#is more of a sea hawk song

[tippenfunkaport]

AJ Michalka on the Masked Singer gave us Catra's voice singing Wrecking Ball (2:16 in the video above) and I just feel like we should be doing something with that.

[serpentface]

WE WERE ONCE GEESE

A story explaining the origins of the far southern Tamitiil people, and how they stay in their lands year-round through the harshness of the polar winter while other feathered creatures fly north.

---

Many, many lifetimes ago, our people were geese. We had short little legs and webbed feet to swim in the sea, beaks good only for eating grass, and wings that let us fly whenever and wherever needed.

This was very important to the rhythms of our life. Every winter, we would journey far north to distant lands where the days are warm and the snow never falls. Every summer, we would return to this land to mate and raise our children.

We built our summer homes on the high cliffs of a mountainside, safe from the foxes, cats, and humans who walked beneath. Our cliffs became great cities bustling with life. We carried up sweet grasses to eat and we fermented summer berries into wine to drink. Our men danced in the sky, not on land, and our women chased off hawks and gulls that threatened our children from above. We sang to the sun like we still do today, though our voices have changed.

Among our goose ancestors, there were twin brothers, Chliletiisma and Chlilalok.

Chliletiisma was a gentle and kindly soul, renowned among his people for his generosity and beautiful singing voice. Chlilalok was clever and tricky and generally regarded as a scoundrel. In spite of their differences, they were hatched from the very same egg, of one mind and one flesh. They could not bear to be separated. They shared a mate each season, and raised each other's children as their own.

One year, Chliletiisma and Chlilalok paired off with a woman named Amlitl, and they had a clutch of ten eggs that hatched into ten healthy boys. This was a cause for celebration, but the joy was short lived. The winter came early that year. The first icy winds blew in from the sea when many of the goose children were still in their baby down. And yet all the goose people felt the tugging in their veins. It was almost time to fly north to follow the departing sun.

The children of some families were ready for flight. Their fathers and mothers leapt from the cliffs, and so the goslings followed. They flew down, shakily at first, from the mountain to the sea. There they would gain strength for the great flight north.

The children of many families were not ready for flight. Their fathers and mothers leapt from the cliffs, and so the goslings followed. One by one, they would plummet to the ground, and there be eaten by the fox and the cat who waited beneath. Their parents circled above, but there was nothing more to be done. They left singing songs of mourning on the great flight north.

Eventually, the twins, Amlitl, and their children were the last family left on the cliffs. All ten of their children had hatched late, and they had none of their flight feathers. They would not stand a chance at surviving the departure from the nest, much less the journey north.

Amlitl despaired for her children, but she could not wait any longer.

“It’s over,” she said to her mates. “We need to leave them behind or we'll perish here ourselves. It's no good for us all to die."

There was harsh, brutal wisdom in her words, but few men can bear to hear such wisdom when it comes to their children. The twins refused, and Amlitl left without them.

And so Chliletiisma and Chlilalok stayed behind with their ten children after all the other geese left. The winds changed from a gnawing chill to a biting cold, and the first snows soon blanketed the lands. And still the children were not ready to fly. Even if they were, it would be too late. Not even the twins, with their powerful wings and warm feathers, could hope to survive the winter storms that would block their way.

The children shivered in their baby down, and the body heat of their fathers was scarcely enough to keep their crevice nest warm. Chliletiisma began to pluck feathers from his stomach to line their home and to warm his children against his bare flesh. The days grew ever darker, and their nest grew ever colder, and he plucked more and more of his feathers until he had nothing left to give.

One bitterly cold day, Chliletiisma's spirit was cut from his body and he fell dead. Chlilalok and his ten children sang songs of mourning all day, and they all tore feathers from their faces and tails in their grief.

The eldest moon Talit looked on the gentle twin with kindness, and so he snatched him up in his jaw and placed him into the sky. The star Chliletiisma still stands there today.

Chlilalok realized his children would have no hope of surviving the long winter if he just stayed in his nest. Chliletiisma's feathers were just warm enough to keep them from freezing, but they had little stored food remaining and all forage was buried beneath the snow.

There were other peoples who lived in this land throughout the winter, and those who seemed to thrive were the hunters. Chlilalok decided that he had to seek them out and learn from their ways. He packed a satchel with a little grass and a bladder of wine, said his goodbyes to his children, and flew out into the darkness.

He first came upon a young fox, who was chewing at an old rabbit carcass that was little more than bones. Even a little fox could be a dangerous foe, but would rarely face up against a full grown goose without the advantage of surprise. Chlilalok puffed himself up as big as he could and approached with a strut.

"Hail, cousin!" He said amicably.

"Hail, cousin." The fox said, with a curious tilt of her head. "What are you still doing around these parts?"

"My people have banished me from our winter home, I fear," Chlilalok said. "All a big misunderstanding, but it matters little now. I'm starved half to death, and here you are, healthy and strong. How do you survive the winter?"

The fox sat on her haunches and swished her long tail.

"Quite easily," she said. "Winter might be tough on you grass eaters, but I have the teeth of a hunter. I can eat anything I can kill."

She yawned, showing off her wide jaws full of small, wickedly sharp teeth.

"I hardly need them, though. I'm the best hunter there is. My legs carry me swifter then the wind, and I can sneak up on my prey silently enough that they never even see my teeth."

"…Like so," came a voice behind Chlilalok.

He turned his head, and there was another fox! She had crept up behind him without so much as making a sound. Outnumbered, even by these two young, inexperienced foxes, Chlilalok was not so confident. He had to think fast.

"Wait!" He said. "The two of you could certainly overpower me, but I won't go down without a fight. I could break those swift legs of yours with my wings, and then you won't be able to hunt at all."

"That would be a shame…" the first fox said.

"…But I think it's worth the risk," the second fox said, stepping closer.

"Hold on," Chlilalok said, and he turned his back to the foxes and pretended to rummage around in his satchel. Instead, he picked up a smooth white stone from the ground and presented it to the foxes.

"This is my only child, still in the egg. I will give it to you without a struggle if you let me go," he said.

"That is a mighty big egg…" said the first fox, licking her lips.

"…We'll take it," said the second fox.

Chlilalok, head bowed in a show of sorrow, placed the stone before them. The foxes fell upon it eagerly and shrieked as a few of their teeth broke against it. They fell to the ground, moaning and groaning, and Chlilalok swiftly grabbed up their teeth and flew away.

He next came upon a cat in his prime, prowling at the base of the mountain in search of any leftover gosling carcasses. The cat was the biggest creature around, and Chlilalok wasn't taking any chances. He fluttered up top of a large boulder, out of the mighty beast's reach.

"Hail, cousin!" He said from his safe distance.

"Hail." The cat said grumpily, annoyed at this clear mockery from a potential juicy meal. "What's a goose still doing around here? Why haven't you fled north with the rest of your cowardly people?"

"That's just the thing- my people are horrible cowards. It embarrasses me, frankly. I've stayed behind to learn teachings from far braver peoples such as yours."

"I can give you a few teachings right now if you come down from that rock," the cat said, impatiently twitching his long tail.

"I never said I wasn't a coward," Chlilalok replied. "I just have one question to ask. How do you survive the winter?"

The cat yawned and stretched, exposing his massive teeth and long, hooked claws.

“It’s easy. My fur keeps me warm, and I have plenty of options for food. My claws can kill anything that moves." He yawned and stretched again. "I'd be just fine without them, though. I’m the strongest beast that has ever lived.”

“The strongest ever?” Chlilalok said. “I don’t know about that. The first goose once lifted this very mountain and placed it here so my people would have a safe place to raise our babies. I’ve never heard of a cat accomplishing such a feat.”

The cat shook with laughter. “A goose? Lift this mountain? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“The stories are quite firm in this matter,” Chlilalok lied, “but if you’re truly stronger than even the first goose, pushing the mountain over will be no trouble for you.”

“You’re damn right it won't,” said the cat.

He hoisted himself up on his hind legs, and pushed at the mountainside with all his might.

“I think it’s starting to give,” he huffed, as he scrabbled and scrambled against unyielding stone.

The mountain, annoyed at this minor nuisance, sent a pile of rocks crashing down upon the cat. He yowled in pain from beneath the rocks, and Chlilalok quickly snatched a few of his claws and went on his way.

The cat found his way out eventually, but the rocks had bruised his skin and severed his tail from his body. Even today, his descendants bear the spots of his wounds and the tiny stump of his lost tail.

Finally, Chlilalok came upon an old human, sitting outside of his hut and whittling strange carvings into bone. The human was a large and fearsome creature that wore the cat's skin as his own, but his people mostly hunted and fished the sea and did not often trouble the geese.

Chlilalok approached with caution. "Hail, cousin!" he said.

"Hail, cousin," said the human. "You're certainly a strange sight in the dead of winter. What's keeping you here?"

"I injured my wing and my people had to leave me behind. It's been dreadful, and I've come to you for advice. How do you live through the winter?" he asked.

"Come to my hut and I will show you," the human answered.

Chlilalok nervously followed the human into his hut, and the answer soon became apparent. At the center, an oil lamp wicked with moss burned as warm and bright as sunlight.

"I stole fire from the sun long ago," said the human, shrugging off his catskin. "It burned off most of my fur, but that hardly matters. The fire keeps me warm on even the coldest days."

It was clearly true. The human was as ugly and naked as a baby sparrow without his furs, and yet he stood comfortably in the presence of the flames.

"…I don't truly need it though," the human continued. "My hands can carry weapons that put the cat's claws to shame. I can wear his furs and go out to catch my prey even in a blizzard."

He paused to scratch at his great, whiskery beard. "Though I'll admit, I've been unlucky in my hunts up until now. I think I'm just going to eat you."

Chlilalok thought quickly, and produced the bladder of wine he carried in his satchel.

“Cousin, if you’re going to eat me, at least be civil about it. I am your guest, after all,” Chlilalok said. “Why don’t we share a drink beforehand?”

The human could agree that some level of propriety to his unfortunate guest was warranted. He handed Chlilalok two of his great ivory cups and watched with curiosity as the goose poured the wine. The human had never tasted such a thing before, and took great pleasure in the way it calmed his mind and warmed his belly. He drank and drank until he flopped onto his back and fell asleep. Chlilalok then crept to the fire and carried a lit clump of moss away in his beak.

And so Chlilalok had taken the teeth of the fox, the claws of the cat, and the fire of the human. And he brought back the wisdom of valuing these gifts, for even the fiercest and strongest of peoples struggled in the winter, and their troubles were only deepened by foolishness and vanity.

But by the time he reached his nest, he was exhausted near to the point of death. Chlilalok taught his sons the use and wisdom of his three gifts, and then his spirit was cut from his body and he fell dead.

The eldest moon Talit looked on Chlilalok with admiration, and so he snatched him up in his jaw and placed him into the sky. The star Chlilalok still stands there today, right next to his twin.

The ten brothers took their father's teachings to heart. They donned the teeth of the fox and became like her, able to survive on the flesh of animals in the cold times when all plants die. They wore the claws of the cat and became like him, capable of fighting with great ferocity and bringing down prey and foe alike. They learned to tend the human's fire and became like him, always having a place of safety and warmth to retreat to in the long night. And they used these gifts with wisdom, always thoughtful of how precious they truly were and bearing them with great gratitude.

And so they became the first Tamitiil.

When our cousins, the geese, returned, they were surprised at what they found. The twins' children were still alive, but they were changed. They had the teeth of the fox and the claws of the cat. Their wings were small and they could not fly, but they could climb and run and leap more than well enough to make up for it. The geese greeted these new relatives as friends, and the two peoples mingled for the summer.

The Tamitiil brothers divided themselves into pairs, and each pair took a goose woman as a mate. When winter came yet again, they could not fly away with the geese, but they didn't need to. They built their nests as huts and warmed themselves with fires. Like Chliletiisma, one man in each pair stayed with the children and plucked feathers from his belly to line their bed and warm them against his skin. Like Chlilalok, the other man in each pair left the home to search for food throughout the winter. The people became clever hunters who kept their families well fed with game, and nurturing fathers who tended warm homes and raised healthy children.

They lived this way for many years, until they had their own women and no longer took geese for mates. And we have lived this way in the lifetimes and lifetimes since, greeting our goose cousins when they return for the summer and staying where they cannot through the long, cold dark.

[thatlotuscookie]

Hey hypno! Could you write a My Hero Academia request for ProheroBakugo x PopstarReader? The reader being a popstar (inpsired by sabrina carpenter) and goes on tour and does the Juno performance dedicated to bakugo their fiance

✧･ﾟ: a/n: hope you like it, anon! It was super fun to put Juno in the story:) And for all you Sabrina Carpenter fans, I hope you enjoyed this too! Thank you for the request, anon <3

✧ Title: ✧ Stardust & Dynamite ✧ ✧ Characters: Pro Hero Bakugo Katsuki x Popstar Reader (Fem!Reader) ✧ Genre: Fluff, Romance, Slightly Suggestive ✧ Rating: T ✧ Summary: On the final night of your Short N’ Sweet tour, you dedicate your most famous song, “Juno,” to the person who holds your heart—Pro Hero Bakugo, your fiancé. As the lyrics hint at a future together, Bakugo’s reaction is... heated. ✧ Content Warnings: Public performance, slight suggestiveness, mention of starting a family, fame/spotlight, spicy lyrics. ✧ WC: 1128 // 6.3k chars

The final show of your Short N’ Sweet tour was on, and you could feel the adrenaline pumping through your veins. The last song of the night was coming up, and this one held extra meaning. As you scanned the crowd, all eyes glued on you, your mind drifted to him, the only one who mattered in the sea of faces.

In the VIP section, Bakugo Katsuki—Pro Hero Dynamight—stood with his arms crossed, his signature scowl in place. His gaze, though, never wavered from you, like a hawk fixated on its prey. He was always there, watching from the shadows, but tonight, you planned on dragging him into the spotlight and making him a part of your world in front of thousands.

“This next one’s dedicated to someone really important to me,” you announced, breathless from the last song but buzzing with anticipation. “Some of you might know it—it’s called ‘Juno.’”

The crowd roared in recognition, a wave of energy surging through the arena, but your attention zeroed in on Bakugo. His crimson eyes narrowed slightly, his scowl deepening as if he knew you were about to do something that would challenge his comfort zone.

Grinning mischievously, you continued, “This one’s for you, Katsuki.”

He stiffened at the mention of his name, surprise flashing briefly in his eyes. Public declarations of affection weren’t his thing, but that didn’t matter. You knew he was listening, every word slicing through the distance he often kept.

The beat of “Juno” kicked in, and the familiar melody filled the stadium, wrapping around you like a warm embrace. For you, though, it felt like the song was for him alone, a private performance in front of thousands, filled with unspoken promises and desires.

“Don’t have to tell your hot ass a thing Oh yeah, you just get it Whole package, babe, I like the way you fit God bless your dad’s genetics, mm, uh…”

Bakugo’s eyes darkened, his jaw clenched as he watched you own the stage. He wasn’t one for grand public gestures, preferring to keep his feelings hidden, but you knew him well enough to recognize the way his breath caught when you sang. His grip on the railing tightened, his gaze burning into you with more intensity than usual. You were getting under his skin, and it thrilled you.

He smirked, a flicker of pride dancing in his eyes as he appreciated how brazen you were, how unapologetically you made him feel seen. But when you hit the pre-chorus, something stirred deeper inside him, twisting emotions he had yet to fully acknowledge.

“You make me wanna make you fall in love, Oh, late at night, I'm thinking 'bout you, ah-ah… Wanna try out my fuzzy pink handcuffs? Oh, I hear you knockin’, baby, come on up…”

Bakugo’s heart skipped a beat. Damn, this song was bolder than he expected, filled with innuendo that ignited a fire in his chest. His mind was racing, imagining you whispering those very words to him in private. The cheeky lyrics, the sway of your hips as you sang them—it was driving him wild. He swallowed hard, trying to maintain his cool, but he could feel the heat rising in his body.

Then you locked eyes with him as you slid into the chorus.

“I know you want my touch for life, If you love me right, then who knows? I might let you make me Juno… You know I just might…”

The implication of the words didn’t slip past him. Juno? The idea of locking things down, starting a family… It left his mind spinning. Did you mean what he thought you did? His hands flexed by his sides, a flurry of emotions swirling in his chest. He hadn’t thought about kids much before, but hearing you sing about it—hell, it didn’t sound like a bad idea. You were already engaged, and the thought of being married soon made the idea of starting a family feel more tangible, more real.

“Let you lock me down tonight, One of me is cute, but two though?”

He coughed, trying to hide the faint blush creeping up his neck. “Damn tease,” he muttered under his breath, feeling all sorts of emotions bubbling to the surface. The image of the two of you, together, building a future, lingered in his mind, unearthing feelings he wasn’t quite ready to confront but couldn’t deny.

By the time you reached the final chorus, the energy between you two crackled like electricity in the air. Bakugo was watching you like a hawk, his face flushed, his breathing unsteady. The way you looked at him, full of love and mischief, nearly knocked the wind out of him. You weren’t just performing; you were weaving a tapestry of hopes and dreams that felt impossible to ignore.

The last note echoed through the stadium, and the crowd erupted in applause, a cacophony of cheers and shouts. But Bakugo wasn’t paying attention to any of that. His gaze stayed fixed on you, intense and unwavering, as if you were the only thing that existed in that moment.

Once you stepped off the stage, your feet moved straight toward him, drawn by an invisible thread. Without hesitation, he grabbed your wrist, pulling you into him, his breath hot against your ear.

“That song…” he growled, his voice low and rough, tinged with a mix of desire and something deeper. “You tryin’ to tell me somethin’?”

You smiled up at him, your heart racing as you wrapped your arms around his neck, feeling the heat radiating from his body. “Maybe.”

Bakugo’s lips twitched into a smirk, his eyes gleaming with a mix of pride and unmasked yearning. “You better not be messing with me, ‘cause I’ll make sure you get exactly what you’re asking for.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, a thrill of excitement racing through you as you couldn’t help but laugh softly, pressing closer. “Maybe that’s the plan, Katsuki.”

“Tch, you really are a piece of work.” He leaned in, his lips brushing against your forehead, a tender moment amid the chaos of the night. “But you’re mine, and don’t you forget it.”

You nodded, your heart swelling with affection, the world outside fading into insignificance. “Never.”

In that moment, with his arms wrapped around you, the noise of the crowd fading into the background, you knew that no matter where your career took you, Bakugo Katsuki would always be the one you came home to. The love between you was more than just a fleeting thrill; it was the promise of a future together, and as you looked into his eyes, you could see it—a shared life, filled with laughter, chaos, and perhaps one day, the pitter-patter of tiny feet running around.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 7: Tell Me That I Won't Feel A Thing]

A/N: Hello besties! Thank you for voting in the poll for Chapter 7. Below are your predictions...let's see how you did! 🥰

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon™️, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is back yay!!!

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Give Me Novacaine” by Green Day.

Word count: 9.6k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

Billboards ask you as the Tahoe flies across the flat emerald sea of Iowa: Have you heard the good news? Have you been saved? Where will you spend eternity? Are you struggling with same-sex attraction? Do you regret your abortion? Do you fear the Lord? Do you want to end up in Hell?

Aegon snickers, gnawing on a Slim Jim. The sun glare turns his wild hair to gold, etches crinkles into the ruddy skin around his eyes, murky like deep water, oceans you recognize from other corners of the world. “I thought I was already there.”

Jace’s Honda Rebel 300 is left on the shoulder of the highway with its fuel tank uncapped, drained to feed the Tahoe, prehistoric combustion, bottomless mechanical hunger. Rhaena takes over driving so Baela can sit with Jace, touch him, inhale him, convince herself he’s real. Aegon climbs into the passenger’s seat and skips songs on the CD player until he finds the one he wants: In Da Club by 50 Cent. The miles roll by so soft and so infinite that you can’t imagine ever feeling trapped again, warm July air unfurling down the darkest corridors of your lungs, hawks on lifeless power lines and fields dappled with white-tailed deer. And you think: Everything will be better now.

You cross the Missouri River and into Nebraska at Plattsmouth, which—according to a plaque mounted on the outskirts of town—the Lewis and Clark Expedition passed through over two centuries ago. Rhaena follows Aegon’s directions to cut between Lincoln and Omaha, avoiding the roiling wastelands of the cities and keeping well north of Cooper Nuclear Station, where in the absence of a successful manual or computerized shutdown before the power grid collapsed, rods of uranium are melting down and irradiating the surrounding area, anemia, cancer, heart disease, radiation sickness, an affliction that eats you alive.

Rhaena takes Nebraska State Route 66 north and then Route 92 due west, lush fields of corn and soybeans and sorghum planted before the dead began to walk, bones of devoured livestock. You stop for the night in a town called Broken Bow, the sky turning the colors of fire and rust and blood, the Tahoe exsanguinated like a man with a slit throat. Every vehicle you pass already has its fuel cap unscrewed; the farther west you go—the scarcer the resources, the longer it’s been since the world began to end—the less the earth will yield to you: less guns, less gasoline, less food, less human settlements scattered across what was once called the frontier. You commandeer a two-story house: white wood, wraparound porch, a long gravel driveway that winds like a snake. There is a small cornfield and a barn, both of which you sweep for zombies before making yourselves at home. You try not to think about what happened to the family that used to live here.

Helaena lights candles, Luke and Rhaena distribute bowls and silverware, Aemond and Rio gather kindling for the woodstove, Daeron keeps watch on the porch, Aegon picks all the Twizzlers out of a mixed bag of Hershey’s candy for Jace. There is a 12-pack of Ramen noodles in the pantry, gallons of water in the cellar, and a pot large enough to cook it all in one batch. Cregan takes Ice and disappears into the cornfield for half an hour at dusk—something none of the rest of you would ever consider—and reappears with an opossum that he’s nearly decapitated with his axe. He butchers it and you brown cubes of meat in a sauté pan placed directly on the glowing embers. The others are horrified and won’t eat a single bite until you do. It’s the first real food you’ve had since you left Saratoga Springs, and you feel satiated in a way you had forgotten existed.

In honor of Jace’s resurrection, some revelry is in order. There are bottles of Grey Goose vodka in a kitchen cabinet, and Aemond allows a two drink maximum for anyone eligible to participate: Baela is too pregnant, Daeron is too young, Aemond himself is too vigilant, too self-sacrificial, too indoctrinated into the religion of his own martyrdom.

“Daddy loved his screwdrivers,” Cregan says. “I remember being five or six and taking a big gulp of one thinking it was Sunny D or Tang or something. Lord almighty, was that a shock!” He guffaws, then inspects the pantry, scratching at the dark stubble on his cheeks. “We ain’t got nothing like orange juice though.”

“Mama made hers with Hawaiian Punch.” You point: there are several jugs of it on the floor between boxes of Pop-Tarts and Welch’s Fruit Snacks and Cheddar Whales, red like crushed blackberries or fresh blood.

Cregan grins at you over his brawny shoulder. “That’ll work, Miss Chips.”

Luke and Rhaena have first watch, Rio and Aegon will take the second. You are blessedly unburdened tonight. This house is big enough for you to get your own room; you climb the staircase with Grey Goose vodka burning in your throat, your head warm and dizzy, a sensation like freefalling as you lie down on the bed.

I left them, you think, the walls spinning around you, echoes of Mama’s voice through the phone as Rio stood there nodding, encouraging you to hang up. I left them and I never looked back. Can someone commit such an act of ancestral betrayal without incurring a curse?

You are still considering this when you feel Aemond’s weight on the mattress and fold into him, the world going dark and hushed and harmless.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I think it’s safe,” you tell Aemond between sighs, his lips on your throat, his hand between your thighs. Late-morning sunlight slants in through the bedroom windows; goldfinches and blue jays flap by chirping blithely. The dead pillage the misfortunate beasts of the earth, but creatures of the air and water are spared. You can hear geese honking from a distance, and the breeze through the cornfield, and calm indistinct voices beneath the floorboards. You can smell pancakes turning from white to gold in a pan sizzling with Crisco. Cregan must be cooking breakfast in the woodstove.

“How sure are you?” Aemond murmurs, his breath warm on your neck, those small teeth he’s always hiding nipping playfully, and if he leaves marks like stains of ballpoint ink you don’t care. He’s whisked every scrap of your clothing away. Beneath him you are bare and helpless and needing more.

“Like…eighty percent sure.”

“I’ll pull out.”

“Like Jace did?”

He laughs and kisses your mouth, not just ravenous but wild like a storm, and all the rest of the world goes quiet. Your ankles are linked around him, his hips rocking with yours. He is wearing only his boxers, black plaid from a looted Walmart, apocalypse chic. “Hopefully better than that.”

“Just try your best. I trust you. I’m willing to risk it.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s worth it to me.” I could be dead in nine months, he could be dead in nine months. I’m not wasting the time we have left.

“It’s your decision. You would be most affected by the consequences.” He draws away and glances down. “I want to look at you.”

“Ohhh.” You stall. “I’ve been trimming with scissors by candlelight. It’s a hack job.”

“I won’t mind.” He grins. “You don’t mind my hack job of a face.”

“I love your face,” you say as you skim your fingerprints down the length of his scar. And then, when he raises an eyebrow roguishly: “I didn’t break any rules. I didn’t say I love you, just your face. I’m totally using you for your face. Your personality is terrible.”

He snickers, kisses you goodbye, retreats to your hips and pushes your thighs apart as you cover your face and whimper, nervous, exhilarated. And then his lips are on you and the trepidation melts away, puddles pooling and then evaporating, and you have a vision of being home again, shivering and dripping in front of the crackling flames of the woodstove after playing outside in the snow and waiting for the fire to take the cold away. Now the fire is growing over you like ivy, tendrils snaking through veins and leaves opening in your lungs, bones vanishing, muscles turning pliant and weightless. You can feel Aemond’s fingers pushing into you, a fleeting second of tension and discomfort, and then a fullness that is delectable, irresistible, maddening.

“Come back,” you plead, and when he does you clasp his face with both hands, kissing him deeply as his fingers remain inside you, thrusting and bathed in your wetness. You’re finally ready for him, you have to be, you need him so badly: like you’re dying of thirst, like you’re running out of air. “Now, Aemond, please. I want all of you.”

And he wants it too. His boxers are gone and he’s positioning himself between your legs, his tongue in your mouth, one hand cradling your jaw as the other guides his cock to where you are slick and aching and aware of an emptiness that has never felt so dire.

He’s so big…

But you are determined to take all of him. You don’t care if there’s pain, if there’s fear. You want to feel what it’s like to be with him before it’s too late.

Aemond presses himself against you, rolls his hips cautiously…and nothing happens. He is a bit more forceful. There is immense pressure, then the beginning of a stretching that is sharp, searing, dreadful, unfamiliar in a way that is completely disorienting. You gasp before you can stop yourself; a wince ripples across your face too quickly to camouflage. Aemond shakes his head and climbs off you, settling beside you on the bed.

“Fuck,” you exhale in frustration, slapping a palm down on the mattress. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand why…why I’m like this…”

“Shh,” Aemond soothes, kissing you. “It’s okay, it’s fine. I’ll help you finish and then we can try again later.”

“Why isn’t this easier?”

“You’re just nervous,” he says gently, smoothing your hair back from your face, like it’s no big deal, like he’s pointing out a bird or a rabbit or the shape of a cloud.

“I don’t feel nervous.”

“It’s not always conscious, sometimes the body reacts without the mind even being aware of it. You tense up and things become…more challenging. But fortunately for us, the treatment is very enjoyable. We just keep messing around and working up to it until one day you’re so aroused and so relaxed that I can glide in without any discomfort whatsoever, and then your body adjusts to this glorious new experience and you aren’t so nervous anymore.”

“Can’t you just…you know…sorry, this isn’t very romantic, but like…shove it in?”

“I could, sure,” Aemond says. “If I was a horrible person. And then you’d learn to associate sex with pain, which would just exacerbate the situation.”

“The problem, you mean.”

He smiles patiently. “You aren’t a problem. We’ll figure it out, we have time.”

Do we? You stare morosely up at the ceiling, shadows of clouds, shades of wings. “I should have hooked up with that Marine at Corpus Christi. Then I’d have practice. I was so afraid of giving a man the power to hurt me or get me pregnant or otherwise ruin my life, but I didn’t know I’d meet you one day. And now I just want everything to be easy for us, and it isn’t.”

“Hey.” Aemond turns your face towards his. “For me, you are…” He struggles to decide on the words, his eye drifting to the window, sunlight turning the blue of his iris to a shallow, glass-clear river. “You’re like an island, and everything else is a sea of poison, and violence, and catastrophically fucked up situations, and when we’re alone together it all goes away for a little while. The world gets quiet. It’s never been like that for me before. I don’t mind if it takes time for us to figure this out. I just want to be with you.”

“What happens when we get to Nevada, and you’re supposed to turn south for the Bay Area while I go north to Oregon?”

Aemond shrugs, but his expression is contemplative. “I’ve been thinking about that. Maybe we’ll all stay together and go to one place, then the other. If Odessa is safe, I can bring my parents, Criston, and Grandfather there. If it isn’t, we can bring Rio’s family south and live in California in that beach house on the cliff.”

“I never thought I’d set foot in a mansion.”

“I never thought I’d eat opossum.”

You laugh and curl up against him, resting your head and a palm on his chest. “How was it?”

“Not too bad, actually. Kind of like dark meat chicken. A little gamey, but I like lamb and venison, so that’s fine with me.”

“Just wait until you try bear.”

“Bear?!”

There is a knock at the bedroom door. Luke’s bashful voice is muted through the wood. “Aemond?”

“Yeah?” Aemond replies impatiently.

This was not an invitation, but Luke doesn’t seem to know that. He opens the door, and as he does Aemond throws the blanket over you so you’re covered, leaving himself completely exposed.

Luke begins: “I’m really sorry, I didn’t want to bother you, but…” His eyes go wide. “Oh, you’re like, all the way naked.” He turns and stares at the wall to be polite. “If it’s a bad time, I could come back in five minutes. Do you need more than five minutes? Wait, that was rude, I didn’t mean it like that, I’m sure you can last way longer than five minutes…um…”

Aemond sighs. “What’s wrong, Luke?”

“Jace is sick.”

“Sick?” Aemond sits up straighter, his eye narrowing. “Sick how?”

“He’s been puking since he woke up.”

You and Aemond exchange a startled glance as you clutch the edges of a blanket patterned with wild horses. Illness, virus, plague, curse.

“He hasn’t been bitten or anything,” Luke says quickly. “So it can’t be…you know…that. And he and Baela don’t seem that worried. But you should probably take a look at him.”

Aemond nods, less alarmed now. “I agree. Can I get those five minutes first?”

Luke smiles. “Yeah. See you downstairs.” He leaves and shuts the door behind him.

You look to Aemond. “Why—?”

He yanks the blanket away and drags you towards him. “I said I was going to help you finish,” he says, grinning, a hand slipping between your thighs.

You bite at his lips when he kisses you and tease: “I don’t need your help.”

“No, I’m sure you don’t. But it’s better when I’m here.”

And he’s right; it is.

~~~~~~~~~~

Daeron is out on the front porch sharpening sticks into arrows and using goose feathers for fletching, attaching them to the wood with a tube of Gorilla Glue that Helaena found for him. Helaena herself is presently floating through the house—soundlessly, ethereally, traceless like a ghost—and partaking in what you all call “apocalypse shopping,” pilfering the clothes and accessories of the former occupants. She seems to know everyone’s sizes without needing to ask. Aegon, Rio, and Cregan are sitting in the living room and eating pancakes off paper plates, carelessly spilling Mrs. Butterworth’s syrup on hideous 1970s couches ornamented with scenes of pheasants and autumn leaves. Down on the Turkish-style area rug, Ice is merrily chomping her way through a stack of burnt pancakes.

“So Cregan,” Rio says, his bare feet propped on the coffee table. “What did you do before the whole zombie situation?”

“I was a lumberjack.”

“No way!”

“Yes sir. I cut down trees for the power company.”

“What a coincidence,” Rio says around a mouthful of pancakes. “I was an electrician!”

“Well how about that? We oughta go into business together once the world straightens itself out. Where’d you work?”

“All over. Wherever the Navy sent us.”

Cregan sets his fork down on his plate. “You were enlisted?”

“Yeah, me and Chips both. That’s how we met.”

Cregan, much to Rio’s surprise, seizes his hand and shakes it soberly. “Thank you very kindly for your service.”

“No problem,” Rio replies, then turns to Aegon. “No gratitude from you, huh?”

“I showed my gratitude when I let you have the last pancake, you ogre…”

In the only bedroom on the first floor, down a hallway and towards the back of the house, Jace looks worse than you expected. He is heaving into a reusable plastic popcorn bucket, gluey ropes of saliva dangling from his lips; his skin is pale and bloodless, his dark curls damp with sweat. Baela is perched beside him on the bed and holding a wet washcloth to the back of his neck. Rhaena and Luke are loitering anxiously in the doorway, watching Aemond to determine if they should panic.

Jace casts you a bitter glance. “You poisoned me with your poor people food.”

“There’s nothing wrong with eating opossum,” you say, somewhat defensively.

Aemond feels his forehead. “That wouldn’t give you a fever. And everyone else is fine.”

“Maybe I’m extra sensitive. My digestive system has higher standards. I’m built different.” Jace resumes retching into the bucket.

Baela tells Aemond: “He can’t keep anything down. There’s nothing left in him, but he’s still so sick…it has to be a stomach flu, right?”

“Who would he have caught it from?” Luke asks, and Baela doesn’t have an answer.

“Stand up,” Aemond orders Jace when his wave of nausea abates. “Strip down.”

“Aemond, he wasn’t bitten,” Baela says. “I saw his whole body last night. He doesn’t have any scratches or bruises or anything.”

“Fine. But I want to see for myself.”

Jace stumbles out of the bed, pushing away Baela’s hands as she tries to stop him. “Okay, Nick Fury. If you wish to gaze upon the goods, I won’t deny you. I’m not shy.” Aemond rolls his eye. You turn around to give Jace privacy. “What’s the matter, Chips? The only dick you’re interested in belongs to Mike Wazowski over there?”

“Jace,” Baela says, but she’s chuckling. Amused, you stare at a picture on the wall—a haloed Jesus guiding a flock of lambs—as Jace sheds his clothing and follows Aemond’s instructions: lift your arm, turn around, show me the bottoms of your feet.

“No bites,” Aemond confirms, deep in thought. “But the symptoms…”

“It’s not that, Aemond, I’m telling you,” Jace insists, rasping breaths between each clause. “Listen, I got sick when I was alone, before I found you guys again. My stomach, my head. Maybe it’s the same thing now. It didn’t last long, and I thought I was over it, but I guess not.”

“People don’t get better and then worse again after they’ve been bitten,” Rhaena observes softly. “They just get worse.”

Jace lies back down on the bed, his face crumbling with pain. Baela uses the wet washcloth to cool his cheeks and neck. “My head hurts so fucking bad…”

“Because you’re dehydrated,” Aemond says.

“Helaena brought pills, but every time I try to take one I throw it up before it can start working.” There is a gurgling sound in his guts, and then a horrified expression. “Baela, I gotta get outside again.” She and Luke immediately swoop in, grab one arm each, and usher him out of the bedroom, through the back door of the farmhouse, and into the cornfield to allow him some semblance of dignity.

Rhaena gives you and Aemond an awkward smirk. “Helaena found Jace a 24-pack of Angel Soft toilet paper in the basement. So there’s some good news.”

“He needs electrolytes,” Aemond says. “We can’t let him get so dehydrated that his kidneys shut down. IV fluids aren’t an option. Pedialyte would be the next best thing, Gatorade or Powerade if that’s all we can find.”

“We passed a pharmacy on our way here,” Rhaena recalls. “It’s only a mile back, I think.”

Aemond nods. “Then that’s where I’m going,” he says, and walks out of the room.

You say as you follow him: “I want to go with you.”

“No.” Aemond points to Rio, who is now playing Uno with Aegon on the coffee table in the living room. “You and I are going to a pharmacy to get Pedialyte for Jace so he doesn’t die.”

“Cool,” Rio says, standing and fetching his Remington shotgun from where he propped it against the wall. “What’s wrong with him?”

“We don’t know. Maybe food poisoning.”

Aegon says, a hand pressed to his heart: “Personally, I loved the opossum.”

You stare defiantly up at Aemond. “If Rio is going, I have to go too.”

“Aww, so you can protect me?” Rio teases fondly, patting your back with one monstrous palm, an unintentional battering.

“Yeah. Exactly.”

Rio looks at Aemond. Aemond looks at you, touching his chin agitatedly. “You are stressing me out.”

“I’m the best shot. I want to be there in case anything happens.”

“Fine, okay, whatever you want. Just stay near Rio.”

“That’s the idea.”

“A pharmacy?” Aegon asks excitedly. “Can I go?”

“No,” Aemond snaps, and continues out onto the porch. In the gravel driveway, Cregan and Daeron are kneeling by the Tahoe and inspecting the front tire on the driver’s side. “What’s wrong now?” Aemond asks, exasperated.

“Got a flat,” Cregan says. “The little fella here noticed it.”

Daeron is mortified. “Please don’t call me that.”

Aemond peers around mistrustfully, out at the road, into the cornfield. “Someone sabotaged us?”

Cregan shakes his head and taps the tire. “Naw, we just ran over a nail yesterday. You can see it right here. A big one too, a masonry nail, I suspect.”

“Can you fix it?” Rio asks.

“I think so. I saw a jack and a lug wrench hanging up on the wall in the barn, now I just need a new tire, a real one. A spare wouldn’t do us much good, not with all the weight we’re carrying. It’d pop in twenty miles.” Cregan gestures to the main road, but westward, the opposite direction from the pharmacy. “Don’t remember seeing a tire place on our way in. Figured I’d try the other direction. I’ll walk ‘til I find a shop or a truck with the right kind of tires to steal from, whichever comes first. Can’t change a tire on gravel, though. I’ll have to drive the Tahoe out to the road and fix it there. I’m gonna need Rhaena’s keys.”

There is an uneasy lull as Aemond studies him. You, Rio, Daeron, and Aegon—who is lingering on the front porch, not yet ready to admit defeat—glance between them apprehensively. Ice is rolling around in the gravel, coating her grey fur with dust. “How do I know you won’t take off without us?”

Cregan’s face goes dark. His brow, heavy and furrowed, settles low over his eyes. “Look buddy, I’ve done a lot of things for you and your people that I didn’t have to. And now I’m fixing the Tahoe so it can take you west, someplace you decided we’re going. If you don’t trust me, do it yourself. Kill your own opossum. Change your own flat tire. But you can’t, can you? Just like I can’t shoot a zombie straight through the eye or tell you how to cure that sick boy in there. We’ve all got jobs here. Let me do mine.”

Aemond glowers at Cregan, knowing he’s right. Daeron averts his eyes; Rio, grinning, eats a handful of Cheddar Whales from a pocket of his cargo shorts. You lay a palm on Aemond’s forearm. “Aemond…he’s trying to help.”

“Sure,” Aemond replies crossly.

“You want collateral?” Cregan says. “Take my dog.” He whistles, and Ice scampers to his side. He points to you. “Go on, princess.” Ice obediently trots over to stand with you, shaggy ash-colored fur, bestial amber eyes like a rattlesnake’s. “She’ll look after you on your way to the pharmacy and back. And if the Tahoe and I have mysteriously vanished upon your return, you can eat her for dinner.”

“You don’t want a warning if you’re about to run into zombies?” Rio asks.

Cregan chuckles as he picks up his axe off the gravel. “Don’t you worry about me. We haven’t heard a peep since we got into town, and I’m just going a little ways up the road. Any less than ten of those abominations, and I can take care of myself.” He gives you and Rio a parting salute and strides into the farmhouse to collect the Tahoe keys from Rhaena.

Aemond turns to Daeron. “Stay here, keep watch. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

Daeron nods, glancing to where his compound bow rests on the front porch. “Got it.”

“Aegon will help you.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Aegon says. “I want to go to the pharmacy too.”

Aemond is losing what remains of his patience. “No.”

“Please?”

“No!”

“Then can you at least bring me something back?”

Rio is confounded. “What do you need?”

“You know…” Aegon gestures vaguely. “Percocet, Vicodin, Oxy, maybe some of that cough syrup with the codeine in it—”

“Grow the fuck up,” Aemond flares, and Aegon falls silent. “You’re thirty years old. Take some goddamn responsibility for something, for anything. I have to go to the pharmacy, Cregan has to fix the Tahoe, someone has to stay here with Daeron to help protect Jace and Baela, and Luke and Rhaena, and Helaena too. Just shut up and do the right thing. You have to start acting like an adult. Who do you think is in charge if I get killed? I’ve never for a single day of my life had the luxury of making selfish choices, and now I feel like I’m not even allowed to die. Leaving everyone else with you would be like leaving them with nobody.”

Aegon gazes up at him, not offended but childishly, mortally wounded. His oceanic eyes are huge and glistening. “But you’re not going to die before me.”

“That’s not the point,” Aemond pitches back, cutting, caustic. Then he starts down the long gravel driveway towards the road. You give Aegon a small, apologetic half-smile and then follow after his younger brother, Ice loping alongside you.

Rio thumps Aegon encouragingly on one shoulder. “See you soon, Honey Bun.” And Aegon watches the three of you disappear, standing in the dazzling midday light with his arms folded over his chest and his hair in hie face, kicking at the gravel with the Sperry Bahama sneakers he once wore on yachts and golf courses.

“Please try to be nice to him,” you tell Aemond when you’re far enough away to be out of earshot. Rio is humming a song you don’t immediately recognize—probably Enrique Iglesias—and acting like he’s not listening. “You don’t know how much longer any of us have. And if that was the last thing you ever said to him, you’d feel awful about it.”

“You have no idea what it was like being his brother. Since I was born all I’ve done is try to plug the holes he blasts into ships. But there’s always water on the floor, I’m never done bailing it out. He needs to learn how to do things for himself.”

“Yes, he does. But he loves you, and he wants you to be happy. He would never intentionally take anything from you. He’ll grow into his purpose, whatever that is.”

“He needs to do it faster,” Aemond says harshly, and you walk the rest of the way without speaking, listening for snarling or lurching footsteps, hearing nothing but birdsong and wind whispering through leaves.

The pharmacy—a diminutive family-owned business, not a chain—has been ravaged. The glass of the large bay window has been broken out and the shelves looted, empty containers and wrappers littering the floor, crystalline shards threatening to gash, stab, infect.

“Stay out here with the dog,” Aemond tells you. Ice is panting calmly, her ears relaxed, her strange yellowish eyes taking in the scenery without any concern. “If she gets her paws sliced up, Cregan will have yet another accusation to levy against me.”

“You’re going to have to get used to him.”

“Not much of an adjustment for you, it seems,” Aemond says, then steps through the shattered window, glass crunching beneath his shoes. Rio gives you a wink and goes after him. They rummage through the remaining merchandise, strewn about randomly and interspersed among trash. Aemond peeks behind the counter where pharmacists once filled prescriptions and climbs over it, searching for any bottles or boxes that were left behind.

“Sorry guys, no condoms,” Rio announces, then laughs at his own joke.

“Be careful,” you urge from outside. “Look underneath, check the bottom racks. Rio? Rio, down low, check them!”

“Relax, ain’t nothing going on in here. It’s silent as the grave.” He laughs again. “Get it? As the grave.”

“Aemond?”

“I’m fine,” he tells you as he squints to read medicine bottles.

“Okay, okay,” Rio says, squatting to examine the shelves closest to the cluttered floor. “I’m checking all the racks. There’s nothing scary under the racks. Happy now?”

“Very. Helaena said something that freaked me out.”

“She can be a bit of an enigma,” Aemond admits. He is taking a tiny box from a drawer to keep.

“Oh, we got Pedialyte!” Rio says, yanking a jug of pink fluid from a pile of debris. “You think Jace likes strawberry?”

Aemond hurries over to help him hunt for more. “Yeah. It’s like a Twizzler, right?”

Ice noses your hand and whimpers softly. You look down at her. “What?”

She whirls and canters around the side of the pharmacy, then returns to make sure you’re keeping up. You go after her, slow and wary, a hand on one of your Beretta M9s. There’s nothing of note to be found in the narrow, shadowy alleyway other than an overflowing dumpster and two skeletons stripped of every shred of fabric and flesh; even the bones were licked clean.

You turn to Ice. “Did I need to see this?” She whines and shifts her weight from foot to foot, ears perked up. Something else? You look down the alleyway. Far behind the pharmacy and the shops that surround it is a church on a jade green slope, old-fashioned, white wood and a belltower. There is a cemetery beside it, and amidst the small grey blurs of headstones are… “Oh,” you breathe. “So that’s where the rest of the town is.”

The graveyard is full of limp, swaying figures that can only be zombies. You are far away and draped in shadows; you retreat back to the pharmacy without any indication that you’ve been spotted, Ice trailing close behind. Aemond and Rio are climbing out of the window just as you arrive. They are each carrying three jugs of Pedialyte in various flavors.

“Where the hell’d you go?” Aemond says; but he sounds more relieved than irritated.

“There’s a church about an eight of a mile away. And there are a lot of zombies in the cemetery.”

Rio sets his Pedialyte down on the sidewalk and reaches for the Remington 12 gauge hanging over his shoulder by its leather strap. “Okay, let’s go clear them out.”

“No, I mean a lot. Like a hundred.”

He freezes. “Oh.”

“We should leave town,” you say.

“While Jace is puking and shitting everywhere? You want to be stuck in a car with that?”

Aemond is thinking, toying with the little box you saw him pick up earlier. “We’ll leave as soon as we can.”

“What’s that?” you ask him.

He shows you the label. “Injectable morphine. All the pills were gone, but I found one vial of this, and I have syringes in my medical kit. It doesn’t need to be refrigerated. It should still be useable.”

“For Baela?” For when she delivers the baby?

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. Just in case.” Then he looks at both you and Rio meaningfully. “Don’t tell Aegon I have this.”

“We won’t,” Rio promises. And Ice begins trotting back towards the farmhouse, as if trying to rush you along.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Tahoe is at the mouth of the long gravel driveway, still up on a hand-cranked scissor jack. The tire appears to be new, but the lug nuts haven’t been tightened, and the wrench is nowhere to be found.

“Cregan?” Rio says uncertainly, peeking through the cornstalks as they bend in the wind. “Hey, Cregan? Aemond’s sorry he was a bitch to you earlier. He wants you to return ASAP and do manual labor for him.” Aemond grimaces; Rio beams in reply. But Cregan does not appear.

You can hear them long before you reach the farmhouse, muffled chaotic chattering, raised voices and rushing footsteps. As you ascend the steps of the front porch, Rhaena bursts through the door.

“Thank God you’re back,” she says; there is blood on her hands. “It’s Jace, he…he…come look at him. Aemond, you have to do something. He’s sick, he’s really sick. He’s bleeding.”

“From where?” Aemond asks, urgent, bewildered.

“From everywhere,” Rhaena replies, and beckons for him to follow.

The bedsheets Jace is swathed in are blooming with crimson, flowers of doomed gore. Blood drips from his nostrils and his eyes; when he retches into the popcorn bucket, clots of pink and red spew out. Everyone is gathered around him and speaking at the same time, except Helaena. She is crouched on the floor of the hallway just outside his room, her arms wrapped around her bent knees and her face stricken. Ice curls up beside her.

Above the other voices, Baela screams at Aemond, a desperate horrified moan: “What’s wrong with him?!”

Aemond pushes by the others and feels Jace’s forehead, then grabs his wrist to measure his pulse. As Aemond’s fingers tighten, Jace’s skin rips beneath them, the top layer sliding off and leaving only glistening, raw pink. Jace howls, tears of blood streaming down his cheeks. “I don’t know,” Aemond says, his voice unsteady.

“What the fuck do you mean you don’t know?!” Baela shouts back. “You’re a doctor! Fix him!”

“It hurts, Aemond,” Jace gasps, fresh blood on his teeth. When Baela touches his hair, locks of it fall out into her hand.

“He’s turning, right?” Rio says to you. “This is what happened to Snowflake, the blood and the skin and everything—?”

“He wasn’t bitten!” Luke insists, positioned in front of Jace’s bed as if he’s guarding it.

“I don’t care if we can’t find a bite mark, he’s decomposing for Christ’s sake, what the fuck else could it be?!”

Daeron returns with more blankets and towels. Aegon grabs a strawberry Pedialyte out of Rio’s grasp and tries to help Jace drink it. Cregan is muttering: “I ain’t never seen anything like this…”

Decomposing, you think dizzily. He wasn’t bitten, but he’s falling apart…what else does that to a person?

Baela cleans blood from his lips, a towel turning from snow to rubies. “Jace, baby, it’s going to be okay, we’re going to help you…”

“Could it be rat poison or something?” Cregan is saying. “Rabies? Mad cow disease? Ebola?”

“How the fuck do you think he got Ebola?!” Aemond exclaims. “You think he took a jet to sub-Saharan Africa when he was on his own? Use your brain.”

“I’m just trying to come up with ideas here, doc, and I don’t see you with any bright ones!”

He’s decomposing. He’s decomposing.

And then you remember. You kneel down beside the bed so you can look into his face, so you can make him pay attention. “Jace, listen to me.”

“I’m listening,” he replies faintly. He coughs, wet and gurgling. Fresh blood paints his lips. There are blisters beginning to form up and down his arms, you see now, the skin bubbling and separating.

“Jace, do you remember Three Mile Island?”

“What the fuck.” He is baffled, dismissive. “Three Mile what? Huh? What are you talking about…?”

“You’re upsetting him,” Baela says fiercely, tears glittering in her eyes.

But you are determined. “Outside of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, after we left Fort Indiantown Gap. There were these huge concrete cooling towers. We saw them from the Wawa parking lot.” But he wasn’t there when we talked about radiation. He was still inside searching for guns. “Remember, Jace? Do you remember?”

Now Aemond and Rio are looking at you, petrified, realizing what you must be thinking. No one else understands yet. After a long pause, Jace nods feebly. “Yeah. I remember the towers.”

“Good,” you say, smiling to encourage him. “Okay, this is important. After we lost you at the river, before you found us again, did you see anywhere that looked like Three Mile Island?”

“Yeah,” Jace murmurs as he stares back at you with glazed, bloody eyes; and Rio sighs and shakes his head. “I drove right by it on the Honda. The sign said Byron.”

And it’s been over for him since that moment.

“Alright, Jace.” You want to touch him, to embrace him or cup his cheek. You know it will only make his suffering worse. “Thank you. That’s all I wanted to ask.” He begins to gag again, and Baela hurries to place the popcorn bucket so it can catch his liquefying organs. You turn around and walk through the doorway.

“What’s happening?” Aegon asks you, hushed voice, frantic eyes. He has followed you to the living room, along with Aemond, Rio, and Cregan. You nod to Aemond. He knows.

“It’s radiation sickness,” Aemond says, low and bleak.

“What?!” Aegon gapes at him. “I mean, are you sure…?”

“It fits all the symptoms. He was in close proximity to a nuclear power plant, something the rest of us have intentionally avoided. If there was a meltdown, there are miles and miles that are poisoned with radiation. Passing by on a motorcycle could definitely result in a lethal dose.”

“Poor guy,” Rio says. “Not a good way to go.”

“No,” you agree. It isn’t.

“So how do you treat something like that?” Cregan asks Aemond.

“It can’t be treated,” Aemond replies tersely. “Not here, not by me, not by anyone. Not even if the world was normal again.”

“What do you mean it can’t be treated?! Everything can be treated nowadays! Cancer, heart attacks, diabetes, hell, my cousin got testicular cancer and he was fine a month later, he even got to keep one of his balls!”

“Radiation sickness can’t be treated. He’s going to die.”

“But how is that possible when���?!”

“I need you to try to not be stupid for five minutes,” Aemond snaps.

You say quietly: “He’s not stupid, Aemond. He just doesn’t know about this.”

“You are always defending him.”

“Because not going to med school isn’t a character flaw.”

Cregan asks mildly, looking at Aemond: “Could you explain it to me?”

“It’s pennies in a jar, man,” Rio says. “Radiation stacks up and at a certain point it kills you. It destroys your DNA and your body falls apart. You can get it just by going near someplace contaminated, and you might not even feel it happen. And there’s no way to undo the damage. The pennies never leave the jar.”

Cregan raises an eyebrow at Aemond. “Was that so difficult?”

Aemond ignores him. “We have to tell Jace,” he says instead.

Back in the bedroom—a mineral stench in the air, coppery blood and the salt of sweat—Aegon sits on the edge of the bed and takes one of Jace’s swelling, blistering hands carefully in his own.

“Don’t hold my hand, you loser.” Jace mumbles, and Aegon respectfully releases him.

“Jace,” Aegon begins. “We think you have radiation sickness.”

Jace blinks up at him, wincing and disoriented. “Which means…?”

“Which means, um, it’s going to be…not great.”

“Why are you the person explaining this?”

“You’re right, I really shouldn’t be explaining it. Can someone else explain it…?” Aegon glances around hopefully.

“Jace,” Aemond says. “Those cooling towers you drove by were part of a nuclear power plant that melted down when the power grid collapsed. You received a fatal dose of radiation. It’s the only thing that explains what’s happening to you.”

“Fatal…?” Daeron ventures.

Rhaena gasps and reaches for Luke. Baela’s face is a mask of numb shock. Jace stares up at Aemond for a long time before he speaks. “Aemond, fix me.”

Aemond’s words are brittle and fracturing. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Stop fucking around, man, you’re a doctor. You can fix me. I know you can. You’re a genius. You’re a total freak but you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. Give me the pills, give me the shots. Cut me open if you have to. I won’t scream, I promise. Fix me. I trust you.”

“Jace, I can’t do anything. No one can.”

“I have to meet the baby, Aemond,” Jace whispers, scarlet tears bleeding down his cheeks. “I have to be here for Baela and Luke. Fix me, man. I’ll do anything you tell me to.”

“Jace,” Aemond says, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry. I can’t help you.”

Jace looks to Baela, Luke, Rhaena, and at last back to Aemond. “How long?”

“Not very. A few days, maybe.”

“Days?” he echoes, dazed. “What happens?”

Aemond shakes his head. You don’t want to know.

“Yeah I do. Tell me.”

Aemond can’t respond; clear silent tears snake down the right side of his face. Rio answers for him. “You continue to bleed out of every orifice and the rest of your skin falls off. And eventually you die.”

Jace breaks down in sobs. “I was trying to find you guys.”

Suddenly, Baela turns to you and Rio and Aemond, wrathful, hissing. “This is your fault.”

Aemond pleads: “Baela, please don’t—”

“You made me leave him at the river. I knew he was still alive, but you forced me to leave him. If he’d been with us, this never would have happened. But he was alone, and it was because of you. You did this to him. You stole him from me.”

Rhaena tries to console her. “Baela, no one meant to—”

“I just got him back!” she screams, and then shelters Jace in her arms as he clings to her, the skin of his fingers and palms flaking at the pressure, holding onto her anyway. No one knows what to say; everyone has tears burning in their eyes and embers in their throats. “Get out,” Baela demands. “Leave us alone. This is the last time I’ll ever have with him and it’s your fucking fault. So get out.”

And you leave them to their final moments, failing flesh in a dying world.

~~~~~~~~~~

Only Luke and Rhaena flit in and out of the bedroom, carrying soiled linens and the plastic popcorn bucket to be periodically emptied. The rest of you are engrossed in a grim, thunderstruck deathwatch in the living room. You discuss the inevitable in hushed murmurs. It is cruel to let Jace suffer; it is unspeakably horrible to let Baela witness it. Ice alternates between receiving scratches from Cregan, Helaena, and Aegon, never trying to enter Jace’s room. You can hear Jace and Baela talking in there, his retching and groaning, her sobs.

It is not until dusk that Rhaena summons Aemond. Luke is weeping as he paces back and forth in the bedroom. Baela is still sitting on the bed with Jace, resigned now. She does not apologize, but she doesn’t have any more venom to spit either. The rest of you watch from the hallway, keeping a respectful distance. Ice nudges your hand with her nose, but you ignore her. Jace’s bloody eyes roll to Aemond.

“I’m keeping you here, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Aemond replies. There’s no point in lying.

“And I don’t need to feel myself melting like this for days. I get the idea.” Jace looks at Aemond for a while. His voice is anemic but calm; there are fresh blisters on his face and neck. “What can you give me?”

Aemond opens his medical kit and shows Jace the vial of morphine. “I found this at the pharmacy today. It would be painless, like going to sleep and never waking up.”

“Why do you have that?”

“I was thinking a small amount might help Baela during labor.”

“Is it the only morphine in your kit?”

“Yes.”

Jace nods. “Save it for Baela.” His gaze drops to the Glock in the holster at Aemond’s waist. “Can I borrow that?”

Rhaena stifles a dismayed yelp. Baela closes her eyes, but does not protest. Aemond says: “I don’t think you want to do this.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Cyclops,” Jace says, smiling. “I’ll be quick, I promise.”

“It’s heavy,” Aemond warns. He clicks off the safety and gives the Glock to Jace. “Are you able to use it by yourself?”

“It’s a very simple two-step process. Barrel to skull, finger on the trigger. I think I’ll manage.”

Again, Ice bumps her nose against your knuckles; again, you barely notice. Baela kisses Jace on the mouth, her lips coming away bloody. Rhaena says goodbye to him, then Luke, whispered parting words you don’t try to listen to. Before Aemond exits, Jace grasps his hand.

“Take care of my family, Aemond.”

“I will.”

“Don’t let the zombies eat me afterwards.”

And then it becomes real. Aemond’s composure falters. “Jace…I’m so sorry…”

“Go,” Jace urges him. Then there is a coughing fit, fresh blood and pieces of stomach and lungs. “Right now. Before I lose my nerve.”

Baela is the last one to leave the bedroom; she shuts the door behind her. Almost immediately afterwards is a deafening bang. Baela sinks to the floor and wails, one hand on her belly, the other embracing Rhaena and Luke when they rush to her. Ice is whining and pawing at the floor, her nails screeching on the hardwood. Aemond alone returns to Jace’s bedroom and reappears with his Glock. He places it back in his holster, his scarred face vacant. There’s blood on his fingers, you see. Jace’s blood, the last he’ll ever shed. Aemond hasn’t noticed yet.

You reach for Aemond’s hand; he flinches away. You ask him, pained: “Do you think if you don’t touch me, it won’t hurt you when I die?”

“Please don’t say that,” Aemond responds in a hoarse, splintering whisper.

Ice yowls, and Cregan is abruptly aware of her. “Oh shit, the Tahoe is still up on the jack. I’ll go get it.” He opens the front door. Under the moonlight, there are upwards of a hundred zombies stumbling down the long gravel driveway. Everyone begins screaming. Cregan slams the door shut and shoves one of the couches in front of it. “What now?!”

“We go through the cornfield,” Aemond says as you are all frantically gathering your sparse possessions. “It will be more difficult for them to see us. We kill as many as we can and we make our way to the Tahoe. Cregan, how long will it take you to get it ready to drive?”

“Maybe a minute. But I’ll need someone to spot me while I tighten the lug nuts.”

“Sounds like my kind of job opportunity,” Rio says, pumping his Remington. Helaena gives you a flashlight. Cregan secures the lug wrench under his belt and picks up his axe. Rhaena has her Ruger out and is telling Baela to breathe, to stay focused, to let her and Luke lead the way.

Aemond comes to you and leans in close so the others can’t hear. “How many bullets do you have left?”

“Not enough. Maybe fifty.”

“Do what you can. Stay near Rio.”

“I’ll try.”

Now there are zombies at the front windows, beating their spongy swamp-colored palms against the glass. Baela, Rhaena, and Luke are leaving through the back door with Daeron; you can hear the whizzing of his arrows and the sick soft sound they make when they pierce rotting meat. Under the weight of so many hands, one of the living room windows pops from its frame and clatters against the floor. You open fire, bullets exploding skulls and spraying brains, corpses jolting and then diving to the ground. You shoot until both M9s are empty, then pause to reload, boxes of bullets that Cregan gave you back in Iowa.

“Let them in,” Helaena says.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?!” Aegon shouts at her. He’s firing his Marlin .22 beside you, quite poorly; Rio and Aemond are in the backyard killing any zombies that find their way towards the cornfield. “We’re not letting them get through the house!”

“Not through,” Helaena says placidly. “In.”

“Oh.” Aegon understands. “Oh! I get it! Trap them inside!” He races to the kitchen and tears the remaining bottles of Grey Goose vodka out of the cabinet, then begins spilling them onto the wood floor. “Helaena, give me a lighter.”

She places one in his outstretched palm and then leaves with Cregan as he escorts her away, leading her by her fragile hand. They vanish together into the cornfield, Ice on their heels.

“Time to go, Chips!” Rio booms; he can’t be far behind Cregan.

“We’re on our way!”

Zombies are pouring through the front of the house; another window has given way. You pull the trigger over and over again as you move with Aegon towards the backyard, his clear river of vodka drawing a path from one end of the house to the other. You hit the grass before he does, then wait for him by the edge of the cornfield. Aemond and Rio are shouting for Aegon to hurry up. He crosses through the threshold, flicks the lighter to life, and throws it into the house. His plan works—the farmhouse is abruptly aflame, cooking zombies like long-spoiled hams—but he neglected to realize that in his haste, he had also accidentally doused his own left leg and Sperry Bahama sneaker. The fire licks up over Aegon’s skin and blazes there radiantly. He shrieks and falls to the ground. Rio yanks his own shirt off and uses it to smother the inferno, then throws Aegon over one shoulder to carry him.

“Go to Cregan!” Rio tells Aemond, shoving him in the direction of the Tahoe. Rio will be slower now, but no one else could still run with Aegon’s added weight. “You and Daeron spot him until I get there!” When Aemond is gone, Rio glances back at you.

“I’m fine,” you say, felling zombies as they round the house. “Get Aegon to the car!” And Rio listens to you like he always does, vanishing with Aegon through the cornfield.

You weave through the leafy stalks, investigating each growl and rustling with the beam of your flashlight. Grotesque, fetid faces plunge through the greenery, and you demolish them. You’re in the rhythm now, wheeling for a target and locking in, squeezing the trigger and watching ghoulish faces disappear. And then you spy a zombie lurching towards you from fifteen feet away, a twenty-something in a red Nebraska Cornhuskers t-shirt making her way down the dirt aisle between two rows of corn; and when you pull the trigger, there is only a dry click in reply. Your other M9 is already empty. You’ve used all the ammo Cregan gave you.

“I’m out of bullets,” you say, but no one hears you; you are alone. Aemond always told you to stay near Rio and you never did. Too late, you realize what an oversight that has been. “Rio? Aemond?!”

There are human voices and gunshots, but reverberating from a distance. Far closer are snarls and groans of the dead. You click off your flashlight, drop to the earth, and crawl until you are as far under a row of corn as you can be, long leaves tickling the back of your neck and damp soil in your nostrils. Clumsy, lumbering footsteps trod by you. From the road, you hear the Tahoe’s engine start with a rumble.

They’re leaving.

You shake your head, here with no one to see you in the dark. Still, the thought persists.

They’re leaving. I left my family and now my family is leaving me.

“Chips, stay where you are!” Rio shouts. “We’re coming back, we’ll find you!”

You wait until they are within ten feet of you, Rio cracking skulls with his Remington—he must be out of bullets too—and Aemond firing his Glock. “I’m here, I’m here!” you cry, and they are lifting you up from the dirt and dragging you towards Tahoe, and Aemond puts his pistol in your hand knowing you can do more good with it. You fire ten rounds before the Glock is empty, and you think with terror: Do any of us have bullets left?

Then you are being helped into the Tahoe, and the second all the doors are shut Rhaena floors the gas pedal, heading west on State Route 92.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I got my drugs after all,” Aegon rasps as Aemond injects him with morphine on the floor of a laundromat on the edge of Merna, Nebraska, far enough to escape the zombies, not so far that the Tahoe risks running out of gas before you reach the next town. His left leg is burned from the knee down, and burned badly: skin, fat, muscle, blood-red scorched ruin. Even through the modest dose of morphine—Aemond is terrified of accidentally killing him—Aegon can still feel what has happened to him. He knows it’s bad. He knows it could be the last mistake he ever makes. “I’m so thirsty…”

“I got you, Honey Bun,” Rio says, and then uses the butt of his Remington to bust open the vending machines and bring him bottles of Powerade. Baela is sobbing in the corner with Luke and Rhaena. Helaena is shining a flashlight on Aegon’s leg so Aemond can see. Daeron and Cregan are keeping watch by the entrance. You don’t even know why. All the bullets and arrows are gone, Aegon can’t walk, the Tahoe’s gas tank is nearly drained. If you are descended upon now, what will you do?

Aegon sobs and clutches for you, links his arms around your waist, rests his head in your lap. You hold him and comb your fingers through his unruly hair over and over again, like a compulsion, like a ritual. You are so afraid to let go of him. You are terrified he’ll disappear.

I wish I knew what to say. I never know what to say.

He’s shaking uncontrollably as Aemond cleans his leg: peeling away dead skin, wiping down the raw flesh with disinfectant. Aegon’s eyes are wide and glassy. There is blood on the white tile floor, pinkish lymph fluid, bits of charred skin. Ice is whimpering, her muzzle propped on her paws and her eyes darting around the room. Aegon manages through the pain, a reedy, gasping whisper: “Tell me about all those places you went when you were in the Navy.”

You can see it like the miles-deep blue of his eyes: the Indian Ocean, the jewel-tone equatorial sky. “On Diego Garcia, they have these birds called red-footed boobies—”

Aegon barks out a weak laugh. “They do not. You’re making that up.”

“No, really, I swear! They’re like seagulls, but they have blue on their face and bright red feet, hence the name. They’re extremely stupid, and one night a few of us were hanging out drinking Guinness and playing pool, and a booby flew in through an open window. We panicked, it panicked, and then it was flying in circles and couldn’t get out. We opened all the doors and windows, and the booby still just flew around banging into the walls. And of course the whole time it was shitting and bleeding and getting feathers everywhere, we knew it was going to take hours to clean up. After thirty minutes of chasing this idiot bird around, Rio snapped, took off his boot, and smacked the booby with it. He was trying to fling it out the window, like hitting a tennis ball with a racket, but he accidentally hit the bird too hard and murdered it. Its beak literally separated from its body and flew across the room. None of us could believe it, we didn’t even know that was possible. Rio felt so bad he started crying. We took the booby—and its beak, of course—out to the beach for a Viking funeral. We made it a little raft of coconut tree leaves, set it on fire with a lighter, and pushed it out into the waves.”

Aegon is cackling. “Bryan Osorio, terrorizer of the homicidal undead and boobies!”

“What else?” Baela says, and you look over at her, startled. The flashlight incandescence turns you all to ghosts, phantoms, half-shadows. At first you don’t know what she means. “What else did they have on Diego Garcia?”

“Oh, tell them about the coconut crabs,” Rio prompts you. He’s settled down beside Aegon and is resting one broad hand on his trembling shoulder.

“Coconut crabs?” Rhaena asks you, wiping tears from her cheeks with her delicate, small-boned fingers.

You are abruptly aware that you have an audience. You can feel yourself shrinking beneath their gazes. “Rio should tell the story. I’m not good at it.”

“Sure you are,” Rio says, smiling kindly beneath dark, wet eyes. “Go on. Tell them.”

So you do.

[ms0milk]

𝟏𝟕 | 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐥𝐥 (𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 & 𝐭𝐰𝐨.)

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"He does not grab you by the collar or threaten you with his teeth and when you grasp his hand to steady yourself from an awkward step, he is the boy who makes magic for you in the dark."

slight cw panic sequence. (I) reader agonizes after yesterday's kiss and of course the ball is today. blue mages haunt you, red wing captains stalk you, the wrong prince finds your hiding place (II) bkg will not let you embarrass yourself alone. ballgowns, blue fire, champagne, pearls, a song from home, relief and peruro. dance my love, or die. 7.7k

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Captain Hawks has one job and you’ve made it so much more difficult than necessary. He’s had one job for fifteen years. Red feathers brick out southern wind from the hiding place he’s made above your window and he glares through gusts and goggles to watch you finally return to Prince Touya’s room. You crumple in a pile at the foot of the bed when the door clicks closed. You’re rotting. Sulking. The Alderan dragon everyone’s so worried about, you who his king assigned him to watch– you, the girl with wet eyes and hair full of hay.

You kissed your prince last night. He knows the feeling.

Hawks takes a sip of coffee and grips the barrel of his mug to keep ocean wind from throwing it off the roof. The king is right to worry about you. You have spent one week wandering palace grounds, greenhouses, pantries, walkways and stables and never once guarding your prince. Weird bird, are you the chicken or the egg? Did you stop guarding Katsuki because you’re the spy Enji thinks or because not even the red wing captain could follow you undetected? Because you know better than to keep close to your charge when something is stalking? Hawks winces in a particularly strong breeze. It’s the latter.

Two eyes burn suddenly from your gloom to the parapet fifty meters outside your window where the captain spills his coffee in a rush to stay out of sight. What he wouldn’t give to be warming a bed back in town but instead Hawks rolls his eyes, flat on his wings behind a gable wall. You rise and jerk your curtains closed, glare like black fire.

Princess Fuyumi runs clear through a ten foot portrait propped up in the hallway to be dusted. She’s cold, she’s sick of sending maids to find you and the ball is today. Master Aizawa is securing perimeters somewhere too far away to be helpful, Uraraka’s finalizing guest lists, and Bakugou is getting stitches because he’s good for nothing else. The princess shakes paint flecks from her hair. She rips canvas from her belt and throws the standing frame to the ground.

Kirishima has never dressed for a ball like this before because parties in Aldera usually require armor. What do you do at a Ball if not wrestle? Do Takobans dance Peruro? Sero and Kaminari assure him he doesn’t look silly in white. Todoroki sits outside beside the sea. Deku holds his hand tight to keep him from jumping in.

In the king’s rear guard, Shinsou nurses a broken finger. Enji derives gross entertainment from screaming at soldiers all dressed in blue and it smells like the king came home for this party. The queen cannot be found. Few people think to look for you. No one minds blue fire.

An already tedious afternoon dissolved when a boy crossed your path on turret stairs, your hiding place from prying eyes. You didn’t have the heart to bark when he stumbled through Excuse mes and My Ladys. The quiet wasn’t helping. You could trust Bakugou with his champion for a day but your prince’s hands still danced on your skin the longer you let thoughts linger.

The little footman continued, melting, as you raised your head from between your knees. He carried a box under his arm and waited for your permission to move in the tight stairwell, “From Princess Fuyumi.”

Inside the box under the arm of the boy on the spire stairs was a dress.

You spent last night between pickle barrels in the distillery and hid in the morning where you knew your prince wouldn’t think to find you, curled in the deepest sconce of the north wing watching staff fly past. Today is the ball. It’s why the princess ordered you a dress and it’s why you’re pulling gold lace through your fingers by candlelight. Aizawa’s training pit echos pretty like the sea when it’s empty and the uniform room has a mirror. It’s a dark little annex off the main ring without those Takoban windows Captain Hawks loves so much.

All week, you growl through the effort of fastening garters to a stocking. Another. All week he has followed you and all week you kept his attention off your prince. If Bakugou had just stayed away, if he’d just hated you properly. You lean back to inspect neatly laced boots– Alderan dancing knots– boots so delicate they couldn’t be made for actual dancing. What will he wear tonight? You force a hand through wild braids.

Soldiers can fight armed or barefisted, fire cannons and crossbows, deliver first aid, hunt, guard, salute. You would be the head of your kingdom’s army and so you must know one thousand more important things, like how to string a corset and when to use forks in a line on pretty tables. Silk the color of blood gathers all the heat of your chest and keeps it close. Does the heir of Aldera waltz Takoban? You take the buttons at the ends of your sleeves in your teeth to fasten them closed. What will he look like in their blue costumes dancing with their pretty ladies? Can you remember how to count rhythm in threes? Can you even look at him?

More important than a soldier, court mages, even more important than a champion, you are trained as Head of Royal Guards. You are poison tester, navigator, weaponmaster and seaman, you judge the safety of the room by the shoes of its hosts and you wear fine clothes at fine parties to accompany your masters like a trophy. A prized hunting dog. You will be beautiful for one night and you can no longer avoid your job; assassins love to hide at parties.

“Steady,” you whisper to the gods.

It’s been a few years but you know how to wear these clothes and you know how best to move, and you wince when the sheath of a dagger chills the skin under your ribcage where it hides. You sparkle unsettlingly in the gown and grunt through the effort of untucking stubborn skirts from hilts and scabbards. Wielding a candle to examine yourself more closely in the mirror, you judge the shapes impractical clothes make when they’re meant to fit only you. Pleats of red fall over themselves from your waist to your ankles and in your reflection a bit of fire stirs, because in a cold kingdom this gift was made of love.

You are blood red tonight from neck to heel. Gold tassels align themselves like military badges across your shoulders and the sleeves of the gown bleed to lace at your wrist where two green buttons wink. You can’t help staring. Jeanist’s dragontooth gleams on your breast.

This is an overstuffed week. Hedonistic, anxious like a blood clot heart attack. You are stalked, you are tested and attacked, you’ve pretended not to feel, you did half your best, you snacked instead of training and sat in pleasant company you love, why wouldn’t a ball punctuate this disaster? Something about preparing for war in the dark makes this bearable. Something about fastening a knife to your thigh keeps you from thinking about Bakugou Katsuki and the formalities waiting for you upstairs. Someone is watching you.

A man clears his throat outside the doorway, careful not to stand where you might see him but you are too focused to be caught by surprise. “What do you want?”

“Apologies, Captain.”

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

“Y/n?” the flame mage murmurs again.

Why would Aldera want you back? Playing princess instead of posting sentinel. Knowing you’re spied upon and letting Bakugou find you, day after day, letting him help you house spiders, letting him spar, letting him smile, letting him sit beside you– you knew what was watching you– something worse than flying captains. It’s why this horrible place remains horrible and the cold like frost can never be shaken off the back of your neck. It’s why the queen hides in stables and why your blood runs black in the instant you understand yourself through your reflection.

Your two shoulders fly through the doorway first so that when the blue mage attacks your legs will be spared enough to carry you upstairs. You can outrun him, you can outrun anyone. You should have paid more attention to ball preparations this month instead of languishing in your prince’s backwards attention. You should have killed yourself to kill him before his body hit the water. Why wouldn’t an assassin slip through the cracks of your distraction? And why wouldn’t it be him? Unkillable.

The candles inside the changing room are doused and shattered so that you are the only possible flammable thing in this dusty arena and you pull the knife from your hip as you soar over the threshold.

It would have flown hard when you released it– might have even killed a ghost– if you hadn’t seized up as the figure came into view. White hair, tall with sunken eyes, only slightly shorter than his father. You right yourself to land on your new dancing boots, and their heels wail two lines through the sand at the edge of the arena.

Prince Natsuo doesn’t have the energy to be surprised by you. He is not fazed by your drawn weapon and doesn’t flinch in the dark, but he remembers your name, “Captain Y/n?”

Like a cat your eyes go wide and your knife clatters to the floor. Half-fresh braids fall over your shoulders in a deep and rigid bow. Your fists bunch the soft material at your hips and you consider dropping to your knees in the silence and dust of the sparring pit so far away from any party he should be attending. Your heart beats to a new fear, “Highness,” you stammer to the ground, “I–”

“Do you dance, Captain?”

You do, and you quirk an eyebrow at the floor. It’s becoming increasingly clear, for how threatening this country is, that its eldest princess actually took all the reason at birth. Swallowed it from the room with her first cry and left kings and countrymen to stumble on their words, for even when you are not threatening him at knifepoint there’s a dread just behind the prince’s every word. Your Alderan senses are dulling in this kingdom. Your ghost never sounded so nervous. “I’m sorry, sir,” you lift only your head from the stiff bow, “I don’t understand.”  

Prince Natsuo’s suit is blue trimmed silver. He is white trousers and shining bells, military honors, rope tassels, broad like his father, beautiful like his mother and dressed like a blue glass bottle. He’s never spoken to you and seems to have trouble even looking at you now, like a rabbit the dog runs past in a hunt.

You soften, “May I escort you to the party, sir? You’ve made a wrong turn,” rising fully as the prince gathers his thoughts and keeps well away from you– no. Less away from you and more just to himself. Like pouring a cup just full enough to tease the tension at the rim, Prince Natsuo is bursting with nothing to say.

All week you hid from spies and all week Alderans made it their job to find you, to be near you. Today you hide from just one man and suddenly every person in the cold kingdom knows exactly where you are. Winged captains weather the winds to watch you and squire boys can retrieve you from tall towers. Maids predict which hidden paths you’ll take from the kitchens to ask if you’ll need a bath– intercepting you without issue or sweat. Are you that predictable? Unsubtle? Obvious and lacking, or does horrible Takoba deserve a little more credit? Her skittish prince can track you down to the darkest corner of his castle like it's only natural to hide from festivities instead of attending them.

“Please excuse my being started.”

“It’s your job,” he musters just as you scoop up your blade and tip it back into its sheath amongst skirt folds. “Thank you– for your job.” He’s fidgeting, not murderous, and his voice no longer sounds like a monster. The prince scratches gently at a bauble on his chest as you peer through the dark, “I’m sorry.”

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

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

Natsuo does not take your hand. He pops something off of his chest, drops the something in your hand and straightens his suit jacket, content with or oblivious to the fact that his sister inherited all his good social reason. You eye him first and then study the metal on your palm that glints in dim moonlight– candlelight– and tense as the room’s circle of sconces suddenly blink to life one by one.

Of the fifty candles in the training room ring, the first five from the entrance miraculously catch bright warm fire. Six, then the seventh, one by one around the edge of the room. Natsuo rushes to pat out your panic, “Magic candles.”

“Magic candles,” you repeat, which makes much more sense than a drowned magician. You exist at the edge of complete catastrophe, always prepared to fight that man who was too bored to kill you, but magic candles make sense. When have you ever seen a servant in this cold place spend their time lighting candles?

“And a medal,” Natsuo continues. You follow his line of sight to the object in your hand. It’s silver. It fits right in the cleft of your palm. The inscription around the edge is in a language you don’t know but what is clearly the moon sits in the center. A comet streaks across it and together they make the emblem of the House of Todoroki. “The medal of honor.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s yours.”

“It certainly is not,” you say, the air sort of floating from you instead of being pushed out by your voice. Eleven, twelve candles, a quarter of the room is lit. The badge warms in your fingers but you no longer look at it and extend your hand back to the prince in a gown that already makes you too ridiculous to breathe. He shakes his head and you push your open palm a little farther like a plea.

“I’ve seen you. I heard about…my father’s arrival in your training exercise and I, I didn’t, I don’t think my sister’s champions would have been fast enough to stop him if you hadn’t. You kept my mother from the mad magician and I doubt anyone has thanked you and I, I just– my father wouldn’t allow honors on your gown and mine is more than I deserve.” He straightens his jacket again and continues to struggle with eye contact. Twenty-two, twenty-four, twenty-seven candles come alive in the cold arena and the ring of light reaches the pair of you at the far end. “It’s much less than you’re owed.”

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

It’s slightly warmer than you’ve felt all month, in clinging red skirts and candlelight. Aldera is always bustling so Takoba is loney in comparison, but maybe there is comfort where you have never looked before. Comfort in red gowns. Comfort in sweaters beside the sea, comfort in silver soldiers and a training room where you are not their commander. That thought is a shock and you clutch the comet in your hand at the edge of the room. Forty-five.

Aizawa’s training pit warms by candlelight under its glass ceiling. Oppressively tall and so much like drowning, the stars blink down at you from their thrones like dappled moonlight on waves. You fasten the comet pin to your bodice with eyes tilted to the sky. Your first night here the sky was the only one who knew you. You smooth your hands up your hips and rest both palms at your waist where Bakugou held you, bleeding, poisoned, his forehead slipping off your shoulders with sweat and the lurches of the horse. A ten minute ride from the edge of the forest to the city gates, it was only the sky watching such desperation. There was comfort in that, under the threat of death. Comfort in your loss of rank here, in anonymity.

Rescued from a crowd, rescued from punishment, rescued from the sea, from cliffs, from sickness, from solitude. Saved by magic, saved by strength, by yourself and by your prince, over and over again in this wet kingdom.

There is comfort in teaching strangers to fear you and you blink through the memory of your cherrywood halberd soaring through a dinner party. The loss of its weight at your back makes you ache and your ears start to itch as the rest of the night replays itself. Forty-seven. Bakugou pressed close between your legs at the lip of a table. His thumbs smoothing your cheeks over like parchment and his cheeks flashing red at a realization– at everything you now realize he was trying to say, to show you. You’re grateful for the privacy of the stars again so that no one can ask why you smile in an empty room.

Forty-eight. Dying for a person is so much worse than dying for a cause. You thought it might be the end when the blue flammed mage forced his hand around your mouth or when a garden screamed in ashes under his boot. When he– he took you by the shoulder and branded the shape of his palm to your flesh, when your arm was relieved of its socket– everything, all of it came so much easier than the moment your prince stepped forward to face him. Easier than Bakugou collapsing in a burning clearing, easier than counting the decline of his heartbeat through the clothes on your back, easier, so much easier than retching up seawater together on the sand.

Prince Bakugou is agonizing. Forty-nine, he’s upstairs, gilded, waiting for you.

You shake your head like unnecessary thoughts might come loose with the movement. For one night your worry can be in not staring after your charge– not tasting his lips when you wet yours at the edge of the party– and not in hallucinations of murderous mages. A comet and a dragontooth remind you of the weight of a heart. The last candle around the glowing arena beats to life beside the first and it is time for a ball.

You would have smoothed your skirts over the daggers hidden among them. You would have checked your hair again in the mirror and tested the fit of your boots with a few secret skips. You’d have imagined the warmth of Bakugou’s hands and his magic, to ease the ache of watching pretty blue ladies waiting to dance with the barbarous and beautiful prince. You would have attended and served quietly, you would have dreamed of home if the flame in that last pretty candle wasn’t flickering in a clear and lonely shade of blue.

Fifty.

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

You call over your shoulder and hurdle the staircase railing rather than waste time sprinting to the bottom. If all of your training boiled down to a single skill, if there was only one chance, one thing you could be trusted to do in the blink of an eye it was arming yourself.

A shortsword shines in your fist as you sprint, its wall hooks worse for your wear after being ripped from the armory on your warpath. The scabbard is fastened sloppily to your left hip. Cruel images of half-scorched bodies, croaking victims that need both your hands to carry them to safety, your prince– they necessitate the holster which whips your thigh as you tear through a quiet castle. Quiet, so quiet, too quiet for a ball, idiot, you should have known. Every single light in the castle blinks to life in the very last lilacs of sunset, and every single one of them quivers with blue fire.

Seed-sized wall carvings flow through their forms, animated by your speed. Stone does not creak when you step over it, hardly any servants linger in empty hallways and the thought that one squire boy will be the firefighting force for the whole castle is horror compounded by horror. “Captain Hawks!” You bellow with the last bit of air between strides.

He’s watching you, he didn’t abandon his assignment for a party. You burst from servants’ paths onto the exact blue rugs you knew the stairs would lead to; your Alderan senses might be dulling but this castle is no longer a maze. Takoban cluelessness can take over all it wants. All it needs to do is get you to the ballroom in this stupid fucking dress. One by one, sconces yawn in innocent blues and burn so hot and so quickly that wax weeps to the floor.

A window in the line takes your pommel to its pane as you retch the sword’s hilt through the glass and shout, “Hawks!” louder, between flying shards, into the night, “Fire!”

Candles instead of your dress, a candle instead of your flesh. He could be anywhere, nearby, outside, straddling corpses, you don’t know the rules his magic follows and every step you take without bursting into flames is a second you can’t waste. Your prince will fight to the death, you cannot let him. Your prince will die for his friends, you can’t bear to lose a single one. Send me instead, you beg. Me, wait for me.

You soar down two flights of twisted stairs and lurch at a tight corner before colliding with a laundryman and his blue candlestick. “Run,” you seeth without stopping, vaulting over both the man and portrait strewn across the floor beside him, ripped at the center and trailing flecks of paint. The last turn is towards the right leg of the grand staircase, entryway and ballroom dead in your sights. Red wings don’t appear and so you hook your hips, and your gown with it, over the lip of the banister.

Hardly a breath escapes the closed ballroom doors. Why are there always too few guards here? What ball makes no noise? What kind of monster could kill a room of people without making a sound? There are clicks, you panic as the banister ends and dismount the slide into a sprint. There is the bone chilling image of the blue mage clicking over corpses with the heels of his tall black boots– the body of your prince lying charred and bloodless before he could even let loose a spark.

Your dancing boots make the loudest sound in the entire palace as you run your legs harder, to carry you farther, until finally your hands are flat on the ballroom doors and your biceps scream under orders. The elven silver budges only slightly. There should be footmen outside to let guests in and the anxiety of their absence gives you an unnatural strength, enough to force one gilded door open a crack and slip into the destruction with your weapon raised.

Find him, find him, find Bakugou first, soft sunny hair and pomegranate eyes, the boy who barks laughter, he who wields the magic of old gods, your heart, find your prince, get him home.

Silver foot bolts shriek over marble as you force your way inside. You are a cacophony always. You are blood splattered across the edge of the dancefloor when you burst into the party.

“Highness!” You shout into the blue before realizing the silence of the ballroom doesn’t come from death. One thousand pearls startle immediately at the beast and her raised sword. Gowns of lace, suits of glass, feathers, freckles, masks and tiny shoes, bells, fans, crystal flutes of pink champagne, and not a single person speaking over a hush. Two hundred eyes watch the Alderan dog prepare to fire again into a party.

Balls in Aldera breathe life to the city. Any comfort you felt for Takoba dies with your entrance. Waiters roll between guests with trays of cake and wine, and the winter floral decorations must have cost a fortune for petals to be sewed and draped and weeping from the walls because this certainly was meant to be a ball. Your fingers ache for the weight of your halberd for the first time since you lost it in the sea.

There is no mage when your heckles fall. No mage when your shoulders droop and your sword with it, not when you search the ballroom for your Alderan sun, not a single shock of white hair taunting from the windows. Every candle in every abra, every chandelier, sconce, cup, spike, or lamp, is a melancholy flickering blue above the sea of silent guests.

Your weapon falls slack. You exhale as the swordpoint chips the floor.

The queen sits on her throne beyond leagues of distracted dancers and servers and bards, with her hands folded and her husband beside her tense, hunched, and licked by fire where you startled him out of his seat. The great ballroom window blinks with its audience of stars. Just outside and over the cliffs, the maws of the sea applaud.

You jolt, as do the guests closest to you, at the sound of metal crush but it is only Uraraka in her uniform, catching the tray of a server who panicked at the sight of you. Shinsou’s hair isn’t hard to pick out from his post beside a waitstaff door and he thins his lips instead of speaking. No one speaks. There is no laughter, there is a single violin playing from a fifteen piece band– did you scare the trumpets too?– weeping a waltz for the dancers who crane away from their partners to watch what you might do. Their every gown is white, blue, green– silver like sea foam. Their hair obeys them and folds into smooth shapes at the tops of their heads so that their noble throats can be struck sick by the air of a room above the sea. You are the only foul red thing here.

The flame of worry collapses in your chest along with your heart. Quietly, blue fire watches back without laying a finger on anyone.

Oh.

“Y/n?”

There you are.

The ring of dancers at the center of the room curl around in their timid waltz, revealing new faces from the back of the crowd. Kirishima in a fit white suit, too focused on not crushing his Takoban partner to even realize you’ve arrived and then Mina, full of worry with her hands in Fuyumi’s and both perfectly placed in the seaside painting with their layered dresses of white. She makes to break away from the current, to rescue you, but her prince beats her to it.

The prince of Aldera climbs trees in the summer to reach the best apples. He likes to bathe at night. He is slightly shorter than his mother in her favorite boots and it bothers him, but never enough to say anything. His fingertips sparked when he kissed you.

He is cloaked in red. An abandoned partner jingles angrily as he drifts through the tides and calling your name is the easiest thing in the world, “Y/n.” He glows. You have hidden from this all day, and tonight his war cape arcs sanguine circles around him. 

The Sun approaches, he glides to you like picking up a stray is part of this dance. He takes up your swordhand in his, weapon clattering to the polished floor and with a magic-heavy hand at your waist the scabbard belt falls away. Hair pushed straight back and two red earrings dangling, Bakugou rolls his eyes, “It’s a dogshit party,” and a few pieces of hair fall over a stitched gash on his cheek, “but I doubt a swordfight will fix it.”

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

“Won’t,” he rumbles, “won’t let you look crazy alone.” Prince Bakugou Katsuki steadies his palm just behind your waist and draws you onto the dancefloor, hand in hand. He is more than beautiful. Polished boots, white suit and golden embroidery– each button in his vest is flanked by a small Alderan sun. Dragons prowl along the hem. His red cape you thought lost, rocks you with homesick.

“Highness,” he steps to a rhythm in fours, heel toe, toe, toe heel forward into the fold of your dress to guide you back into the stream of dancers. “I didn’t– I–” Your feet barely make the proper shapes to keep up for your Alderan heart is a grease fire not a hearth. Bakugou holds his head high to the side with the posture of a king. His pupils occupy their lowest corners so he never need take his eyes off of you.

You, his war criminal.

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

He is embers, “I have a surprise.” He does not grab you by the collar or threaten you with his teeth and when you grasp his hand to steady yourself from an awkward step, he is the boy who makes magic for you in the dark. Bakugou Katsuki’s ears are scarlet even as he stares ahead, sweat pearls between your fingers and he sweeps you close, albeit awfully tight, through the steps of a Takoban dance. His face catches light from the candles above and the shadow of his pale lashes sweeps over both cheeks. 

A corded thigh slips between yours and back again to the tune of one sad string. The rhythm doubles for four steps and calms again. You could dance the continent around for all the etiquette training you’ve endured but something about the lack of ghosts here, something about your heart beating out of time with the song, about red eyes and a clenched jaw, the hand fingering notches on the small of your back like it might a cello– you are suddenly on the catwalks again with your lips smiling into his, you are holding back tears, you are clicking teeth and stumbled steps and hands cupping cheeks, and your heart bleeds all over the dancefloor. Your voice cracks, “I’m so sorry,” and it is the loudest thing in the room.

“The candles are blue at the queen’s request,” he rumbles, sacrificing posture to watch you properly, to correct you. “That must…I, I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have let them.” Bakugou raises his right shoulder in invitation for your hand to rest there but your fingers lift from his arm as he turns you both, and settle on that small new wound at his cheek. You breathe deeply as your chests slot together, no fight in sight. Your relief almost comes in tears.

Party guests do not stop staring, especially now that the foreign royal has spirited his beast to the dancefloor. At a distance, familiar faces train gazes your way. Little doctor Shuzenji and Aizawa beside her nursing a pink champagne flute, both ribboned in their bests. Uraraka offers you a tight lip at the edge of the dancefloor. Fuyumi boxsteps in line nearby, the lonely violin picks up pace, hand in hand with her youngest brother and attempts to lean in to whisper to you before Bakugou cages them both out with his shoulders.

He clears his throat, “Captain,” the second-loudest thing in the room, “will you dance with me?”

It’s not your best, admittedly, but the thought your four-step is poor enough your partner needs to clarify does lighten the mood, and you nod. Half your focus is sacrificed to keeping calm in such a full room and the other half is completely at his mercy.

“Peruro?” Bakugou raises those flaxen eyebrows, his lips led by yours. The dance peruro. Destructive and certain to give the Takoban King an aneurysm. Something like comfort slips in. Your eyes widen suddenly and your prince with you. What does he see? you wonder. You nod again.

The waltz will reach its climax soon and Bakugou leads you through a perfect Takoban rhythm until the second he dips forward to whisper, through your hair and over the silence of this cursed party, “Mind your ears, dragonne.”

You shudder immediately at the name, hand in hand, chest to his. Something in your perfect center bursts in white flame and you throw your eyes down to your skirts.

“Dance!” Bakugou’s voice cracks like a whip of thunder above the soggy party and he lifts his chin over your head. The vibration of every syllable rumbles from his ribs to yours and his growl is smoke on water, “or die.”

The next second a horn howls one crescendoed note and every hair not squeezed into your silk dress, prickles. You jerk your gaze back up to Bakugou, unsure what expression you might be making, “How?”

But your prince is still grinning wide so you must be too. “Bribed em,” he leans close and as one confused violin trails off, another trumpet joins the fray. Dancers look around distractedly and onlookers whisper, louder, slightly louder, to be heard over the addition of percussion to the building swell of tuning instruments. A pair of cymbals crash like earthquake, a waitress topples over.

Shinsou shakes his head in the corner of the room and rubs his face, fondly entertained. The king is out of his seat again. Suddenly a fifteen piece band is making the sound of home. The band vibrates under an arc of camellias and the small woman seated at the front pulls a flute from her suit jacket. The herding call of her shepherd’s pipe gathers the cacophony and just as quickly as the group disrupted the peace, they hush behind seventeen beautiful whispers of the pipe, clear and bright as stars. It is the quiet start of Mitsuki’s favorite drinking song. Fear of crowds melts from you like bedtime stories.

faire of the fields

the girl who plays for me

dance and i will watch you

dance and i will join,

you who

teaches beasts to love

send us all to war

She draws the final note long and low, violins become fiddles, trumpets repeat the tune, a drummer growls, two pipes build, and the flute cheers back atop a flirty melody of three before the brilliant song erupts. Bakugou clasps your hand tight and throws you from his grip so that you might twirl and glow under his arm but the rules of peruro dictate a little more focus than that.

The closest dancers to you shriek when Mina barrels through them and pulls you out of his hold. She squeals with two gloved hands on your waist, “Miss firelight!” Her dress envelopes yours and the spinning doesn’t stop until you’ve tripped a man at the edge of the dancefloor and very nearly toppled over yourselves.

Over the curve of her shoulder you snort, shocked by your own glee, as Takobans try to adjust their waltz to the Alderan rhythm and inevitably four-step themselves into a fervor. Kirishima towers over your prince and barks with laughter trying to get the man to spin under his arm. Shinsou is no longer brooding at his post. He is hand in hand with Kanminari, flecked all over with petitfour cream, who has led him into the fray.

“Lady Mina!” you bellow and take up her hand in yours. You fasten your waists together and both of you fly into the tide. When was the last time you put the blue mage’s voice away? How long has it been since you last danced Peruro? Singing while stepping, laughing, diving for bystanders and squealing when drunk guests toppled over themselves to be the one to lift you into the air. You steal your partners in peruro, and fight to keep them. It keeps the room from feeling small, from crushing you. When you are thrown whoever catches you gets the next dance and the songs never end.

Euphoria threatens to spill over the fire Katsuki started in your heart. Flame mages are far from your mind under blue candlelight.

The queen does not move, but she might be smiling. Fuyumi yelps when her champion scoops her up from behind and places her on her shoulder. Even the youngest Todoroki and his freckled champion tut about together to the rhythm. You hope no one tries to steal the blue prince; he might not survive it; and make eye contact with Natsuo while you completely butcher Mina’s three step dips. He stands at the base of his parents’ thrones, unmoving, but pink with excitement.

Takobans, even servants, lingering at the edge of the crowd cannot outswim the rip current. They belong to a quietly stubborn nation who will attempt their delicate hop skips even to the bleat of an Alderan horn. Only cowards leave a dancefloor and it is the first respectable tradition you’ve seen here.

In a flash of red across the room, your prince takes up two stiff women in each arm and you almost spit in laughter as they go purple under the instruction of the barbarian prince. The polished floor vibrates. It’s too loud to think, a mix of happiness and screams of indignation as pretty lords and ladies are pulled into the fray by those countrymen only slightly drunker than they.

Peruro is a game and so when Sero Hanta and his cheeks tattooed with lipstick kisses, plucks you from your partner, Mina can hardly complain. The flutist roars her approval and her fiddlers breathe life into the happy song behind her. Trumpets pluck, bleat, and howl complex harmonies that prove you’re Alderan from the sheer intoxication of the sound.

Sero’s long arms wrap behind you and you’re off your feet before you can speak. “Return of the Red Captain!” His grip on your sides is more ticklish than hell and you giggle and squirm as you fall into a dip. His palms hit something hard, the dagger concealed in your gown, “Are you armed?” He chuckles and tugs you up and close, back to chest.

“Me? Never.” You peek over your shoulder, both laughing, and he peels you from him so tight you spin away three times fully and far enough away from him that Kirishima poaches you without difficulty.

His Alderan fire rolls off the warm parts of him in waves of pine smoke and happiness. How many yards of fabric it must have taken for Takoba to stitch his suit– the cost– you can’t imagine. He hoists you onto his shoulder before you can think a moment longer.

Your red pleats swell in the air and settle with your hips on his broad shoulder. The hidden sheath under your bodice taps his ear. “Are you armed?!” He hollers and spins once to make you squeal and grip tight to his hair. Princess Fuyumi covers her mouth to hide laughter and you beam at each other from your shoulder seats, over the sea of Takoban heads. The champion shrugs you into his arms and back onto your feet. The new heels of your dancing boots click like bells every step you take.

Eijirou is a wonderful dancer, and difficult to burgle. He throws his hands above his head and the pair of you clap, kick one leg out and turn, eyes always locked and teeth shining. With your next kick, your hip checks a short man attempting to dance Takoban and knocks him into another pair. Eijirou’s next clap, behind his back, startles a woman so badly she covers her ears and the whole room reeks of home. Drown in it Takoba, dance or die.

Your friends are safe. There’s nothing to fear from shitty parties and you spare a thought for the servants you must have traumatized on your rampage down here. Wers and mers, the window you broke– Kirishima’s hands are at your waist because you are distracted, you are searching, and before you can brace yourself he has thrown you clear into the air.

No matter how much you hate it here, the ballroom is beautiful and Natsuo might be a wonderful king. His decorations shine in the queen’s candlelight. Early winter flowers are strung by the thousands to garnish balustrades and window frames, they erupt from iridescent vases and hang in an arch over the howling band. Bundles of pearls dot every corner and swallow the moonlight. Silver shells and whistles, inlaid cuffs, white wigs, Takoba is most beautiful by moonlight. There’s no sun here. Did you ever think you’d hate him? That you’d miss him? Where is he? Your prince likes plums best because they’re sour and he blows on dandelions when no one’s watching and he works construction with his men when the city needs repair and he hates how dry paper feels on his fingers. The daggers at your hip cool in your descent.

“Red suits you, dragonne!” Bakugou roars and you land square in his arms to the coo of a shepherd's pipe. You blink and his, him, he– he stares. He is terrible at piano and walks with his head down after rain to keep from stepping on worms. He mends his own clothes because his father taught him how to sew. “You,” he attempts to speak, “Captain, you,” but the high of the dance dissolves from him even as the music swells because you stare and bring your fingers to the wound on his cheek.

“You’re beautiful,” you breathe. He does not find his words in the space between your faces. Your prince goes pink. Enough of the room is dancing now that you need to read lips to truly hear anything but he understands your every thought without effort as he lets you down. There’s a hand on your back to keep you close. I’m afraid. It hurts to be so close to you. He presses his forehead to yours.

“Y/n, ’m sorry.” You fight yourself not to fight the closeness. It’s rotten work. Your gown matches his suit perfectly and pressed together you spin in the chaos and climax of a beautiful song.

The prince rolls figure-eights against your forehead with his own. Two much less focused dancers jostle your duet and Bakugou sweeps a foot forward to trip the leader before lifting you over the pile of men and returning to the dance. You glow red in his arms above him, halo of the moon.

A tall man shifts between rushing servants on the catwalks. Your prince beams below you, king of the sun. It's a pretty party. It is perfectly loud. A polearm is readied on a scarred arm in the dark and no one minds blue fire.

The flutist picks up speed, spurred on by the tambourine, and each note from each instrument cuts itself off to make time for the next. Every place you touch one another aches. If it would just stay like this forever, dancing, knowing without speaking, you could kill any enemy. The sky would learn to kneel, if only you could keep the adoration of winespilt eyes.

A series of gasps, a yelp, and Kirishima’s sweet laughter punctuate the thought. Bakugou was meant to wear fine clothes like these. Sparks like fairy lights twinkle where sweat beads on his jaw and you would have given nine lives to kiss him one more time. He will be a good king too. There is a scream.

Your hand on his shoulder bunches the fabric of his cape, and you lurch forward to lock your other hand around his back. Your foot is dead behind his before he can blink and with a surge of momentum from the dance, the last swell of fiddle, a prayer for old gods, luck from the sea and something like love, you knock the prince over your shoulder and onto the ground into the thickest thrall of dancers.

He laughs the whole way down and holds you where he can to keep from knocking your heads together. The sound is molten gold. You would sin to hear it always.

He is still laughing, howling, bursting with joy when he hits the ground and you with him in your perfect dance peruro. He doesn’t notice the whine of dropped instruments or revulsion of the crowd because he cannot look away from you. On his back, on the floor, beneath you, Prince Bakugou lifts his arm to cup your face and freezes in the new and sudden silence.

The impact of the spear shattered a chunk of floor beside your prince’s heart where it landed. Missed, you grin feebly. He’s okay. He is perfect and wide-eyed and beautiful, and the blade of your cherrywood halberd shines with blood from its home through your chest.

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[infriga]

I saw other people were thinking of names for the characters in Fan Letter so I thought I'd give it a go myself since it's fun lol. So these are my name picks if I had to name them:

I'd probably pick Mizu for Nami's fan cause Nami means wave and Mizu means water so a wave affecting water so profoundly seems fitting and Mizu is a relatively common name to reflect how she represents the average person.

I'd probably name the older greengrocer brother Ward as a reference to windward/leeward which are sailing terms that mean facing into the wind and away from the wind respectively because Luffy's name is a reference to luffing which is a sailing term, plus ward can also mean to guard or protect something.

Likewise I'd name his younger brother Tack as a reference to tacking which is a similar term to luffing, since he's an overachieving younger brother like Luffy is lol, and also the type of tack you're on influences which side of the boat is windward or leeward. It could also be short for attack which is the opposite of protect and sort of alludes to the difference in the brothers' personalities.

Brook's fan I'd name Anastasia since Brook was largely inspired by Slash and that's the name of one of his most popular songs. I also think it fits her.

For the Chopper fan he was hard to think of one for but I came up with Murdoch since it means warrior of the sea to go with his moniker "king of the waves", and because doch -> doc -> doctor lol

The Mihawk fan I'd call Torizawa because it can mean rumour or gossip, and tori can also mean bird, like a hawk huehue.

I was also toying with calling the Zoro and Franky fans Kiri and Nuki respectively because kirinuki means newspaper/magazine clipping or the cutting for a scrapbook, plus kiru is Zoro's favourite word (it means to cut/slice), but it's more of a joke/pun name for the two of them cause I couldn't think of anything else 😂

[costelloschoice]

Hello!! I absolutely adore your first! I was wondering if you could do a siren mizu x pirate reader?? Idk it's js been on my mind lately idk why 😭 you ofc don't have to if it's too much! Thank you and keep up the amazing work!! 😊💖

-Firstly, thank you <3. And two, I love this idea! thank you for requesting <3

Those Eyes

-Siren! Mizu x Pirate! fem! Reader

-warnings: strangers x lovers, seduction, some inspo from the Odyssey, yes I know sirens are incapable of falling in love but this is my fantasy so shhhh...

You’re not sure how long you’ve been on the water, but it’s taking a drain on you.

You weren’t captain, but you weren’t the lowest on the deck. You weren’t the one that mops but not the one that leads. Being one of the only women was the hardest part. The constant teasing, the insults…It took a mental toll on you. You were lucky that the captain even let you stay in his cabin to protect from the other men at night. The captain never tried anything with you knowing he had a wife waiting for him.

That’s why when the captain stated the boat was passing through dangerous siren territories, you were their guinea pig.The captain order everyone to put beeswax in their ears, knowing it would protect them from the luscious sing from the women of the sea.

You on the other hand, were to be tied up to the mast of the ship. Your were going to hear the legendary siren’s call. Maybe it was a plot to get you off the boat, you couldn’t care. You had nothing waiting for you at home or any luck with treasure hunting and looting. The crew wasn’t exactly the best and yet you put your whole life into this. Maybe it was for the best..?

Leaving your family behind for treasure put a large dent in your relationship with them…But you promised to bring them back treasure you can help them with financially. Knowing that you failed almost made you want to die to the sirens.

You heard from legends around that these women were beautiful mermaid like creatures that have the face, voice, and body to lure men in to snatch them for dinner. You also heard of sirens with a beautiful women’s head but the body off a large hawk. But from both stories, their voice were sure to drag you in. Yet one questioned remained among the men. Since you were a women, would it even work in you? Many have doubt but some travelers believe the infectious song will make anyone delusional enough to come join the women in the waters.

And there was no way to get out of this. You were tied tightly to the mast, surely to have brush burn and bruising after this. You arms tired behind your back, ankles together, and finally your whole body tied to the mast. Your heart picked up when they put in their beeswax, knowing you can’t call for help.

As you tried to calm your breathing, you heard something in the distance…A song? A beautiful song with an even more beautiful voice…

The captain seemed to notice the fog slowly approaching. He hurried and ordered the hundreds of men to try and paddle the ship fast. Your heart was beating out of your chest, trying to take deep breathes.

Then that voice. That voice that pierced right through your heart....

You looked to see a woman with the legs of a fish sitting on a rock. Her piercing, almost glowing blue eyes stared at the ship. She was trying to catch her prey, though she was only one woman she could easily take them down. Her long black hair covered her breast, tailing slowly moving side to side as she sang. Suddenly you felt something take over you, take over your mind and emotions. Your body was betraying you, you felt yourself starting to thrash against your restraints, trying to get yourself free.

The captain noticed you thrashing trying to get yourself free. He foolishly tried yelling for the men to paddle faster. They couldn't hear him but can see the frantic look on his face. When they look at you, seeing your body get free from your wrist and ankle restraints. As they try and paddle faster, her voice got louder.

Her voice was pounding in your ears, hurting but soothing at the same time. The siren's voice was calling to you pulling you in. The struggle soon stopped then you managed to free yourself from the mast. The men watched in shocked as you tried to jump over the boat. The captain ran to you, grabbing the back of your shirt and holding you close.

You cried out when the men tried to stop you, "Let me go! Please Let me go! Please!" You cried, trying to fight off the 5 men that tried to hold you down.

Her voice grew louder, giving you an adrenaline rush. The rush gave you strength you the strength to fight back, pushing the men off. You leaped off the ledge, soon embraced by the cold rush of water. Even in the water, the song didn't stop. This is what she wanted...

Coming up from the water you swam to her, swimming closer to her rock. You panted like dog as you swam to her, coming closer to the siren. Her arms reached to you, seeming like she wanted to hold you. You smiled as she lifted you continuing to sing as she stares into your eyes. Her beautiful blue eyes drew you in as her song did, blocking out the yelling from the men from the ship.

You felt her come closer to you, to kiss you. Closing your eyes, you waited for the embrace...but were soon welcomed by cold water again. You were being dragged through the water, being pulled around by the deadly siren. You opened your eyes to see the siren's bright blue ones staring back at you...She was now going to eat you, just like the legends say...This is how you're dying.

Now it's time to accept your fate, fate of a foolish woman.

You waited for death, but it never came. You opened your eyes to see a damp, wet, and dark cave...Then the siren looks down at you, "You're lucky enough to live..." she said in a deep and smooth voice. They voice of them women was better then any treasure you could dig up.

“Y-Yeah…Why am i alive?” you asked too weak to sit up. She placed your head on her lap, your hair against her scaly tail. She stroked your hair, making you smile. This had to be a dream. A beautiful siren was here stroking your hair? “Why haven’t you killed me?”

She simply shrugged, “You’re different. I never seen a beautiful woman like you. I spotted you a few night ago when your hair was throwing a…party of some sort. You looked so lonely as those men discarded you like it was nothing…I felt bad for you..”

“Know selfish men like that, i knew they would set you up as soon as you went into siren territory. I told the other girls to give me some privacy to lure you in..” *she said, smiling at you. While you didn’t even know but be scared she had been stalking you and your crew….or to be flattered she should you beautiful. “I want you here…with me…forever. I want to just,..turn you into a siren forever..” she said, clearly optimistic from just a few minutes of knowing me.

But, could this work? Your family has probably already forgot about you…Your crew could care less to go back to you…Maybe you’ll like it here with her…You smiled up at her,

“I’d like that a lot..”

[moth-scrunk]

{ Master Post - RQ1 }

[ First Art Request - Starlight AU ] This is my first event done for the Starlight AU. I will be listing the Creators/Owners along with other details. --------------------------------------------------------- Species: Those with wings: Sky Dwellers Those with no back legs and have long tails: Cave Dwellers Those with fins but have back legs: Shore Dwellers Those with fins but no back legs: Ocean Dwellers Those with just feline-like ears/antlers: Land Dwellers Those of Hollow Heads do not apply to the species above, since they are "Creator Made" and blessed with different abilities. These Hollows have been shaped to fit the powers given to them, followed by how they act naturally. ---------------------------------------------------------

@thesecondlight-luna In depths they sing, a song to lure any who dare swim deep into where they dwell. A body so long that no one can view its end. How long have they hunted in such darkness, and how many are they willing to take to grow even more?

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@fusciaguardian Coat as hot as embers, flowing like candlelight flame. The moving mass of swirling smoke disappears into the forest like a wildfire gone rouge. Such heat catches on the grass, burning at its edges. So strange, for the dangerous beast never glows.

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@thechaoticsaisk

Over trees they fly, gathering at what fruits linger in the branches no other can reach. Oh, how they wander the endless seas of tall greens, always to feast on the brightest of fruits.

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@reptilia0freptiles In dark he stalks, for caves he dwells without worry. All hear his roar fear his wrath to follow, although they know this beast is barely their size. Size doesn't matter, only it's spirit it holds.

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@ignus-moth  In overgrown forests they roam, a coat stained with green. Moss had taken shelter along their strands of pink, but would it aid them both? Indeed, it would, for such a color brings a new form of hunting prey.

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@filiadraws

In depths I linger, I lure, I feast. Will you ever view my sight, or will you meet my jaws as so many brave preys had so mindlessly wandered into? How naive of you to think you can ever view such a sight as I.

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@sketchingstuff0

In shallows others wallow as all the food has been swallowed. Fat and happy lay a seal of a stick, joyful with their hunt that has left all others saddened. Suppose they should have hunted just a little faster!

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@multifanforever The caves creak, the sky roars, the rain pours down below and drowns the cold stone. Yet as the clouds cry, two rest alone in dens below. Warmed only by their love and calming purrs among the thunder... and along with them, rests a lesser kin. Soft breaths and shut eyes, a simple born pup among a warm, protected den.

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@s0lie

Shallow shores I bathe in light, but upon danger I flee as if flight. Waves they crash, yet I only crave the trees. The packs call to me, the herds swarm near my body of water. Shall I follow, or wallow away within the safety?

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@shoechomper

Terror of storms, nightmare in daylight. We beware the skies and fear the beast it holds, for the hunter who lingers in the blue is unlike any foretold. For at least those of fire make their presence known to all with calls of embers, unlike this silent hawk of hunger.

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@armiaochima

In meadows of lavender, I lurk. In day so bright, I bask. My clan they wander with, but yet we rest more then we feast. Such as life for that of careless minds. Plenty of food, surely, we can hunt later.

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@lunacelestite

Night falls upon the land, so too its dangers. Faced with the task of gathering once more, or see they think. Friendly faces swarm with, lesser birds who follow you close. They sing in warning and tell you of the dangers, for the crows know best to keep their protector alive. You share the spoils, the best to keep your extra eyes happy.

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@opearle

Blossoms fall with the season, but all they do is fall with them. Follow the petals into the valleys of colors, lingering where trees are most in bloom. Oh, the scents and creatures who flourish, a wonderous place to play.

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@flairya

One little step, one large leap. A trap set now sprung, how many shall meet this same faint as one who starves? Thought it snake, but it was hunter, lurking the same as other. Poor soul so hungry, now feeding another.

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@0gingerflake0 

Bound by grace, a stance of stone, mind to ease, eyes to guard. The protector feels no rest, sleep being nothing but myth. The herd that gathers under their wings of might shelter them from such cold predators who stalk too close for their comforts. Dangerous however is no true fear, so long as their angel sent by stars stands with them.

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@flowerbarrel

River o river, love me so. River o river, protect me so. River o river, give me food, for in return you get my ever-loving protection and care. The creatures take your homes rocks and tear at your soils, but I shall not allow it. My home is you, and you will provide for me as I do you.

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@small-sparkofhope

The one of winters coat snarled a nasty hiss, "Leave me be" they spoke. Their voice stung of annoyance, their gaze to match their anger. The smaller flowery stripped beast only laughed, "And leave you to wander alone? You think yourself strong in these parts, but this isn't no mountain!". With that, the white creature huffed. Turning their gaze away, I suppose they would have to tolerate this little thing longer then thought.

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@itsthedemontamer367

The dark sky rips apart into a flurry of glowing fire lights. The eyes of dark green are first seen, then a burning roar screams out. Cold brushed over the land despite the heat from such a being. The Creators had made yet another god, but to what cost but their view of the skies?

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@thechaoticsaisk

Where now will we wander? Now where will we run? Will the sky still shine as bright with us gone, or should we linger longer? I desire the night as you desire the light, but I wonder if we are even meant to wander so close to the sunsets? Suppose we will see...

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@sushiree

Desert rattles with twisting blizzards of sand and rock, tornados of wild winds that tear up the earth and rip at the brush that grows. The perfect conditions to feast on what poor souls are ripped from their dens. Only the keenest can survive in the wilds of the sands.

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@violetthunderstorm

Thunder roars and night turns to day. The strings of light touch the trees and set the world a'light. Fleeing below can't even escape the thunderous roars of the monster who hunts above.

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@leilanising Long calls echo out into the tall grasses. The herd carries on, their leader strong and carrying on. Their tail leads only prints in the clay and mud, for the strong storms shall guide them.

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@theofficalrocketcorp

A friend, or foe. They look as I but are far from. How strange a sight, but welcomed as so. Shall you follow me or will I follow you?

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@hellnahimout

A call, a wonder. A thought, a action. I see the world new in colors, but yet its not new. Why does everyone look at me so differently, is it my coat? I am not truly an eyesore, am I?

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@jayden-for-now

"Rude of you to fall into my swarm of fish. I was hunting." The fish spoke to the bird. The bird only blew out bubbles in confusion. Sighing, the fish scooped up the bird back to the water's surface. Perhaps this one is a baby fallen from clouds? Who knows, only that it sucks at swimming.

--------------------------------------------------------- I'd like to again thank you all for the requests. The next one will be up in the future. Keep those sticks ready to be thrown my way! <3

[goddessofmischief]

      RUNNING SCARED, I WAS THERE (YOUNG SHANKS X MIHAWK X READER)

A/N: This is part of this series, which requests are open for! These fics are all one-shots, so they can be read separately. Also, I highly recommend listening to the song linked in the title while you read.

It was the twilight eve of the execution of Gol D. Roger, and sadness ruled your heart, body and soul.

The crew had disbanded, scattering themselves to the seas with little more than fond good-byes. Roger had turned himself in three days earlier. There had been a trial - a rushed, convoluted sham of a trial that you hated every second of, but it didn't matter anymore. At least there would be an end to his suffering.

And at least Buggy and Shanks were with you. Small blessings. You knew that Garp had no real interest in persecuting a bunch of kids like yourselves, but hanging out on a pirate ship in the harbor seemed to be an unwise action all the same. So you'd booked three rooms at a nearby inn, close to the town square, and been disheartened to see that the inn was almost filled with out-of-towners thrilled to witness such a historical event.

Buggy got settled in his room, while Shanks sat down on the bed in yours.

"It's strange," he said. "All of this."

You nodded, unable to look at him.

"Hey, we're going to be fine. You know that, right?"

"I know," you said, and then there was a sudden banging at the door.

You and Shanks exchanged glances, and his hand rested on the sword at his side. The door thundered again.

Gripping your pistol, you approached the door, opening it the smallest crack, and trying not to show surprise at the face that greeted you.

"...Mihawk?"

"I heard that Roger would be executed," said Mihawk, out of breath. "I returned to witness. I had to see you."

"I don't care."

"Please let me come in. I know what I did was terrible. It was terrible. But you have to know that it's not because of lack of love for you, I do love-"

You swung the door all the way open, letting Mihawk in. As you did, you pressed your finger to his lips.

"I don't want to hear it," you said, shaking your head. "Roger dies tomorrow. I'm not interested in exploring what happened between us. It doesn't matter anymore."

"Please-"

Shanks appeared behind you, arm looped around your waist.

"Out, Hawk-Eye," Shanks cautioned, "Or I'll duel you for real this time."

Mihawk stared at you, lip trembling a bit. You had never seen him show so much emotion before.

"Please," he stated again. You were silent. Shanks stared him down.

After a moment, he nodded, did a small bow in your direction, and walked out.

Shanks groaned, turning back to his room.

After a moment of consideration, you stared at the hallway where Mihawk had left, and ran after him.

"Mihawk, wait," you called out, and he turned around immediately, a smile ghosting over his face. "Look, I... what you did hurt me. It did hurt me. But it doesn't matter now. All of this... has made me realize what's important."

"...I'm so glad," he said, trying to speak around the lump in his throat. "Truly."

You smiled, pulling something out of your pocket. He realized with a pang that it was your wedding ring, the one he'd designed for you. You handed it back to him, leaving it in the palm of his hand.

"We were much too young to be married anyway. You were right."

Mihawk nodded, closing his fingers around the ring.

"Would you accept my proposal, again, if we were older?"

"If you asked again... when we are older... I may consider it."

He nearly blushed.

"May we part as friends?" Mihawk offered, hopefully. "I know I do not deserve that much, but-"

"Yes," you agreed softly, reaching your hand out to him. "Friends."

Friends.

You made your way back down the hallway, hesitating in front of two doors: yours, or Shanks. You twisted the doorknob on his, wondering if he had left it unlocked for you.

He had.

"Hey," he called out sleepily, sounding completely unsurprised. "You alright?"

You nodded, twisting your hands.

"I don't want to be alone. Do you?"

"No," he said, and the night faded to black.

...

When Shanks got up that morning, he thought of the last time he'd spoken to Roger. Just the two of them.

"It's yours," Roger said. "Our ship. You're the oldest. You're the one who has to look after them. Keep them from killing each other. Keep Buggy from killing you."

Shanks was at a loss for words, and could only bow his head in gratitude.

"One more thing," said Roger. "Another gift and a confession. I never married the woman I loved. I never will."

Shanks could see the toll this was taking on the older man, could see the grief drawn across his face. Roger took something out of a drawer and held it out to Shanks.

"This is Rouge's ring. Now it's yours."

"I don't understand."

"You don't have to, Shanks. All I'm saying is that if there is a girl, one day... and you don't want to let her slip through your fingers... you have this."

Roger held the ring out again, which was strung from a loose chain. Shanks bent his head, and Roger draped the ring over his shoulders. Shanks tucked it under his clothes, where it could lie unseen, and wait.

Shanks knew then that he had so much to say to Roger, too much, and there would not be enough time, not even if he had a thousand years. He wanted to tell him everything, and have Roger tell him what to do in return. But he couldn't.

"Thank you," Shanks managed, and then he felt he had said enough.

...

It was a warm day with clouds when the crowd huddled in to view the execution.

You clung to Shanks' arm, your hand shielding your eyes, while Buggy stood several paces behind you. Mihawk was somewhere in the crowd, too, watching, wearing a new coat - new, at least, to you - embroidered with amaryllis flowers. You had thought to go and stand beside him, but you realized this felt much more right. Shanks had never abandoned you. You were sure, in that moment, he never would.

"It's about to happen," Shanks murmured.

"Oh," you whispered, just 'oh.' You had seen people die, but never someone you loved.

You buried your face in Shanks' shoulder, unable to face these jeering, spectating people around you, gleefully witnessing the pain and destruction and ruination of your lives.

But wait, a pause. And it was then that Roger uttered those words, that speech, the thing that incited the Great Pirate Era. The thing that broke the world, and made you proud.

And then, as the previously laughing crowd stampeded away around you, desperately taking to the water like fish, the act was done.

Roger was gone. A sin had been committed by the world today that could not be forgiven. The sky had, fittingly, turned dark and rainy.

"Let's go home," Shanks said, quietly, and it was then you realized that your face was still buried in his shoulder. He didn't attempt to dislodge you.

"I don't know where home is."

"Course you do. It's in the harbor now."

The Oro Jackson, Roger's ship, the ship you had lived on for the past decade. Why didn't it feel like home, like it had before? Because everyone was gone?

Not everyone. Not Shanks, and not Buggy.

Mihawk, you realized, was still planted where he had stood before, unable to dislodge his gaze from you.

"Hey, Hawk-Eyes," Shanks called out, beginning to steer you towards the ship. "You heading out?"

"Yes," he said, clearing his throat. "Yes, I should be going."

Mihawk nodded to you as Shanks wrapped his coat around your shoulders.

"We'll see each other again," you whispered, tears pricking your eyes. "I believe that."

He gave you a rare smile, and then he was gone.

taglist:

@sawendel @twinklesnake @literaturewithliz @sordidmusings @foggyturtleknightangel @toertchen @96jnie @lunanight1021

[sykeskassie]

Leave Me Your Stardust To Remember You By; Pt. 1

Pairing: Bang Chan x Reader Word Count: 1.3k Warnings: ANGST!! No comfort in this one, but implied comfort is on the way. A/N: Inspired by one of my all time favorite songs. Truly, I got hit with the idea on my way home from work yesterday and rolled with it.

Pt. 2 Pt.3

When I turn jet black and you show off your light/ I live to let you shine

You had known Chris almost as long as you had known yourself. Where you began and he ended, no one seemed to know. So many

had told you that when he left for Korea at the tender age of thirteen not to be surprised if the two of you grew apart. It was one of the reasons that he had hesitations about leaving. But you had seen the talent he had, and the drive he possessed. So you sent your best friend off with the promise you would look after his siblings like they were your own, and that you would be with him every step of the way. 

But you can skyrocket away from me/ And never come back if you find another galaxy

It would be years before you got to see him in person again. He was busy with training, and school, and everything in between. However, your love for each other never wavered. You spoke on the phone as often as you could both make time, battling the time zones and the day to day. You never went more than a day without emailing each other, and later on, texting. You made it a point to let him know he wasn’t forgotten, no matter how many miles separated you.

Just leave me your stardust to remember you by

You would sometimes wonder if you would outgrow each other, the way you had outgrown the hoodie he had gifted you when he left. “To make sure you don’t forget me,” he had said, as if that was even a possibility. He was the star in your sky, shining as brilliantly as his smile did. But you never did outgrow him, and he always made sure to send you a new hoodie every year, on the anniversary of his leaving. 

If you’ll be my boat, I’ll be your sea/ A depth of pure blue just to probe curiosity 

As you grew, your love did too. It shifted, and morphed, until it took on an entirely new form. You were still best friends, seemingly the closest to ever exist; you thought that would never change. However, your love shifted from an endless blue to a swirling purple. Suddenly all the ‘I love you’s exchanged held a different weight. Without any warning, you were in love with Chris. When you told him after hours, days, weeks of contemplation, he had the audacity to tell you that he had known. “I didn’t think it needed saying, because it was just a fact. You’re in love with me, and I’m in love with you. Not even oceans could stop that from happening.” You no longer had to hold onto that childlike question of who your Prince Charming was; you had known him all along. 

Ebbing and flowing and pushed by a breeze/ I live to make you free

It turned out that loving Chris in a different way was easy. What was not easy was realizing how much you ached to have him by your side again. You made the effort to see him as often as you could; you had piles of airline miles between the two of you. You had met all of the kids, something that thrilled you since you had been a sounding board when he was handpicking them. They had become such an instrumental part in your life. They would constantly text you, or call you when they got the chance. If Chris was ‘dad’, you were ‘mom’, despite the distance. When Chris would hole up in the studio and go hours without moving, they would call you to get him moving. When he would get too far into his head, it was you they texted to bring him back to them. No one knew him better than you did. 

But you can set sail to the west if you want to/ And past the horizon, ‘til I can’t even see you

As Stray Kids got bigger and bigger, the opportunities for visiting got smaller and smaller. Dates would be arranged, tickets would be booked, and then something would have to be moved around. Schedules would shift, tour dates would get added on, extra promotions would pop up seemingly out of nowhere. It had seemed like such a slow progression —you were used to having to adjust to his schedule, as you had been for years— that you both hadn’t realized how much time had passed until you didn’t get your yearly hoodie. It was tradition to call every year on the anniversary of his leaving, and you hadn’t missed one yet. You could explain away the missing hoodie (perhaps the postal service was running behind this year? Maybe the package had gotten lost?), but to have missed calls and radio silence? You couldn’t come up with an excuse for that. You opened up your text thread to see the stack of unanswered messages from you, scrolling to find the occasional text from Chris that seemed to always be an apology for not being available. With an ‘I love you’ sent off, you closed your phone and tried to pretend that a crack hadn’t formed in the foundation of your relationship. 

Far from here where the beaches are wide/ Just leave me your wake to remember you by

You never did mention the hoodie that had never got sent, and neither did Chris. You couldn’t say if he was avoiding it the way you were, or if he genuinely didn’t remember. Honestly, you weren’t sure which would hurt worse and you didn’t really want to find out. He eventually called you back, apologizing again for not being able to pick up when you had called…and called…and called. “We were working on the song for the new comeback, and you know how the kids get when we get really into it. I noticed you had called a few times, is everything okay?” You played it off like you just missed his voice. Something fundamental had changed between you two, and you weren’t really sure why you couldn’t address it. Maybe it was the fear that acknowledging it would make it real. He assured you that once the comeback came out and promotions were done, there would be more time for each other. He even told you that one of the songs he had written for you. Ironically, he said it was “to make sure you don’t forget me”, and you had to bite your tongue from saying that it wasn’t you who was likely to forget about him. 

When I turn jet black and you show off your light/ I live to let you shine

Eventually, you found out where you began and where Chris ended. It started the day you had gathered every hoodie he had ever given you. You held each one to you before folding it up, tucking the sorrow and emptiness you felt in each fold of the cloth. They had long stopped smelling like him, but if you tried hard enough you could still remember it. You started from the last you ever got, and ended with the one that seemed so small now. It was over a decade old at this point and you could hardly believe that either of you ever fit into it. As you set them all in a box, you grabbed your phone. You typed out a message in the group chat that had seen less and less of all of you in the last months, letting the kids know to take care of themselves, take care of their leader, and that you would be cheering them on always. Before anyone could respond, you left the group chat, blocked all their numbers, and set about finding a pen and paper. On top of the hoodie that signified the beginning and the end, you left a goodbye for the love of your life. 

But you can skyrocket away from me

And never come back if you find another galaxy

Far from here with more room to fly

Just leave me your stardust to remember you by

[neonlunatic]

Ryujin, The Turbulent Song Of The Sea.

The Maiden Who Speaks To The Sea, Her Thoughts, The Turbulent Determination, Power, And Strength Of The Waves, Her Voice Like An Unexpectedly Gentle, Fragile, Song Carried Upon The Strong Currents. Her Name Speaks The Might Of The Ocean, In Mere Syllables.

New Oc be like... Meet Ryujin (She's based off of a god kinda, yes.) Line art by my close friend Newbie, edits, lotus, "chin tentacles", design, and fill by me. Her occupation? She makes jewelery,

Her mom thought a "dignified" name would keep her from getting bullied in school, but she still got bullied anyways for being a tribrid.

She grew up with a mother who was always over her shoulder, or watching Ryu like a hawk. So when she could finally move out and be herself, she jumped at the chance, eventually settling in some quiet little place where she can be alone. Despite looking like she's calm and happy most of the time, Ryu actually has a relatively short temper, and doesn't like being bossed around, lied to, or other dragons snooping about her business.

She prefers to work in quiet areas, making new jewelry to sell, and too much noise can irritate her easily.

She's only really kind and trusting, and loyal, to those she is close with, like friends, well, that would be if she had any. Her mother always made her so anxious, that she never really made any, and being a tribrid honestly just made it even worse.

Ryu also never had seen her father, and her mother never really mentioned him much, he sort of just wasn't there as she was growing up, she knew she had one, because, that's just how logic works, but she also knows he either left before she was hatched, or he died somewhere, and was long gone by now.

Ryu has never really thought about love much, it never really strikes her as something that would really happen to her, why would it? She's a weird little tribrid in everyone's eyes. Who would want to be with her? She did kind of had a crush when she was a dragonet in school, another dragon, but this crush would only ever get her more judged if she ever spoke it aloud. Because this dragon wasn't a he, but a she. Ryu has no special powers or anything like that, just tribal stuff, like breathing underwater, fire, that is about it, mostly.

Ryujin is rather talented at crafting jewelry with gems and stones, and metals, she also occasionally uses wood to craft pieces.

She's also an accomplished artist, and sells her art in the markets, and she even has a rather lovely, pleasant, singing voice. Ryu is a Skywing/Leafwing/Seawing.

[gennemi]

Hiii

This is my first time requesting, so sorry if it's too long. I've been thinking about a one shot about Mihawk, in which the reader is the daughter of a Navy Admiral and this man really hates pirates and even repudiates the warlords sea. Then the reader's father decides to take his daughter to a marine party in order to find her a respectable husband and being able to get her engaged. But the unexpected happens, reader feels very attracted to Mihawk and he feels the same, and I imagine they dance and they flirt, sexual tension in the air.

My inspiration was basically the song my oh my by Camila Cabello, I feel like it goes a bit with Mihawk and I would like it to go with that style . Anyway, I hope the request is not a problem, have a good day or night😊

𝑴𝒚 𝑶𝒉 𝑴𝒚 (𝑫𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒖𝒍𝒆 𝑴𝒊𝒉𝒂𝒘𝒌 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎! 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓)

A/N: When I tell you I loved this! I loved it!!! I loved writing it! (With the help of one of my good friends! He's also a one piece fan! And wanted to help me a bit!) I put all my dedication into this!! It was so cute! Almost makes me want to turn this into a small multi chapter fic! I hope you love this Lovely! Thank you for requesting this cute ask! ✨❤

Warnings: none! Fluff! Both reader and Mihawk pinining for each other, them flirting with each other!

Based on this song:

My Oh My

Let me know if the link doesn't work! ❤

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She was getting ready for some marine party that her dad is wanting to take her to. She sighed, not being too big on parties, considering some of the parties the marines host are boring. She hoped that something would happen while there, to make it less boring. But she doubted there would be. “Y/N you ready to leave?” She heard her dad, she let out another sigh, she was not looking forward to this. Especially since she knows her dads true reasons for wanting her to attend these parties. He wants her to ‘Find a husband.’ In his words. She walked out her room to be face to face with her father. “Come on Y/N you will love it! Now let's get going!” Her dad spoke, she had no choice but to follow.

At the party, she stayed in one corner of the room. Refusing to dance with any man, she just wanted to leave this party. 'Damn you dad, for dragging me to this….’ She cursed her dad in her head, until she noticed a man that caught her eye. He was standing not too far away from her, his golden, hawk-like eyes observing his surroundings. As if he was judging. On top of his black hair, he sported a wide-brimmed black hat, decorated with a large plume, he wore a long, open black coat, with what looked to be red velvet inside, with no shirt? The coat also had red, flower-patterned sleeves and collar, with white pants, and black boots. He also seemed to have a large sword on his back, and a cross around his neck. That man was none other than Dracule Mihawk, one of The Seven Warlords of the Sea.

His golden eyes continued to look around, a frown etched upon his form. Until his eyes met hers. She quickly looked away, a blush adorning her face. Not realizing said man was approaching her. “Hello M’lady, couldn’t help but notice you staring at me. Was there something that interested you?” He mused, suddenly now beside her, causing her to look up at the taller man. Seeing him up close, caused the blush on her face to worsen. He was a gorgeous man. She feels attracted to him already, but she knew how her father felt about pirates let alone the Warlords. She knew who Mihawk was, well more of the lines she's heard things about the said man. Just never met him till now. He somehow also felt attracted to her as well, she was beautiful.

He put one of his larger hands out. “May I have the pleasure to dance with such beauty as yourself~?” He offered, looking into her eyes, with those golden eyes of his. She glanced around quietly and quickly for her father, checking for him. Although seeing her eyes glance around as if looking for someone, he still stared at her with patience. Her beautiful e/c eyes then landed back on his. “I would like that.” she finally answered softly, gently placing her smaller hand in his bigger hand. Having received an answer, he gently led her to the dance floor before he pulled her close to him. Their bodies touched as he put his other hand on her waist while she put her other hand on his broad shoulder. The two started to dance around to the music that was playing. The sexual tension between the two was already in the air, as they danced. He looked down at her, she was absolutely ravishing. The two continued to dance, as if it was only them. No one else, but them. He noticed though, that she seemed to still be on the lookout for someone.

“Relax M’lady, you seem tense.~” He spoke in a flirty tone, causing her to look back at him with cheeks slightly flushed. “Well it's not every day a girl sees a sexy man who has no problems showing what's beneath the shirt.~” She retorted with a slight smirk. Hawkeye's lips twitched upward slightly in response. 

She's been flirted with before multiple times. Sometimes, she's had to flirt back to get rid of the guy who obviously didn't love her for her. She wanted someone that saw/loved her for her, not just to get into her pants, hence why she always refused to even get married. Because most of the men only saw her for her body, not for her. But the man that was dancing around with her, twirling her around, flirting with her. Seemed different, promising even. It was making her heart race in her chest, almost like it was about to beat out of her chest. This man was drop dead gorgeous. 

He twirled the smaller girl around, then brought her back to him. She felt like she was on cloud 9 just from the dance, plus the close proximity of the two. The tension was high in the air between the two as they graced over the floor. Unconsciously, their breaths came out in sync. The music was the only thing besides each other's breathing that they could hear around them. They were so wrapped up with each other, they forgot about everyone else there. To them it was only them, no one else. But them.

Soon though, the song that was playing slowly came to an end. He dipped her, as the two remained looking into each other's eyes. He brought her back up gently. “I enjoyed that dance.~” He said with a flirtatious smirk on his handsome face. He brought her smaller hand up to his lips giving it a light kiss. “I hope to see you again.~” He purred, as he continued to look at her with his Hawk-like golden eyes. “Me too.~” she cooed back, blushing at his beautiful eyes.

After the party, she sat in her room. All she could think of is that beautiful man, she was hoping to see him again….Who knows? Could it be fate for them to meet again?

[probablyasocialecologist]

Aesthetic sensibilities are deeply subjective, and hard to acknowledge and analyse clearly. They take root in us from the moment we’re born. They bind us to a particular view of the landscape, something we begin to think of as ‘natural’ or, at least, benign. What we see as children, particularly where we grow up, becomes what we want to continue to see, and what we want our children to see. Nostalgia, and the sense of security that nostalgia brings, binds us to the familiar. We are persuaded, too, by our own absorption in this aesthetic that what we are seeing has been here for ever. We believe the countryside around us, or something very similar to it, has persisted for centuries and the wildlife within it, if not exactly the same, is at least a fair representation of what has been here for centuries. But the ecological processes of the past are hard for the layman – and often even conservation professionals – to grasp. 

We are blinded by the immediacy of the present. We look at the landscape and see what is there, not what is missing. And if we do appreciate some sort of ecological loss and change, we tend to go only as far back as our childhood memories, or the memories of our parents or grandparents who tell us ‘there used to be hundreds of lapwings in my day’, ‘skylarks and song thrushes were ten-a-penny’, ‘the fields round here used to be red with poppies and blue with cornflowers’, ‘cod was the poor man’s fish when I was a nipper’. We are blind to the fact that in our grandparents’ grandparents’ day there would have been species-rich wildflower meadows in every parish and coppice woods teeming with butterflies. They would have heard corncrakes and bitterns, seen clouds of turtle doves, thousands of lapwings and hundreds more skylarks. A mere four generations ago they knew rivers swimming with burbot – now extinct in Britain – and eels, and their summer nights were peppered with bats and moths and glow-worms. Their grandparents, in turn, saw nightjars settling on dusty country lanes and even hawking for moths around the street lamps in towns, and spotted flycatchers in every orchard, and meadow pipits everywhere from salt-flats to the crowns of mountains. They saw banks of giant cod and migrating tuna in British waters. They saw our muddy North Sea clear as gin, filtered by oyster beds as large as Wales. And their grandparents, in turn, living at the time of the last beaver in Britain, would have known great bustards, and watched shoals of herring five miles long and three miles broad migrating within sight of the shore, chased by schools of dolphins and sperm whales and the occasional great white shark. We don’t have to look too deeply into the history books, into contemporary accounts, for scenes dramatically different to our own to be normal. Yet we live in denial of these catastrophic losses.

Isabella Tree, Wilding: The Return of Nature to a British Farm

[nerdraging4point0]

The Scorpion and the Scales // Chapter 2 // PolyAU

Tropes and Tags: MF, MFM, MFMM, instalove, too much sex, tattooed musicians, polyverse, friends to lovers.

Content warning: 18+ only MDNI,PinV, PinA, oral (f!recieveing, m!recieving), threesomes, light BDSM, voyeurism, exhibitionism, partner sharing, jealousy, angst.

Credits: Lady V for the title image, firefly images for the dividers

This work below is fictionalized ideas and stories involving real people but does not directly reflect their thoughts, feelings, or behaviors. Please keep in mind that this is a work of fiction.

Active taglist: @ladyveronikawrites @tearfallpixie @beaker1636 @circle-with-me @synthetic-wasp-570 @itsjustemily @thesazzb @vinyardmauro @cookiesupplier @concreteemo @dominuslunae @mountains-to-move @sundamariis @caitcoreeeee @crimson-calligraphyx @letmeadoreyoux @starsomens @artificialbreezy @lma1986 @iknownothingpeople @lilrubles @shilohrosechicken 2@missduffsblog @jessicafg03 @thatchickwiththecamera @mysticdoodlez @chels3a-smile @sinkingteethinwhitenoise @deathblacksmoke @roley-poley-foley @ravieisunhinged @dethronetheveil @to-be-written @somewhere-diamond @somebodyels3 @sacredthefran @th0ughts-pr4yers @bloody-delusion-expert

He stalks the stage on all fours, prowling between the mic stands. The lights beat down, blinding, but he finds the cameras with ease. Their lenses track his every move, hungry for the show. My breath comes hard and fast as he pauses to let the crowd roar. Running his tongue over bared teeth, tasting the thrill of the performance. This stage is his territory and these people are prey. 

The pounding bass reverberated through my chest as I pushed my way to the front of the crowd, as close to the stage as I could get. I was on a mission - I was going to get one of Chris's roses tonight. The lights flashed, blinding me for a second before the music erupted again. I screamed the lyrics at the top of my lungs, throwing my head back, my ponytail whipping around wildly. I was immersed in the primal energy of the concert, losing myself in the performance. As one song ended I jumped and clapped, adrenaline coursing through me. I was ready for more.

The next song built up and the crowd's roar almost drowned out Chris's voice. But I heard him clearly: "Thank you Denver Colorado. You've been a wonderful fucking audience, as always." I grinned - this is exactly where I wanted to be. The music swelled and Chris declared "We are Motionless in White, and we are, Eternally Yours." I screamed my approval, reaching my hands out, hoping a rose would find its way to me.

As he grabbed a handful of roses, I knew this was it - my chance to get close to him. I watched his every move like a hawk zoning in on its prey, ready to snatch a rose if one flew my way.

He tossed roses left and right, igniting screams from the crowd, but not one came my way. Still, the show wasn't over. I clung to hope as the final notes rang out, my eyes glued to the remaining roses in his hand.

Suddenly, the crowd swarmed around me, pushing and shoving. I crouched down, terrified of being trampled under their feet. Sensing the mayhem, he threw more roses to scatter the frenzied fans. It worked, if only for a moment.

Then, he leaned down, singing into the mic while clutching the security guard’s shoulder. I saw his lips move, pointing in my direction. Could it be? Was the rose truly meant for me?

My heart nearly burst as the guard beckoned me forward, the sea of fans parting before me. I reached out, the red rose just beyond my grasp. The guard had to yell over the roar of the crowd, “This one’s for you!”

In that moment, everything else faded away. It was just me and him, connected by the thornless stem. I had claimed my prize.

 "I need you to come with me." I was so confused at first, wondering why he wanted me to follow him backstage. But when he gestured for me to crawl over the barricade, I didn't hesitate - I was going to meet my favorite band! Getting over that huge, wobbly gate was tricky, especially in my concert outfit and heels.

But I made it over and the security guard immediately escorted me through the pumped up crowd, past the stage, and around to the back. I was freaking out inside, knowing I was about to come face-to-face with the band I've adored for years.

There he was - Chris, in all his rockstar glory. He flashed me that crooked smile as he pulled out his in-ears, his lips glistening where my lipstick had been moments before.

"Hey," he said, his voice low and raspy from singing. "Looks like you survived the madness out there."

I giggled nervously, tucking my hair behind my ear. "Yeah, your fans are wild tonight."

He stepped closer. I could smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body. My knees went weak. This was really happening. Me and my rockstar crush, alone backstage. I had dreamed of this moment, but never thought it would come true.

His soft brown eyes met mine from under the brim of his ballcap. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Eve," I managed to respond, my voice barely above a whisper. Before I could say more, the rest of the band came pouring into the green room. Ricky was the only one who noticed me, flashing that heart-stopping smile as he pointed at my faded Nightmare Before Christmas tee. "I love your shirt!" he said enthusiastically. I looked down, having totally forgotten what I was wearing. My MIW shirt was buried in the laundry, but somehow this old ragged tee had caught his eye. I grinned back at him, basking in the glow of this backstage moment.

I could feel my cheeks flush as I stammered out a thank you. Get it together, girl! I scolded myself, trying to play it cool. But his grin made me weak in the knees. Don't freak out, just breathe.

"It's a great movie," he said, those dazzling eyes locked on mine. I melted under his gaze, my blush deepening. Oh my god, was this really happening? I had to bite my lip to keep from squealing like a fan girl.

Somehow I managed to ask for a picture, my voice barely above a whisper. When he nodded, I thought my heart would burst. I fumbled for my phone with trembling hands and leaned in close, his warmth and scent overwhelming me.

My nerves were still on edge when he took my phone from my hands, those tattooed fingers sending sparks across my skin. I tried to play it cool, leaning into him as he wrapped an arm around me. But that smile - I couldn't hide how giddy I was, practically shaking with excitement.

"Alright, now Myspace pose," he said, popping out a hip. I did the same, throwing up a peace sign as we puckered our lips. Goofy as it was, it helped me relax. This was really happening.

"I love that," he said, hitting share and typing something on my phone. I couldn't believe it when I realized - he was putting his number in, sending the selfie to himself. My heart raced thinking about what might come next.

"One for the books for sure," he said with that million dollar smile.

After he sent the pic, I managed to stammer out a thank you. I started to head for the exit, but he stopped me. "Local?" he asked. I nodded, not trusting my voice. Don't leave, don't leave, I pleaded with myself.

"Hungry?" he asked next. I nodded again, unable to form words. He tossed his ear monitors to his tech and adjusted his hat, checking for his wallet and phone. "We'll take your car then. See you guys back at the hotel," he said to his bandmates.

I was screaming on the inside. Chris wanted to go out, just the two of us! I tried to play it cool as we walked to my car, but inside I was freaking out. This was really happening!

When his hand touched the small of my back, my skin tingled. I could feel the heat of his palm through my dress as he guided me towards the exit. My heart pounded as we slipped out the stage door together.

I took the lead, striding towards the parking lot, hyperaware of his presence behind me. I wanted to glance back, to drink in the sight of him, but I kept my eyes forward.

"You sure you can do this?" my voice playful, teasing. "The fans might see you."

I risked a peek. He'd tugged his ballcap low, but I could still make out his grin.

"Maybe they won't notice," he said lightly, fluttering his lashes.

I chuckled. "You're what, 6 feet tall? In designer clothes? Pretty sure that's obvious."

He drew himself up to full height, exaggerating his stature. "6 foot 2, I'll have you know."

My eyes roamed over him appreciatively. "That doesn't exactly make your argument better."

My heart raced as we dashed across the parking lot, dodging fans left and right. I glanced back at Chris and flashed him a playful smirk. "Try to keep up!" I teased. He stayed right on my heels as we weaved between cars, his sneakers squeaking on the pavement. We slid into my sedan just as a pack of fans rounded the corner. Chris dove into the passenger seat and I hit the locks before his door even shut. Tires screeching, I peeled out of the space, fumbling to click my seatbelt as we sped away. Chris was breathless beside me, shaking his head and laughing. "Nice moves back there," he said with an admiring grin. I winked and cranked up the radio, the post-show adrenaline still pumping through my veins.

As Chris and I drove down the empty street, I couldn't help but tease, "You survived our little adventure back there."

"Looks like it," he laughed, sitting up in the passenger seat. Even with the seat all the way back, his legs barely reached the edge. "Short people problems," he joked with an adorable grin.

I bit my lip. Having this handsome Avatar sitting next to me was admittedly distracting. "Sorry, I'm just not used to such captivating company in my front seat."

He raised an eyebrow playfully. "Oh, so now you're poking fun at my height?"

"I would never," I replied, making another random turn just to spend more time together. "I was simply making an observation." I glanced over at him flirtatiously. "So, you mentioned something about food earlier. What exactly should I get for you?"

He grabbed his cap and tossed it aside, letting his freshly bleached blonde fade show running a hand through his hair. When I turned to look at him, he flashed a smirk.

"I asked if you were hungry," he said slowly. "I never said it had to involve food."

I nearly slammed on the brakes right there on that busy street. 

I stuttered and stumbled over my words, trying to confirm what Chris was implying. I couldn't believe a rockstar like him was asking me, a random fan plucked from the crowd, to hook up after the show. A part of me was flattered, but I didn't want to seem too eager.

"I'm not usually so forward," he said with a flirtatious grin, "but I couldn't take my eyes off you tonight."

I blushed, unsure how to respond. This was all happening so fast. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't intrigued. Chris was gorgeous, talented, and now he was focused entirely on me.

"The hotel's just a few blocks away," he added suggestively. "What do you say we get out of here?"

My heart raced as I considered his offer. Throwing caution to the wind had never been my style, but maybe it was time to be bold. I smiled coyly and said, "Tell me where to turn."

Chris POV

I couldn't get her to the hotel fast enough. Every red light was torture, knowing I could have her in my arms so soon. But she didn't protest or try to leave. The valet took her car and I whisked her upstairs, this tempting stranger I'd been fantasizing about all night.

We barely spoke in the elevator. I couldn't resist any longer - my hands were on her in an instant, shoving her against the wall. I'm rougher than she expected but I know she likes it from the way she gasps and melts into me. I grab her thighs and lift her up, pinning her between me and the elevator wall. Our lips crash together and she kisses me back feverishly, matching my hunger. It's almost midnight so the hotel is quiet. I carry her all the way to my door before setting her down just long enough to get it open.

I pushed her into the room, slamming the door behind us. The space between us evaporated as I took her face in my hands, bringing her lips to mine again. Without the wall to support her, she had to rise up on her toes to reach me. My height advantage meant she was at my mercy, and I liked it that way.

Cherries and fresh water - that's what she tasted like. I wanted more.

She took the lead, licking my lips between hungry kisses. A groan rumbled up from deep inside me as I opened my mouth wider, letting her explore every inch with her tongue. Her taste intoxicated me, leaving me craving another hit.

She pulled back, gasping for air, my flavor lingering on her tongue. I watched her swallow hard, savoring the taste of me. The chase was over. I had her now.

I saw the hunger in her eyes as she breathed, "How long till your band mates get here?" But I just grinned slowly, letting my gaze travel down her body.

"It's my room, baby. Just you and me. I've got all night to take my time with you."

I could tell she was nervous, even as her body ached for me. What can I say? I'm a rock star - I could have anyone. But tonight, I want her.

As if reading my thoughts, she tensed. I smirked, lifting her easily and carrying her to the couch. She gasped, arms circling my neck instinctively. I sat down, settling her in my lap as I gazed into her eyes.

"Relax, beautiful. We've got all night, and I plan on enjoying every minute."

It was a strange question to be asked at this moment. Her hesitation is driving me wild. I need this woman now. "Forget everything else and just feel this moment between us," I say firmly, staring into her eyes. A spark of understanding flashes across her face and she nods, realizing this primal encounter is inevitable.

I watch hungrily as she kicks off her shoes. My pulse pounds as I rip off my gloves and hoodie, baring my muscular, tattooed chest to her hungry gaze. She gasps at the sight of me, desire burning in her eyes. "So sexy," she murmured under her breath. Gripping her waist, I crush my mouth against hers in a searing kiss. She melts against me with a moan and I know she is mine.

Eve reached forward running her fingers over the inked skin, seeing it up close for the first time.

“So, much sexier in person.” Had she really said that out loud?

His chest rumbled under her hands with his laughter, and she looked up to lock eyes with him. Even though his eyes were soft brown she couldn’t help but see the lust behind them. In that moment she forgot all her insecurities, all her doubts, leaning forward to take his lips in a kiss again, both her hands holding the sides of his face.

Her body was like a drug and I couldn't get enough. My hands roamed hungrily over every inch of her - thighs, ass, back - tearing off her shirt in my impatience to feel her skin on mine. A throaty "fuck" escaped my lips at the sight of her in that bra. It didn't matter that it didn't match her panties; all I could think about was ripping it off and taking her right then and there.

She smiled coyly, clearly enjoying the effect she was having on me. Taking my face in her hands, she kissed me deeply, nibbling on my bottom lip. I tangled my hands in her hair, our tongues dancing as I pressed her into the couch. Breaking the kiss, I grabbed her throat, pinning her down. She gasped, surprise mixing with desire in her eyes.

"I wanted to be gentle, but you're making it very difficult, little one." My grip on her throat tightened for a moment, just enough to remind her who was in control. She swallowed hard, fear and arousal spreading through her body. I could tell she was soaked already. This kitten didn't know what she was in for, but she was about to find out.

I felt her tremble beneath me as I growled my demand, giving her a choice between the cramped couch or the spacious bed just steps away. Though the couch barely contained her petite frame, I knew it would be a tight fit for my towering physique. Still, I longed to take her here and now, no matter how confined our movements might be.

Leaning in, I brought my lips to her ear and squeezed her throat just enough to make her gasp. "Tell me what you want, my sweet girl," I commanded, reveling in her whimper of submission.

"Bed," she breathed, her thighs clenching with desire. I released her neck and pulled her to stand, leading her to the expansive hotel bed. Our hands intertwined as I hurriedly shed my pants, eager to feel her soft skin on mine.

I gripped her chin in my hand, my thumb and forefinger tilting her face up to meet my eyes. My pants had already dropped to the floor as I warned her of what was to come.

"I'm going to break you," I growled, relishing the tremble of anticipation that ran through her body. "I'll stop if I see blood or tears, but don't expect any safe words here. If you want me to stop, just say so."

My heart pounded with exhilaration as I drank in the sight of her submission. I could already feel the heat building between us and I knew this was going to be wild. Gripping her chin tighter, I forced her gaze back to mine when it started to stray.

"Eyes on me," I commanded. "I want you completely consumed by passion. By me."

“Take them off.” Her eyes were locked on mine as her trembling hands moved to the button of her jeans. I held her gaze, relishing the heat that rose in her cheeks. She fumbled with the zipper, the rasp of it seeming loud in the charged air between us. I thrilled at the shy peek of lace underwear as she shimmied the denim down, letting it pool at her feet.

"Step out," I commanded, my voice low and rough.

She obeyed, kicking the pooled jeans and her socks away. Clad only in her bra above the waist, she was a vision. I let my gaze travel slowly down her body, watching as her skin prickled under my scrutiny.

"Beautiful," I murmured, reaching out to trace the curve of her hip. She shivered at my touch, eyes darkening with desire. I intended to make her shudder and gasp my name before this was through.

I gripped her hair tightly in my fist, smiling as she whimpered. "Down," I commanded. She obeyed instantly, kneeling before me, eyes darting between my hard length and my dark, penetrating gaze. I could see the desire burning in her as she leaned forward eagerly, licking and sucking me like a starving woman. A low groan escaped my lips as her tongue swirled around my sensitive tip. She knew just how to please me, taking me deeper and deeper into her warm, wet mouth. I lost myself in the intense pleasure, savoring her submission and skill. Gripping her hair, I guided her movements, reveling in the control. She worshipped me with her mouth and I rewarded her with murmurs of approval through gritted teeth.

I tangled my fingers in her hair, holding her in place as I lost myself in ecstasy. Our bodies moved as one, her mouth hot and eager around me. She relaxed her throat, taking me deeper as I quickened my pace. Her eyes watered and spit dripped down her chin, but her muffled moans urged me on.

I was rough, primal, claiming her mouth again and again. She was mine in this moment. I slowed my urgent rhythm and withdrew, admiring the beauty of her ravaged lips. I cupped her face, gazing into her eyes. "You're crying, do I need to stop?" She shook her head, eyes dark with lust. I raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on my lips.

“No sir.” She corrected and his expression softened.

“On the bed.” 

I could feel the anticipation burning through my veins as she crawled onto the bed at my command. She positioned herself halfway towards me, unsure of how I wanted her. But when I moved over her and she fell back against the mattress, she had her answer.

I was already prepared, having ripped open the condom as she made her way up the bed. I rolled it onto my throbbing length, pumping myself a few times as I watched her. Grabbing her leg, I pushed it up towards her chest, opening her to me. I dragged myself over her slick heat a few times, our eyes locked together, waiting for her consent.

"Please," she breathed, and I drove into her with a powerful thrust, stretching her walls around me. She cried out at the sudden fullness, but I gave her no time to adjust. I set a relentless pace, taking her hard and fast. Her pained cries soon shifted to moans of ecstasy as she gripped the sheets.

We moved together wordlessly, our voices mingling in grunts and gasps, the sound of flesh striking flesh. I could feel her tightening around me, and with a few more desperate snaps of my hips, she was coming undone. I increased my tempo, chasing the peak.

"Oh god...I'm gonna cum," I groaned, barely able to form the words through my pleasure. "Fuck...yes...that's it, I'm gonna cum." My rhythm faltered as my orgasm crashed over me, my body shaking with the intensity. Seeing and hearing my unraveling pushed her over the edge again, her inner walls pulsing around me as she cried out her own release.

I rode out the waves of euphoria, panting heavily in the aftermath. She was panting and whimpering beneath me.

I gently released my grip on her thigh, shushing her softly. "Easy, my beautiful creature," I murmured, my voice low and heated. I stroked her leg tenderly, wanting her to feel cared for in the aftermath of our passion. She trembled beneath my touch, sensitive and spent.

I pulled myself out of her and she let out a soft hiss as I left her empty and aching. I quickly pulled my pants back on as she curled up, suddenly shy, trying to cover her flushed body with her arms.

I looked at her, a pang of concern hitting me. I moved slowly, not wanting to startle her. Gently, I grasped her wrists and moved her arms away, nudging her legs open so she wasn't all balled up underneath herself.

"You okay, baby? Did I go too hard?" I asked gruffly, my voice still heated.

She didn't answer right away. I could tell she was still coming down, overwhelmed by the intensity of what we'd just done. But I needed to be sure I hadn't crossed a line. I gently cupped her chin, guiding her to meet my gaze.

"Talk to me. Was that too much?" I asked, my tone firm but laced with care. She finally shook her head, a blissful smile spreading across her face. I grinned in response, relieved, and pulled her against my chest.

"That's my girl," I murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair as I held her.

I watched her wince as she slid off the bed, my rough passion having left her sore. A pang of guilt pierced me. I may have gotten carried away in the heat of the moment.

As she gathered her clothes, I made a silent vow - next time would be different. I'd start slow, savoring her body inch by inch. I'd bring her to the edge again and again, until she was begging me to take her. And afterward, I would hold her close, caressing her velvet skin, whispering how beautiful she was.

"Leaving already?" I ask, tracing a finger along her arm.

She shivers at my touch. "Don't worry, I'll see you next time," she purrs, a sly smile spreading across those luscious lips.

I grin. "Next time?"

She leans in close, her breath hot on my ear. "Well, you have my number. I'll leave that to you."

Before I can react, she presses against me, planting a soft kiss that lingers. As she pulls away, I grab her waist, but she slips from my grasp and saunters to the door.

I watch her go, knowing she won't be able to resist my charms for long. Our time together tonight was only the beginning. I'll be calling her again soon. And next time, I won't let her sneak away so easily.

[baggebythesea]

Favorite cartoons of the She-Ra cast

Adora and Swift Wind: The 1985 She-Ra cartoon. "Adora uses the Sword of Protection to shield her butt from the friction of atmospheric reentry" is peak TV for both of them.

Bow: Steven Universe.

Catra: Thunder Cats!

Glimmer: One of those action filled, heavily sexualized old anime with neon coloured heroines kicking ass (just let Glimmer handle it!)

Mermista: Daria. It's OK, she guess.

Perfuma: She really wants to like something like Yokohama Kaidashi Kikou, slow, inteligent and spiritual. But after a long day she puts on the bitchiest soap opera she can find instead.

Frosta: Sailor Moon! She has a carefully currated set of Moon-soonas.

Scorpia: Miraculous Ladybug. She's crying rivers each and every episode.

Sea Hawk: NARUTO!

Spinerella and Netossa: They have a broad taste and binge shows together. If one watches ahead the other gets genuinly hurt.

Micah: DUNGEON MESHI!

Angella: Oh, please, she has much too refined taste for children's cartoo… oh, that man Miyazaki is a genius!

Entrapta: The horniest mecha anime you ever saw.

Hordak: Same, but less horny and more about military logistics

Double Trouble: All the classical Disney. They love them a good villain song

Castaspella: Puella Magi Madoka Magica. Micah only dares to catch the smallest peaks over her shoulder before he runs to hide.

Shadow Weaver: Little witch academia. She finds it cheerful

[ahamkara-apologist]

Maybe for the SFW prompts, "Trembling hands" and "Rampage" for whatever YW your heart desires? My thought was when Ghost is heavily damaged during TFS- maybe a bad end where Ghost wasn't able to keep going... go crazy king x2

WHELP i only have one YW so woe, more aeris be upon ye!

Micro fic prompts (SFW) | NSFT Fic prompts

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Ghost was hurt.

It was the only thing that he could think of, an endless litany in his mind. He tore his way through the battlefield with everything he had, Darkness and Light alike painting the shifting world below with a rainbow of gore. Excision, they had called it, made it seem so clean and neat and tidy, but this was anything but. This was a bloodbath the likes of nothing he had ever seen before. Paracausal power burned through every cell, every molecule, and yet the Dread just kept coming, echoes of a thousand dead civilizations torn apart and twisted together like a child playing with dolls, howling and screaming and bounding forth to tear him limb from limb-

And above it all the Witness loomed, watching their struggle with dark, empty eyes.

To his right, one of Caiatl’s legionaries fell. The subjugator that killed him laughed, an echo of Lubrae rewrought into something wickedly cruel, all of the thousands of injustices of their civilization twisted into one being. He leapt upon her, Ergo Sum held aloft, and tore her chest open while her dual-toned voice howled with fury, thorns of Luster bursting forth instead of blood. They gouged through his gauntlets, sinking into his veins with the hunger of the Dark, but he jerked back before they could take root inside his arteries, the overflow of Light in his body burning them away. 

Tucked away in the pocket of his mind, he felt Ghost shudder, the lifeforce that made him now threatening to burst him apart. Aeris felt the pain of his bondmate echo through him, and flushed himself with Darkness instead. He threw a duskfield grenade at his feet, encasing the two Grim lunging towards him in jagged crystals before they could split his head open with their screams, then shattered them both with a swift blow of his blade, the dust of their bodies forming a thick rime coating over his form. He wore it as armour as he waded through a sea of broken bodies, firing upon the survivors as he went, and fell back to where Saint was holding the line, reloading his pulse rifle with numb, shaking hands. A quick nod to the titan, and then he was back out in the field, the din of the battle hitting him in full.

Ghost was hurt. 

They were the Traveler’s Chosen. He didn’t know why. They were the Traveler’s Chosen and Her light was breaking him, and he didn’t know why, he didn’t know why, he didn’t know why-

The Witness loomed above, a hand the size of a Skiff coming down from the heavens. Aeris leapt away, bounding like a rabbit before the shadow of a hawk, and fired upon it before it withdrew, the bark of his rifle a familiar song in his ears. It cringed away in pain, those hateful dark eyes turning to glower down at him instead, and Aeris darted for the schism nearest to him, reaching for the Traveler’s power so that he may turn it upon its most deadly foe.

Ghost was hurt.

Another surge of Light, painful in its intensity, and-

And suddenly that was it. Ghost was gone. 

It was not the abrupt weakness of his Light leaving him that made him stumble, or the scream of pain that echoed through his mind when it did. It was the emptiness. The complete absence of a presence that had been with him since the very beginning, the sensation of being cleaved in two. He reached for the comforting weight of presence and found only himself. Only himself, and nobody else.

Ghost dropped from his perch on his backpack to the ground below him. His shell was locked tight, a husk around his empty core, laced through with so many cracks that it was a miracle that it did not shatter on impact. The light of his optic was dim. Aeris forced himself to reach for him, to make his too-heavy body move quick enough to pick him up off the bloodstained ground. There was a smear of bloody earth on the tip of his fin; he tried to smooth it away, but his hands were shaking too hard, and all he managed to do was succeed in smearing it around. Ghost would have hated that. Ghost would have scolded him for that, would have shook himself free to bristle momentarily about the indignity before sighing and returning to his side. 

Ghost was gone.  

The world faded around him- and then returned, in a sudden burst of overwhelming sensation. In his helmet, someone was screaming, someone was shouting, someone else was roaring to get him off the battlefield. It didn’t matter. There were phalanx shields guarding him, keeping the Dread off of him, but they were faltering under the weight of the onslaught. The dark snarling of a Tormenter pierced through the battlefield, hateful, paracausal words scraping directly up against the inside of his skull; it was coming, and it was coming fast. If he did not move, he would die. If he pushed himself like he did before, he would die. And he would not come back. 

He did not have the Light.

It didn’t matter. He had the Dark. 

The cold rolling off of him was the only warning that Caiatl’s forces got before they froze solid, an impenetrable row of crystal forming a wall around him. From between their forms, Aeris stalked forth, Ghost cradled to his chest in one hand, Ergo Sum clutched tight in the other. There was more screaming over the coms, but he was numb to them, numb to whatever they might be saying, numb to the consequences that were sure to result from his actions. All that mattered was the end. 

The Witness looked at him. There was something in its eyes there that Aeris recognized, but that he did not care to name. It did not matter what it felt- if it was hatred, if it was anger, if it was pity or sympathy. It did not matter, because Ghost was gone, and it had to die.   

This was your choice. You did not have to suffer like this. We gave you freedom, and instead you chose entropy. You chose pain. 

This was always your destiny, little light.

The Dread swarmed, shrieked, fell to the shriving blades of Lightbearers and Coalition members alike. Only the Tormentor from before survived the counterattack, and it loomed forth with scythe in hand, its deep voice rattling through his bones with each snarled alien insult. Aeris stared it down, numb to anything except the pain in his chest, and took the cold dark emptiness within him and sent it forth as a whirlwind of crystalline blades, the wind howling in tandem to the anguished scream locked behind his teeth. The blizzard ate the Dread down to the bone, flayed hide from flesh and sprayed blood on the wind, freezing it into even more shards of deadly shrapnel before moving onwards to its next target; it did not touch him, the epicenter of its fury, and so he became the eye of the storm, an axis upon which the wheel of slaughter turned. Of those who survived his maelstrom, he reached into the weave of reality to find the threads that made them, and then tore them asunder; they died screaming, ripped apart down to their very atoms, and still it was not yet enough. Even when his focus faltered and the storm died down, when the river of reality rushed out of his grasp- it was still not enough.

Ghost was dead.

Pain made a wild animal out of him, twisted him into savagery beyond which he’d ever dreamed. The Tormenter leapt for him, roaring in fury, nothing holding it together but the bedraggled weave of its own Luster, and with a roar of his own he reached for his glaive to bury its blade deep into its chest, mortal muscles straining to hold its weight steady as he twisted it deep and pulled the trigger. The chest of the Tormentor exploded, its form bursting into untamed tangles of thorns, and still Aeris went on, his grief a thousand knives cutting ribbons into his heart.

Ghost was dead.

The chatter in his helmet was growing more frantic now. A Lightbearer reached for him; he swung wildly at them in turn, glaive switched back out for his sword, and they staggered back in shock, their intestines spilling out through their fingers as they struggled to keep their slit abdomen together. Another tried, but their hand snatched shut on empty air as Aeris pulled through the weave of Strand to jerk himself into the air, rushing towards the Witness on the strings of the universe. 

It looked down upon him, God-killer, now diminished to naught more than a man. It looked down upon him, and he looked back up at it and saw pity, distant and cruel, and through the emptiness and the pain and the wailing, childish confusion, he felt something crystal-clear and pure as daylight.

Hatred.

It was not me who did this to you, child.

But you will not listen, will you?

He dove into the river between worlds to find the thread connecting the being before him to the world around him as the Witness leaned forth, fingertips burning bright. Within the tapestry of its currents, he saw a horror; the Witness was not so much a singular woven entity insofar as it was a great, writhing knot of different threads and currents, all gnarled together into one inelegant monstrosity. It was a being made of dead-end cuts and crude snares, a noose tied around the neck of reality. 

There was one thread dangling loose, hanging free from the knot of reality- one thread leading back to the core. One thread to unravel a god. 

He gasped it tight, heedless to the way his own essence began to vibrate apart, and jerked on it as hard as he could. It burned in his grip, writhing like a snake in his hands, but he held it tight and pulled. The Witness flinched, a momentous movement for one so large, and there was the lick of heat behind him as someone threw themselves forth towards the platform on burning wings, but he couldn’t split his attention from what he held before him, even as the person behind him screamed his name.

One thread to unravel a god. All he needed to do was sever it, and he raised his sword high shining with the Light that had killed his ghost and he was spinning himself loose fast and he swung it down as the golden beam of Luster shot forth and he just needed it to hit-

Burning pain.

Then nothing at all.