue applying just the right amount of pressure on your spot, driving you wild. Your fingers gripped the sheets tightly, your cries of ecstasy echoing through the room, completely drowning out the TV sounds. You felt a knot forming in your stomach, and the moment she slid her fingers in, the knot untied, sending a wave of pleasure through your body. You exhaled loudly, your eyes closing in a bliss, your hands slowly releasing the bed sheets which were left disheveled.

After the passion had ceased, you found yourself in Chappell's arms, your bodies still intertwined. Soft, comforting words and whispers filled the air as you gently caressed each other. Chappell would trail delicate kisses along your collarbone or neck, a soft murmur of "I love you" accompanying the tender touch. Your fingers would gently trace the contours of her body, a soothing pattern of touch and connection. The atmosphere was warm and intimate, the room filled with a gentle, comforting energy. You snuggled up to her as close as possible as the TV began flashing your favorite TV show.

#chappell roan #lesbian #sapphic #wlw #wlw post #chappell roan x reader #fem reader #sapphism #wlw story #wlw nsft #wlw smut

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unforgivenn · 10 months ago

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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.

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dragon-teaparty · 2 years ago

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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

youtube

"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."

#leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon scott kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leonxreader #leon s kennedy x reader #y/n #leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x you #leon kennedy x y/n #self insert #x reader #resident evil x reader #resident evil x you #resident evil #resident evil 2 #resident evil 2 remake

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mousetoe-wc · 1 year ago

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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

#warrior cats #wc

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towertea · 4 days ago

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first post here

listening session two:

I just took my meds so I’m going to try to be smart at the beginning but whew, it is a lot harder to come up with coherent thoughts before they kick in! Also, I have got Genius in a split-screen with my doc, so I might get some line breaks messed up. Oops. Get ready for 2,700 words of pure nerdery.

(the manuscript)

First of all I really like the tone that the beginning of this song sets! The single horn to me evokes feelings of waking up early in my childhood family trips to the Adirondack Mountains, hearing bird calls echo across the foggy lake. A single horn in Western culture makes me think of my grandma’s stories of playing Taps at summer camp; it sounds to me almost like a bugle, used in historical wartime as a signal. The presence of a single brass in our society tells us that we need to pay attention, and combined with Susan’s quiet, spoken narration, this song strikes a perfect tone after the craziness in the end of “happy/crazy.”

Another ghost! I’m paying close attention to her behavior; the grandfather’s ghost was clearly stuck in a cycle in his words, and the grandmother isn’t, but I wonder if she will be in some other way. Or, as the original master of the house, maybe she’s the sorcerer with power over the pūķis and the hoard, and she’ll be able to guide Susan out of her struggle.

(the berries and the plums)

A story within a story!! I’m a big fan of this trope. It reminds me of being a kid and obsessed with mythology and stories. It also reminds me of 1001 Arabian Nights, where Scheherazade has her own story that’s driving the stories that she tells. I’m a big fan of storytelling in general; I used to tell my little sister elaborate fairytales in the car.

Ching Valdes-Aran plays the grandmother. So far I really think she’s perfect for it! I love her voice, and she has a knowing sparkle in her eye. She’d make a badass sorcerer!!

Love the imagery! Nice callback to the line “the birch trees stand like ghosts”, because now we see that in a way, they are ghosts. They witnessed history that’s passed on.

My English teacher from freshman year is reminding me that “cannon fire coming closer/his eyes so far away” is an example of poetic antithesis, where two opposing ideas are placed in a contrasting parallel structure. Think “to be, or not to be” from Hamlet. Its use here highlights how painful it is to be in this situation: your husband should be close to you. Danger ought to be far away

Also, hay! It’s the first building material in the Three Little Pigs. I hope that for Grandmother, hay hides her better than the first little pig.

Man. Grandmama you’re not the only one whose heart he’s breaking… ough

I’m noticing that this is one of the first songs we get that’s in common (4/4) time! We’ve pretty much entirely been getting waltzes to sweep us along through Susan’s life, and this creates a musical contrast that separates this song as telling a story rather than a story unfolding.

I feel like I can’t get a read on the grandfather’s verses analytically. I mean, I guess this makes sense. It’s supposed to be expressing the fact that there’s some distance between him and the rest of the family that can’t be bridged. I struggle with the fact that I can’t understand him here, which is probably the point. But given that he’s presented as Susan’s mirror, the guy to pass down Susan’s tendencies towards depression and addiction, I hope that we get to understand his motives at some point. Otherwise I sort of feel like Susan’s not ever going to understand herself, and that would be kind of disappointing. Or maybe the point will be that there’s a darkness in all of us that we’ll never understand, and we just have to live with that, which… Yeah, I guess that’s Realistic… But come on man. It would be nice to understand it!!

I like the explicit mirroring on the “I can’t leave yet” and the “some day/when all my troubles here are over” between the Grandfather and Susan.

What a Roman it would make? I have a real boner for Rome. If y’all ever need Latin translations… hit me up. Ah, I see okay. Someone’s attached a comment from Dave on the listening party: I didn’t know that this was inspired by his own family! That’s interesting. I think that definitely lends to how compelling the story is.

Crying like a baby. The tiny quiet dissonant violin. the HARMONIES??? I’m actually dying.

Yeah, I mean I don’t think my troubles will go away within my life either.

(blood)

Awww… A little bit disappointed with the pacing here. Suddenly she understands herself perfectly after spending like a billion songs going crazy? I mean I guess that was how lockdown felt: endless and then over all of a sudden.

Damn, is there stuff on Genius that’s cut out of the song? That disappoints me a bit, I’d like to know why.

I really do agree with Susan here. There is so much more that I want to know too! I guess I’ll have to resign myself to this, but man, I would listen to a whole musical of just Susan and her family.

I’m drawing a parallel thematically between the “demon” inside of Susan and the monster in Octet.

Nevermind actually I’m no longer disappointed with the pacing. Spooky sound and a haunting last line. I’m a big fan of works of art that use that unfulfilled feeling that comes when a story doesn’t have a satisfying end, at least when it’s done well. I think if you ever want to read books that give that same feeling, I would definitely recommend Kazuo Ishiguro’s writing; I think his books The Remains of the Day* and A Pale View of Hills are thematically and tonally very similar to Susan’s arc. Many of his books are very character-driven rather than plot-driven, exploring the inner workings of their minds over the course of a novel without having large concrete changes. I think Susan’s arc, at least, is definitely very character-driven in the same way, peeling back the layers of her character without significant changes to her life. I think this artistic choice innately often creates a sense of disappointment and even anger in the audience because after becoming attached to a character we want to see things get better for them; actually, concretely, better. But when done well, it’s a touching, delicate, and realistic exploration of a character. We want there to be a happy ending, but we don’t always get that. When this trope is executed well, it brings a sense of companionship for us people outside of stories who don’t get neat tidy endings. I think Susan’s arc is pretty damn good. *I have never watched the movie and I don’t know whether it’s good. The book is really damn good. Read it.

(intro (ii))

Huge fan of the more electronic sound here! I hope it’ll carry on throughout Sadie’s arc. It’s not the first time Malloy has done this in one of his works; I’m reminded of Great Comet, where the music is more folk and classical inspired and shifts to add electropop when Anatole shows up.

This is also a waltz!

Ooh I am in love with Mia Pak’s voice!

I like the contrast I can see between a desert and Sarah’s forest with her riches in her house. Don’t really have any deeper thoughts on that right now… but I wonder if it’ll show up later.

Okay, we have some more strings in here, so I guess her arc won’t just be electronic. It would be really embarrassing if there were electronic influences during Sarah’s arc and I just plumb forgot.

(desert)

Oh I super love this organ!! It conveys a bit of energy that I don’t remember Sarah having at this point, and the beat has a pep in its step too. So far, I would definitely put this on my warmup playlist, haha.

OOOH!!! DAVE MALLOY!! The sudden change in the music from the exposition to how great the house was!! I love the way Pak’s voice sounds on “fucking GREAAAAAT!” It goes along with the change in instrumental depth very well. I think I’ll have this song on loop for a while.

In the background here I recognize a super common bass line from playing jazz, blues, and ragtime in piano. I like the decrease in energy when she talks about looking at the stars.

Just for my own bookkeeping, I would like to make the observation that this is not a waltz.

I love the melody on “flitter and flutter!” And I’m a big fan of the alliteration and onomatopoeia on “while the windchimes whisper lullabies.” The phrase “colorstorms of dust” reminds me almost of stained glass for some reason. The way she’s describing the scenery it almost makes me feel like it’s a cathedral; when it’s quiet, it’s holy and reverent, and when it’s loud, it’s magnificent and powerful. I think the organ probably is lending to this impression.

Oh! the minor chords! I have a feeling this is not going to turn out all perfect. I really like the transition to a more sparse soundscape instrumentally to highlight how alone she is.

Oh she’s playing video games!! No wonder the sound has an electronic influence! Sarah had her grandparents’ records, so her instrumentals had a classical music influence. Sadie’s just playing video games (me too babe) so she’s got that electronica.

I feel like I should make sure people know I haven’t played music since I was twelve and that this is not the correct language for doing so, probably. I am going off of vibes.

(the village)

Oh! She’s talking about swords and sorcery. Sarah’s grandmother is the sorcerer in her arc, as the master of the pūķis, and she talks about picturing her grandmother with a sword. I love when things tie together!

Dave Malloy would make a banger video music soundtrack.

OH AND SHE WAS A LITTLE PIG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WOAH!!!!!!!!! Because she’s one of the Three Little Pigs!

(the house)

I looked up photos of Vermillion, Ohio, and it’s really a gorgeous place.

OH! “The house of my childhood summers/the house of my childhood happiness” draws a really interesting parallel not just between being happy and being a child but also summer and happiness! Looking at the pandemic timeline I think she’s probably in the summer right now, and it’s a nice twist of dramatic irony that she’s not happy in this New Mexico summer and has to escape to a video game recreation of her childhood.

I am someone who will spend forever looking at photo albums.

Wait, so will her grandparents be ghosts too? She’s not in their house though. Will they go into the video game?? Will the WOLF be in the video game??? A game that’s like animal crossing but with this horrifying wolf as an antagonist sounds like a lot of fun to play.

I like the dissonance here when they’re listing objects.

Mention again of OCD, which is also mentioned in Octet. I know Malloy has mentioned before that OCD traits run in his family, and in all of these there seems to be that compulsion to do things until it’s Right. I know that sometimes people say “I’m so OCD” about liking things to be clean and orderly, and that drives me and a lot of people nuts. I think it’s different in this presentation and in Octet because clearly there’s a harmful element to the compulsive behaviors. It’s not just hating when things are messy, there’s a desire to do something to make “everything just right.” I think this distressing quality is highlighted by the dissonance here.

(carpentry)

OH! She says that she chose her specialty as carpentry because her grandpa was a luthier! And Sarah got HER depression and addiction from her grandfather!! Woah!! That’s the same relation! In both characters! I love when things are related!!

Okay, this clears up my question. On the casting on wikipedia it only mentioned one Grandmother and one Grandfather, but the different characters’ grandparents are played by the same actors.

Hurdy-gurdys are really cool. I’d link a video but I’m guessing that he’s going to play it later.

Wondering if these references to playing instruments might also be related to Malloy’s own experience, given that he plays instruments that I didn’t know existed in some of his shows and he mentioned earlier that a line was taken from something his grandmother said.

Oh that’s some really good dramatic irony. A character in a musical is saying that he’s merely a vessel. I don’t know whether that particular parallel was intentional, but I’m rather fond of it.

(planks)

Oh there’s fighting in this game? Animal Crossing got dark all of a sudden. Oh yeah I guess she did mention swords earlier. The possibility of the Wolf showing up and there being a boss fight is slim but Not Zero!

I love the harmonies on “chasing butterflies/doing jumping jacks/practicing for the jousting tournament!”

Self-aware! I love to see it.

I think it’s real interesting how Sarah avoids contact with her ex but Sadie is looking for it. Wondering what the last pig will have. His name’s Beckett, right?

We plank! we plank! until our mind goes blank! I like the double meaning of plank here. Zippy’s working out and doing planks. Sadie’s character is a carpenter, and she’s building with planks to avoid her feelings in her isolation. PLANKTASTIC!!

(ritual)

Compulsions are often described as rituals. Just sayin.

I like the dissonance when she’s listing the things she needs to do. The way it climbs up the scale as it gets towards the end kind of reminds me of how sometimes video games will have success sounds that get higher as you accomplish successive tiers of tasks.

Gamifying your life is such a scam! I have ADHD and I’ve tried it to no success. You need like the correct amount of executive functioning anyway to execute the game plan, and when I have that it’s easier for me to just… Do the thing.

I am a bit of a Jasmine myself sometimes. Communication is key. Eggs belong strictly on the middle shelf, though. And dishes need a place in the cupboard otherwise I’ll forget and have to open all of them. Recurrence of the climbing melody! Combined with the dissonance it really creates an atmosphere of building stress.

(mr lupus)

Lupus means Wolf in Latin.

OH MY GOD I WAS RIGHT!!!!! THE WOLF IS IN THE GAME!!! AND HE’S CAUSING ISSUES!!!

Oh my god he’s the capitalist overlord. That’s so incredibly funny.

I’m sensing some comments on the internet in the vein of Octet. Octet focuses a lot on the victims of internet addiction, but Mr. Lupus seems to be representing more the tech CEOs benefiting off of our focus. He seems like a comment on the attention industry, saying “life is time and time is coins,” saying that Sadie’s value to him goes up when she spends more time on the app. Next thing you know he’ll be making you watch an ad.

So I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow the house down!

Zippy’s voice here really reminds me of the companion characters in some of the psychological horror video games I’ve played. Bright and chirpy is such an annoying thing in regular video games, but when it’s contrasted with a horror element it’s really fun.

Okay, my headphones just died so I’m wrapping this episode up here. Geez this is a long show! It’s a lot shorter when you don’t analyze it, I guess, but I’m finding the analysis to really be leveling me out. I have a tendency to hyperfocus and get emotionally out of whack when I’m getting into a new work of art, and taking the time to stop and reason through things instead of experiencing it really helps with my emotional baseline. I can feel the hyperfixation demons at the corner of my brain but I can put them away and do other things.

#tea brews #three houses musical

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strangerthingsstuff4 · 8 months ago

Text

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.

#aegon ii targaryen x you #house of the dragon aemond #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #prince aemond #aemond fanfiction #house targaryen #hotd #modern hotd au #modern hotd #modern aegon #modern aemond

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sanest-bsd-delegate · 1 year ago

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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.

#bsd #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #bsd dazai #bungou sd #dazai #bsd manga #bungo stray dogs spoilers #bsd x reader #bsd headcanons #dazai x reader #bungo stray dogs dazai #bungou stray dogs dazai #dazai osamu #mention of chuuya #new theme

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madrone33 · 10 months ago

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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!

#immediate reaction #reactions #my posts #hadestown #orpheus #eurydice #hades #persephone #long post

18 notes · View notes

juliaqueendragon · 3 days ago

Text

Full List of Names Pre-2025-02-12

Comparison (Names only in 1st or 2nd Position down Below)

Abyss

Acacia

Ace

Agate

Air

Alpha

Amber

Amethyst

Ancient

Angel

Anti

Apocalypse

Apple

Aqua

Aquamarine

Arch

Arctic

Ash

Attack

Aurora

Autumn

Azure

Baby

Ball

Banana

Basalt

Bat

Bay

Bear

Beat

Bee

Berry

Beryl

Big

Birch

Bird

Blaze

Blind

Block

Blue

Bold

Book

Botanic

Bottle

Boulder

Bow

Box

Brain

Bramble

Brass

Brave

Bread

Breath

Breeze

Bright

Brilliant

Broken

Bronze

Bubble

Bullet

Bumble

Butter

Butterly

Cactus

Cake

Candle

Candy

Caramel

Carrot

Cash

Castle

Cat

Chance

Chaos

Charcoal

Charm

Cherry

Chestnut

Chip

Chocolate

Chunky

Cinder

Cinnamon

Citrine

Clash

Class

Classy

Clear

Clever

Cloud

Clover

Club

Coal

Coco

Cocoa

Coconut

Coffee

Cold

Color

Cool

Copper

Coral

Core

Corn

Coyote

Crazy

Crescent

Crimson

Crow

Crown

Crystal

Cup

Cupcake

Cute

Daisy

Dance

Danger

Dark

Darkness

Dash

Dawn

Day

Deep

Deer

Demon

Depth

Desert

Dew

Diamond

Dice

Dip

Disco

Dive

Divine

Dizzy

Doctor

Dog

Dollar

Dolphin

Domino

Donut

Doom

Double

Dragon

Drake

Dream

Drop

Druid

Drum

Duke

Dusk

Dust

Dusty

Eagle

Earth

East

Easter

Echo

Eclipse

Egg

Elder

Ember

Emerald

Epic

Evening

Ever

Extra

Fairy

Faith

Falcon

Fan

Fancy

Fantasy

Far

Farm

Fast

Fern

Field

Fire

Flame

Flash

Flower

Fluffy

Flutter

Fly

Force

Fortune

Fox

Freedom

Frenzy

Fresh

Frog

Frost

Fruit

Future

Galaxy

Game

Garden

Garnet

Gem

Ghost

Giga

Ginger

Glass

Glitter

Globe

Gloom

Glory

Glow

Gold

Grace

Grand

Grass

Gray

Great

Green

Griffin

Grim

Ground

Guardian

Hair

Hall

Hand

Harpy

Hawk

Hay

Hazel

Heat

Heaven

Heavy

Hero

Hollow

Holly

Home

Honey

Horse

Hour

Humming

Ice

Illusion

Indigo

Iron

Ivory

Jade

Jasper

Jazz

Jelly

Jewel

Juice

Jump

June

Jungle

Juniper

Jute

Kangaroo

Key

Kick

King

Kite

Knight

Koala

Lady

Lake

Land

Lavender

Leaf

Leather

Legend

Lemon

Life

Light

Lily

Lime

Lion

Little

Live

Lost

Love

Lucky

Luna

Lush

Magic

Magma

Marble

Maroon

Marzipan

Masked

Master

May

Maze

Mega

Melody

Melon

Memory

Metal

Meteor

Midnight

Milk

Mind

Mini

Mint

Miracle

Mirror

Mist

Mocking

Money

Moon

Morning

Moss

Mountain

Mouse

Movie

Music

Mystic

Myth

Nacho

Nature

Nebula

Night

Ninja

Noble

North

Nova

Nugget

Oak

Obsidian

Ocean

Octopus

Old

Olive

Onion

Onyx

Opal

Orange

Orchid

Osprey

Owl

Paladin

Pale

Panda

Paper

Park

Party

Peace

Peach

Pearl

Penguin

Pepper

Peridot

Phantom

Phoenix

Pie

Pine

Pink

Pirate

Pixel

Pop

Posh

Potato

Power

Proof

Pumpkin

Purple

Purpur

Quail

Quartz

Quest

Quick

Rain

Rainbow

Ranger

Raspberry

Raven

Red

Rich

River

Robin

Rock

Root

Rose

Row

Royal

Ruby

Rune

Sad

Saddle

Salt

Sand

Sapphire

Scarlet

Scary

Scroll

Sea

Sequoia

Set

Shade

Shadow

Shark

Ship

Sienna

Silent

Silver

Sky

Small

Snake

Snow

Soft

Solid

Solo

Song

Soul

Sound

South

Spark

Sparkle

Spell

Spider

Spirit

Sporty

Spotlight

Spring

Spruce

Squirrel

Star

Steam

Steel

Step

Stone

Storm

Strawberry

Sugar

Summer

Sun

Sunny

Sunrise

Sunset

Swamp

Sweet

Swift

Table

Tea

Thorn

Thunder

Tiger

Time

Tin

Tiny

Titan

Tooth

Topaz

Town

Trail

Tree

Trouble

Truth

Tsunami

Tulip

Turtle

Tuxedo

Twilight

Twin

Twinkle

Ultra

Umber

Unicorn

Vanilla

Violet

Voice

Void

Wall

Walnut

Walrus

Water

Wave

Way

Weather

Web

West

Wild

Willow

Wind

Wing

Winter

Wish

Witch

Wizard

Wolf

Wonder

Wood

World

Yam

Yellow

Yoga

Youth

Yule

Zap

Zebra

Zombie

Ace

Agate

Air

Amber

Anchor

Angel

Anthem

Apocalypse

Apple

Apricot

Aquamarine

Attack

Aura

Away

Bag

Band

Bank

Beach

Beam

Bean

Bear

Beat

Beauty

Bee

Bell

Belle

Berg

Berry

Beryl

Bird

Birth

Biscuit

Blaze

Block

Blood

Blossom

Blue

Board

Bolt

Bone

Book

Born

Bottle

Boulder

Bow

Box

Boy

Brain

Bramble

Brass

Bread

Break

Breath

Breeze

Broken

Bronze

Brook

Brother

Bubble

Buddy

Bug

Bullet

Butter

Butterfly

Cactus

Cake

Candle

Candy

Caramel

Care

Cash

Caster

Catcher

Cave

Chain

Champion

Chance

Charm

Chaser

Cherry

Chestnut

Chief

Child

Chip

Chocolate

Chunk

Citrine

Clash

Class

Clear

Cloud

Clover

Club

Cocoa

Color

Comet

Copper

Core

Corn

Craft

Crasher

Crescent

Crimson

Cross

Crow

Crown

Crumb

Crush

Cry

Crystal

Cube

Cup

Cupcake

Dale

Dancer

Danger

Dark

Darling

Dash

Dawn

Deep

Deer

Demon

Desert

Desire

Destiny

Dew

Diamond

Dice

Dip

Disco

Diver

Divine

Dollar

Dolphin

Dome

Doom

Dove

Dragon

Drake

Dream

Dreamer

Drink

Drop

Druid

Drummer

Duck

Duke

Dusk

Dust

Eagle

Earth

Echo

Eclipse

Effect

Egg

Escape

Eye

Fairy

Faith

Falcon

Fall

Fan

Farm

Father

Feather

Field

Fighter

Film

Finder

Fire

Fish

Flake

Flame

Flash

Flight

Floor

Flower

Fly

Flyer

Force

Form

Fortune

Frame

Free

Friend

Frost

Fruit

Future

Gait

Galaxy

Game

Gap

Garden

Garnet

Gate

Gaze

Gazer

Gem

Ghost

Gift

Girl

Glass

Glimmer

Globe

Gloom

Glory

Glow

Goal

Goat

Gold

Grace

Green

Griffin

Ground

Growth

Guard

Guardian

Guest

Gum

Habitat

Hair

Hall

Hand

Harmony

Harpy

Hat

Hawk

Hazel

Head

Heart

Heat

Heaven

Herb

Hero

Hill

Hollow

Home

Honey

Honor

Hoof

Hope

Horse

Hour

Humming

Hunter

Hurricane

Hype

Ice

Icon

Idol

Ivory

Jasper

Jazz

Jewel

Joke

Joker

Joy

Juice

Jump

Jumper

Jungle

Juniper

Kangaroo

Keeper

Key

Kick

Kid

King

Kiss

Kite

Knight

Knock

Koala

Lady

Lake

Land

Lavender

Leader

Leaf

Legend

Lemon

Less

Letter

Liberty

Life

Light

Lily

Lime

Lin

Ling

Lion

Live

Log

Loop

Lord

Love

Luck

Lucky

Lush

Machine

Madness

Magic

Man

Mane

Maniac

Mare

Mark

Maroon

Mask

Masked

Master

Matter

Maze

Meadow

Melody

Melon

Memory

Metal

Milk

Mind

Mint

Mirror

Mist

Mocking

Mode

Moment

Monster

Moon

Mother

Mountain

Movie

Music

Mystery

Mystic

Myth

Nature

Nebula

Ninja

Nova

Novel

Nugget

Oak

Oasis

Ocean

Octopus

Omen

Onion

Orange

Orb

Orchid

Osprey

Owl

Pair

Paladin

Panda

Paper

Park

Part

Party

Path

Peak

Pearl

Penguin

Pepper

Peridot

Petal

Phantom

Phoenix

Pie

Piece

Pine

Pink

Pirate

Pixel

Place

Plan

Planet

Plant

Play

Pop

Potential

Power

Price

Prince

Princess

Promise

Proof

Pumpkin

Punk

Purple

Purpose

Quake

Quartz

Queen

Quest

Quiver

Rabbit

Racer

Rain

Rainbow

Rambler

Range

Ranger

Raspberry

Ray

Reader

Rebel

Red

Respect

Rest

Rich

Rider

Ring

Rising

River

Road

Robin

Rock

Rocket

Role

Root

Rose

Row

Royal

Ruby

Runner

Saga

Sand

Scout

Scroll

Secret

Seeker

Sequoia

Set

Shade

Shadow

Shell

Shelter

Shimmer

Shine

Ship

Shore

Shout

Shy

Signal

Silence

Silver

Singer

Sister

Sky

Smash

Smoke

Snap

Snout

Snow

Solid

Solo

Song

Soul

Spark

Sparkle

Spell

Spice

Spider

Spirit

Splash

Spot

Squirrel

Stallion

Star

Steel

Step

Stone

Storm

Strawberry

Stream

Strider

String

Sunrise

Sunset

Surfer

Surprise

#star stable #ssoblr #sso #star stable online

2 notes · View notes

atticnotebook · 4 months ago

Text

"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.

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