#david with his harp
Note
Hi Hal!
Congratulations on finishing all the requests (there were so many good ones!!) and thank you for opening them up again!! I’m excited to see what you have in store for us with all your other projects, bestie!!! 😊😊
I was unsure of who to request at first because there are so many good ones but then I saw Hesh’s name and an idea hit me.
If you’re ok with it, could you possibly write one for Hesh where the reader is part of the Ghosts has been taken/captured by the Federation and after some time, they get intel on where she is so they go out to rescue her and she and Hesh are reunited? I don’t know if you want it to be a pre-established relationship or one where they both admit their feelings after they get her back, so I’m leaving it up to you. But I need a little rescue/reunion fic to fill the void in my heart that the ending of Ghosts made.
As always, feel free to change it up as you see fit and do whatever you want. I just think that Hesh deserves more love and I wouldn’t be opposed to seeing Riley again (aka: the best dog in the world)!!
Thank you and remember to take care of yourself and I appreciate you and your work!! 💕💕 Love you, bestie!!!!
Lengths Of Love
PAIRING: David 'Hesh' Walker x F!Reader
SYNOPSIS: You'd loved Hesh for as long as you can remember, and you'd pulled him out of trouble for even longer, but you'd never had the courage to tell him how you feel. Until you do. Until you're being dragged away from his broken body.
WORDCOUNT: 10.7k
WARNINGS: Major spoilers for CoD: Ghosts, heavy angst, blood, guts, descriptions of wounds, canon-typical violence, weapons and firearms, death, torture involving: drugs/hallucinogens, physical violence, mental stress, talks of PTSD, anxiety, paranoia, rescue fic, best friends to lovers plot, wounds that would 100% kill you that you live from (plot armor fr), etc.
A/N: Bestie, I don't know what you put into your prompts, lmao, but I always end up writing so much for you!! Thanks so much for sending something in <3<3
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
The beginning of the end started with good intentions and one statement.
“You hear this? It’s Rorke. He’s here. They’re evacuating on the train system below.” Hesh’s green eyes darted to you and Logan, his painted face a collection of rage and surety. The three of you were, in an instant, in agreement of revenge—there was no question as to what had to be done. Merrick couldn’t stop you, not on this.
Rorke had made one of the most dangerous decisions of his life, and that was underestimating the Walker boys and their partner in sinful crime.
“Harp,” you look away from the body of the warhead as it enters the atmosphere, locking onto Hesh’s hard eyes; the ones that had grown steadily colder since the death of his father, Elias. But it wasn’t just him—the patriarch had been close to you as well. The knowledge of his passing, witnessing it as the rope restraints seared into your flesh, had lit an all-consuming fire in your gut.
Like hounds, the scent of blood had hit the air.
“Let’s get the bastard. Now or never,” you ease out, and Logan darts his gaze down to you from behind his balaclava.
“Damn right,” Hesh barks, nodding firmly to you.
Anyone would have missed the way your gaze lingered on him as he darted off and began rushing down the stairs from the control room, Logan ever quick at his heels. But they wouldn’t have missed the way your breath pushed out a soft sigh as your eyes kept locked on the back of Hesh’s head as you followed after.
You’d been childhood friends since practically infancy, a neighbor to the Walkers. It was natural that Hesh would grow to be the object of your daydreams ever since grade school; a constant and digging knife into your heart when he’d repeatedly pick other girls over you.
But such was life.
All that mattered now was bringing down Rorke, silly love could wait.
“Merrick,” Hesh yelled down his line, the world outside this building rampant with open war. “The missile’s away and we’ve got a lead on Rorke, we’re going after him!”
The white double doors meet the three of you as you all rush to them, and the panicked man’s voice flashes down the line immediately.
“Negative Hesh! You three get back here and return to the rally point. We’ll track him down together.”
You call, “Isn’t an option, Merrick. We can’t let this one go.”
You and Hesh ram your shoulders into the doors, Logan darting through first with his weapon drawn down the hallway. The brunette’s and your shoulders brush in a jostling of gear—pulling the back as your eyes lock. Cold light seeps from overhead, metal under your feet clanking in-key.
You look away before Hesh agrees and levels with the Ghost over the line to push your point. “Sorry, Merrick. Your mission is complete…ours isn’t.”
Federation heads pop up from behind makeshift barriers of barrels and other stacked items and as you all enter and clear rooms, alarms blare with the ferocity of fighting lions. Hesh keeps by your side, offering you openings that you greedily take as another soldier falls with a stiff twitch of your finger on the trigger.
Darting behind cover, the man slams to the space beside you, calling over above the noise and the whizz of bullets.
“How long till impact?!” You shove a new clip into your FAD, brushing sweat and blood from your cheeks, smearing patches of your own paint.
Glancing at the watch on your wrist, you hear Logan pushing the line. You dart out of cover to help—locking onto hostiles and backing up the younger brother with quick feet.
“Eight minutes, Hesh! You got a plan that doesn’t leave me with scorched hair?” He finds it in himself to laugh, clocking a soldier to your left and riddling him with bullets.
“We need to get to that train, Harp. Don’t worry—I’ll kiss the burns away for you.” He rushes past and sends a smirk over his shoulder. You’re left stunned for a second, wishing that the teasing tilt to the older brother’s words was more than that. You blink, and the feeling is forced away.
Later.
“Keep pushing, Logan,” Hesh moves on. You all sprint down descending ramps, farther and farther underground with every step; adrenaline building to a breakneck level like weight slowly being added over and over to a chest. “We need to get to Rorke!”
You didn’t want to tell him, but, while revenge was on your plate as well, this was a very reckless idea.
As you grab for a grenade from your belt and jerk on the pin, you chuck it down the way and call out a warning to the boys, who, like a well-oiled machine, dart and wait for it to detonate. Bodies fly, bloody splashes of torn limbs, and three Ghosts materialize from the smoke with masked and painted faces; eyes like fire and veins boiling.
“Fire team suppressed in 3-1,” Hesh shouts through the line as you slide your knife into a man’s eye, his goggles breaking in a shattering of glass. “Advancing to loading bay!”
There’s a large elevator ahead for transporting crates, and all of you jog inside as the gate creaks shut.
Merrick’s stiff voice replies, “Roger that.”
Silently, you click into the channel and mutter out as a moment of relative peace coats your body like a blanket, even if for a few small seconds.
“I’ll keep ‘em safe,” a small twitch of your lips, “Commander.”
A deep and unimpressed voice wafts into your ear with a large sigh. “Know you will—just remember to keep yourself safe in the process, Kid…Don’t do anything stupid.”
You shift your gaze to Hash and find green already staring at you. Blinking, the man quickly darts his vision away and after a moment you turn your face back down to the connection and huff through a burning epidermis.
“Haven't you heard?” The elevator shows the train as it descends down, and you call to the boys, ‘six minutes’, with a firm voice.
“Stupid seems to follow us three everywhere.”
Hesh points as the figures of more soldiers walk around below. “There’s Rorke’s train, straight ahead!” Sure enough, the worm of black and gray metal extends to your eyes across the large room
“He’ll be on there soon. Logan, take left.” You order and the brown-eyed man nods from beside you, shouldering his rifle and checking the clip. “Hesh?”
“Taking right—you got Point, Doll.” He stares at you, licking his lips. “Clear the way?” You tilt your head at him as the elevator jumps to a stop, the barrier sliding away. It pains you to look away.
There were so many things you had to tell him. Too many things.
“Always.” Shiting your face forward, you take a breath and take notice of points of cover, scoping the room in three seconds flat. Screeching wheels and alarms ingrain your eardrums. “On me.”
As you head out first, fire the first bullet, the two peel off in opposite directions, Hesh only sliding up beside you and uttering into your ear.
“Be safe.”
That comment makes you want to be anything but, if only he’d whisper into your ear like that again.
Clearing the room, you can’t get your mind off the fact that this crush was overtaking nearly every part of your life—years of quiet agony and staying your tongue in fear of losing what great friendship you had.
The stock set into your shoulder recoils with another burst of fire, Federation soldiers scream in pain, but you barely register over the shadows in the sides of your vision.
“Damnit, Hesh,” you growl, bullet grazing your shoulder as you grunt and slip behind a concrete divider.
“What’s that?” Your eyes widen comedically. Shit…had you forgotten to close the line?
“Eh,” you clear your throat, grimacing at the small sparks of pain in your shoulder. “N-nothing.”
There’s a bout of silence and then a panting voice, rough and growing more serious.
“You alright over there, Harp?” You can’t even respond before Hesh quickly continues. “I’m comin’ to you. Stay there.”
You violently shake your head, although he can’t see it.
“Hesh, I’m fine! Keep right and clear that hallway.”
There’s a deep grunt. “Fine, but if I see one scratch I’m makin’ Riley chase you down the Base when we get back.”
If we get back.
You roll your eyes with a growing smile, steeling yourself and slamming your weapon to the top of the divider before locking onto your targets. “Please, we both know he loves me too much for that.”
“Most I’ll have to do is put a treat in your pocket, Sweetheart.” His sly smirk is heard easily, and you swallow tense-like and breathe shakily. That low drawl in his tone left you more distracted than you could ever get used to. “Hell,” There’s a struggle over the line before the shink of a knife meeting flesh. A breathless chuckle that leaves your gut swirling. “Maybe I’ll just chase you down myself.”
Logan coughs over the line and you have to click off before you scream. Your face flares up until your ears ring and you have to duck behind your cover again before you get metal right to the forehead.
Behind the barrier, you glare at the floor.
When did general teasing get so hard for you? Jokes and jabs carrying weight—since when? Sure you’d liked—more liked loved—Hesh since before all of this, but you’d carried on well enough.
“Fucking hell,” you grumble, shaking your head to clear it and rushing.
The brothers pop through the side hallways to flank the enemy, taking out the one or two hostiles that were still breathing after you level your barrel with the last standing head; firing with a burst of gunpowder.
“Train’s leaving, let's go!” Hesh screams, waving an arm quickly at you, walking backwards on quick feet. “Harp, C’mon!”
You chuff, hopping the divider and sprinting as the metal object speeds up—there’s a moment where you fear you might miss it, Hesh and Logan both forced to hop on even in your absence.
“Harp!” Green eyes flash, one hand on the railing and the other extended out.
“On it!” Snapping, you slam your palm into his and feel his strong fingers curl to clutch you. Logan grabs your collar and helps; the both of them easily yanking you over just as the wall of the tunnel engulfs you all in illuminated shadow.
Back meeting the train’s body, you pant and chuckle as Logan shakes his head, amused, and pats your shoulder. You wink at him jokingly.
“Good save there, Walker Number Two.”
Hesh grabs the side of your neck, looking you over as he leans back with a breathless chuckle at the title for his brother. He blinks quickly at your shoulder, eye narrowing before he reaches out and looks at the blood on your gear.
“You mind telling me what this is, Doll?” You make a nose in the back of your throat as the smell of his musk hits your nostrils; the deadly concoction of his scent and his digging gaze.
Stuttering, you huff. “Eh…bullet graze?”
You’re leveled with thin lips, but Logan grabs his brother by the upper arm and peels him off you, motioning to his radio as the train gains even more speed. Wind whips past your face as Hesh clears his throat, quickly avoiding your eyes.
The man’s splotchy paint shows his red skin under the darker pigment.
“Merrick, we’re on the train,” he speaks, shifting past you without another look. “We’re going after Rorke.”
“Solid Copy.” You watch the brunette walk away and hold your breath, though you don’t know why—heart beating not just because of adrenaline.
Embarrassment breeding in your stomach, you ignore Logan’s knowing stare and push off the wall, rubbing at your bleeding shoulder with a stiff hand.
—
You break a man’s neck against the wall, hand on the back of his head before you slam it into the hard metal. There’s a crunch of bone and a broken rattle before the broadcasted feed from the screen on the train’s panel spits out a message in panicked Spanish to the already deceased men.
“Evacuation protocol C is in effect. All personnel secure cargo and supplies—”
Hesh interrupts ahead of you as you let the body drop, scowling at the heavy sound of its dead weight. At his angry voice, you perk and tune in.
“Tell Rorke we’re comin’ for him.” There’s a quick shove from the other end of the feed, the previous man disappearing as the individual that takes his place makes your eyes go to slits. A great growl like a wolf echoes from your heart and seeps from between your clenched teeth.
Rorke’s scarred face appears with a smirk and a cocky voice.
“Why don’t you just tell me yourself?” You look at your boys, more concerned for them as you watch firsthand the trauma the death of their father brought them.
Logan holds his weapon tighter, fixing his grip. Hesh is a bit more direct. He leans closer to the screen, bearing his teeth like a dog and snarling with rage and hatred.
“You’re done, Rorke.” All of a sudden he peels back a fast fist and sends it careening into the screen—making a shattering of glass and a hard thud emanate deep into your bones.
Blinking quickly, you tense as it happens, not expecting that. But as soon as you try to make sense of it, the brunette is already banking off to the side door, calling a sharp, “Let’s finish this!”
He grabs the side of the train car and wrenches on the handle, grunting and pushing with all of his might.
“Hesh,” you try to reason, stepping in now before things get too hot. “We need to think of a plan before you rush into things. This could get us in a heap of shit that we might not be able to get out of.”
It’s like he doesn’t hear you, and you spare a glance with Logan for help. But he, too, has already joined his brother with a swish of gear on the handle. With one great push, the door opens to the outside brightness, making your face turn away for a moment.
Along the far expanse of open sand dunes outside; mountains flanking the bridge this train flies across, you get the perfect view of a warhead meeting the ground in an explosion of fire and death. It bursts far across the valley, and you cover your eyes as the sharp ball of light burns your retinas.
The shockwave hits moments later, and Hesh says easily as the train shakes and squeals like a metal pig, “Looks like Icarus got control of the rods!” The boys step out onto the platform along the train, and you have no option but to follow. “All that’s left is Rorke, let's go!”
“Hesh,” you try again, hissing out his name, and you’re graced with a quick glance.
“Harp,” he comments, “what is it? We can’t wait any longer—”
“What we can’t do is go in blind!” You shout above the wind, legs stanced to help you stay up. Green eyes twitch with confusion, perhaps even a little hurt.
“Blind? What are you talking about, we push forward and take what’s owed.” You know how much this means to him—to Logan—but there was a point where pride and stubbornness outweighed sense. This was dangerous, especially for Hesh.
You were always the one to keep him level; keep him from becoming too much like his dad.
You’d promised that old bastard you’d look after his boys, albeit in a teasing sense, but to you, it had been a stark vow on your soul. Logan was a brother to you, and Hesh…Hesh would always be more, but that only made your love for them both grow.
“You keep those two from getting in their heads, you hear? They mean well, but there’s no one I trust more than you to level them out, Harp. I’m proud of you. And I’m sure your folks would be too.” Elias had said that, and when he died you bottled it up and used so much force that coal had turned to diamond.
You would keep Logan and Hesh safe. Safe, and level, and not hard-headed.
For as much as you secretly loved your brunette, he sure was stubborn as all hell.
“If you want out, Harp,” Hesh calls to you, gritting his teeth. “Just wait back in the train car. This is something we can’t put off like everything else—this ends now; today. I’m not letting Dad’s killer survive.”
“Son of a bitch, that’s not what I’m saying!” You’re quickly losing your standing. Logan jogs ahead to scout, time ticking. “Hesh, you know that I loved Elias as much as you two did—not one is denying that this needs to happen. I'm with you. But this is too damn dangerous! We can’t rush into this without a plan of attack; of exfil! Do you even know how we’re going to get off of this thing?!”
Hesh had been isolating the few days he had on the U.S.S Liberator, keeping to his room. The man idolized his father and put him on a pedestal of gold even when he was a teenager. He’d even pushed away from you, which all together was unheard of. Logan had nearly had an aneurism when you’d come back to the cafeteria and shook your head in disappointment after trying to get him to open his door.
The two of you told each other everything. Always. That was just…how it was.
But the man that Hesh had donned the skin of was not the man you loved.
Hesh glares at you, eyes going alight with anger.
“If you were with me, you wouldn’t be holding me back.” He turns and runs after Logan, leaving you behind in the open air as the train banks left and right with the sway of the bridge.
Staring. Barely breathing. Mouth parted and eyes wide.
When the man is at the end of the current train car, having to jump a small distance to the next, he pauses. His back is tight, and under him, his feet shuffle.
There’s a moment you hope he’ll turn around and come back, take you into one of his hugs, and squeeze the life out of you. It wouldn’t be such a cruel way to die, you think, to be held in his arms.
But the next moment you see the back of his head shake, and he jumps over to the next section, not even giving you a second glance.
You don’t want to admit how long you waited there, your mind jumbled and confused.
Don’t take it personally, you try to tell yourself, sucking down a breath before slowly walking forward. He’s hurt. Grieving. He didn’t mean it.
Rationality was a tool of the level-headed, and you were anything but that nowadays.
Over the line Hesh’s voice makes you flinch as you slowly follow after, train car after train car.
“Rorke must be at the front of the train!” You step over dead bodies and lend merciful bullets to the ones still writhing, boots coated in crimson. Following a trail of wreckage with stiff lungs.
Stay out of his way? Fine, you could do that.
You stayed back from the head-to-head fighting, laying covering fire and keeping off the comms—whenever Hesh managed to look back at you, you simply moved on to the next hostile.
Eventually, you all ended up on the rooftops, the boys far ahead and yourself blank-faced at the rear. Logan was acting more concerned than Hesh was, glancing at you constantly in confused worry. But it was very much short-lived.
“Incoming!” The right side of the railcar bursts with fire, and you gasp before grappling for the opposite side of the train, keeping you there before the swaying beast leveled out. “Helos. Take cover and take out the gunners!”
You scoff, quickly making your way behind a connector joint to lean your back against it and catch your breath. Two helicopters fly alongside the train, Logan already firing at one, and Hesh…your eyes narrow with annoyance. Hesh was already running ahead of the pack, his low grunts and growls over the line giving way to his impatience.
You click your jaw and try to remind yourself that this is the same man who held you close during movie nights and carried you to bed when you fell asleep. Made you waffles when your boyfriend in eighth grade broke up with you on Valentine’s Day.
Stitched your wounds before he gave them a teasing ‘kiss better’ and looked up at you through dark lashes.
You wildly shake your head to force yourself back to the present.
The gunners are harder to hit not only based on wind and distance alone, but on the erratic movements of the pilots. It’s several clips before you down the second Helo, and Logan’s follows immediately after as they both collide and ram into the mountainside.
You both share a glance and rush after the misguided brunette.
At the end of the train, only the engine remains.
“Clear!” Hesh relays, jumping down from the roof of the railcar and hurriedly walking to the white door, leaning against the wall. “We’re at the last car, Logan. Rorke’s pinned, he knows we’re comin’.”
You gaze down from the top as Logan follows, silent and brooding. Your hands along your FAD tighten under your gloves. You don’t even look at the man.
“Merrick, do you copy?”
“Copy, Hesh.”
“We’re moving in on Rorke.” You slide him a look, seeing him glaring those pretty greens into the ground. “If you hear the word “Checkmate”, you will fire on our position! Confirm?” Your eyes snap with horror, heart lurching.
Surely, you hadn’t heard that right.
Merrick’s voice echoes your frozen confusion. “Say again, repeat your last.”
You jump down and stagger for a moment, barking out a harsh, “What the fuck are you doing?” Inside of your chest, your heart rampages like it never had before. “That’s suicide!”
He was going to kill everyone to bring down Rorke, and you get no answer beyond a clenched jaw and a quick side-eye.
“You heard me, Merrick, on “Checkmate”, hit this train!” The connection is cut and Logan gets into position to shoulder the door open, you watch, stuttering.
Hesh levels with his brother, “We can’t take any chances, Logan. Even if we fail, Rorke dies.” Panic builds, and you’re taking quick steps forward.
You keep those two from getting in their heads, you hear?
You have to stop them, you have to drag them away—but even you know that deep down the only thing that will stop these two is a bullet.
Eyes snapping back and forth, you only get close enough to try and snatch at Hesh’s arm right as he finishes a countdown of three; at the end, Logan kicks down the engine room door with a violent connection of his boot.
Even with the drop on the three guards inside, it doesn't stop the bullet from ripping through your lower side, preoccupied and distracted yet again. You yell loudly, balking back into the door frame and hunching over as blood spurts out of you. Hesh’s head whips your way immediately, jaw going slack and a soul-deep hysteria takes over.
So now he pays attention.
“Shit, Harp!” So little time.
Logan can’t take care of the last remaining Fed soldier by himself, and in a large act of self-sabotage, that very soldier just happened to have a missile launcher.
The entire left engine explodes—the train jerks; everyone is sent in a back-and-forth motion, first hitting off the last train car before being sent right back through the engine room entirely. A transference of force gives you whiplash as your head bounces off the door frame.
The world goes blurry, body hitting and slamming through layers of glass and pain before the control room is suddenly where you end up, using the body of a stunned guard as a cushion.
There’s a second of muffled gunfire, struggling and yelling—and then it all comes back into focus like a sniper’s scope being correctly sighted. You gargle an expletive and shove the guard under you back down despite the searing heat in your side and head; struggling to unsheathe your combat knife as the world tilts.
Hands push at your cheeks, grip at your neck futilely, but when you get the blade out and struggle the hands down once more, you hammer the point into his throat with a thump of your boot pressing for purchase on the floor.
The man spasming, you push off of him and slam to the ground, coughing in great lung-shattering segments.
“You can’t win, Rorke!” Hesh’s voice brings you back from the swirling, and you hear your blood patter to the metal floor like rain.
“Shit,” you mutter, gasping for air.
Gazing up you see Rorke holding Logan in a chokehold, free hand pointing a gun at Hesh. Your eyes bulged, trying to push onto your knees and reach for your weapon as you saw Hesh continually looking away from the target and worriedly watching you. His hands at his sides are loose, but when you lock eyes with him, they clench and shake.
“It’s over—” He tries, but the loud gunshot bounces off the train’s enclosed space. You’re yelling before you can think, darting forward and leveling your gun right to Rorke’s head as Hesh’s form collapses to the ground.
Standing on unsteady feet, you pant and stumble, but the devil’s brown eyes hold you captive. Rorke smirks as you guard Hesh behind you.
“Well, well, well, seems the girl’s just as promising as you, eh, Logan? She’s the other one who slipped her binds in Las Vegas.” He laughs. “Look at me, I’m surrounded by young talent.”
“I don’t exactly care if you are or aren’t,” you growl, shuffling to keep Hesh even farther behind you as you instrumentally cough again. Your legs are wobbling. “Just that you put my fucking friend down.”
“You willing to die for him?” Rorke looks demented, with his scar and his intimidating build. Whatever torture he had been through to make him like this—a Ghost killer—it had worked perfectly. There was no coming back from this. He whistles lowly. “That’s some loyalty you have there.”
His mind was dead to all else.
You don’t hesitate in an answer, even as the man behind you grabs your leg, trying to move you with a wheezing breath.
“H-Harp,” his spine moves in a cough. “Don’t…please.”
“Always.” Interest alights in those dark, tiny eyes. Logan tries to give you messages with his gaze, but you ignore him. Ironic. “That’s not something I’ll break on. Unlike you.”
“Shit, Kid,” there’s a grand laugh, “now that’s heartless…but good,” Rorke glances at Hesh, raising a brow and chuckling. “I’ll love to see the look in his eyes when I—”
“Checkmate!”
“Checkmate confirmed.” You look down at Hesh and see him watching you, his gaze open and bare.
“I’m sorry,” he gasps, but all you can do is watch.
There’s no time to think.
“I love you,” you confess in a fleeting moment of bare nothingness, blurting it out. “I’ve loved you.”
Hesh’s body entirely halts, jaw slowly slackening in horror; something shifts behind his eyes but before he can open his mouth, a rageful bark bullies the smooth tone of his throat back.
“What did you do?!” Your form is bodied into the controls behind you, colliding as you snarl and are forced to recover. With a snap of your finger, you fire a shot into Rorke’s foot.
He yells and whips his wrist back, slamming the butt of his gun into your temple.
As the bridge ahead of the train explodes, Hesh drags himself to cover your body, muttering into your flesh words you cannot name as the darkness sets in.
“It’s over,” Hesh speaks grimly to Rorke, turning to look at him silently as he presses your head into his chest, sharing a nod and thin-lipped look with Logan still stuck in his arm. “It’s over.”
“Shit, Son…” The train gets thrown and broken in a wave of utter destruction and rebirth; and through it all, Hesh never lets go—not even when the water below comes up to meet you.
—
The beach’s sand is coarse, and it sticks to your gear with a fervent hold. To your skin, the paint, and blood, for the moment washed away as hands dragged you from the water, small puffs of breath and whimpers greeting you.
“C’mon, Sweetheart.” Hesh. And he sounded frantic. “C’mon, open…open your eyes, dammit. Please, you just told me the best thing you possibly could. Please.”
Water slips off your neck, and as you’re weakly lying back, propped against a rock, hands slip to your cheeks, moving the skin as a barely conscious body tries to make you wake up.
A forehead hits against your shoulder, a deep groan of pain emanating from the man who grips at your gear.
“No, no, c’mon,” Hesh can barely keep himself sitting up, bloody and broken. Logan had to drag him from the water not seconds prior, and in turn, Hesh had grabbed what little strength was left and helped him get you. “Logan!” Green darts to brown, and the older brother pleads in a broken voice, “Help me!”
You bend your head forward and cough up blood and water, shoving Hesh away from you so you can collapse on your side and expel your stomach.
“Harp,” the man quickly mutters, dragging himself over and grabbing your shoulder to keep your face out of the sand. “Fuck, okay—it’s okay I’ve got you.”
“You,” your voice cuts out, and you shake as you gasp and sputter, “A-are a fucking idiot!”
Hesh chuckles, and you feel his head hit off your arm, his struggling breath. “God, I know. I know, Sweetheart.”
Logan crawls over to you, pushing you back against the rock and grappling for his medical pouch as Hesh patches into the comms. You grunt and look down at the younger brother, head swirling in colors and ears pounding with your pulse.
“Merrick, do you copy? Merrick, come in.”
“Hesh! Hesh, is that you?” You weakly smirk at the shock and relief from the tone, letting your head tilt back as Logan hurriedly packs your gunshot wound with gauze. You wince and stare at the sky—blood infectiously tinging the sand below you.
Hesh tries to help too, but you and the man are in far worse shape than Logan. The older brother��s shoulder leans into yours heavily, and you shift your eyes to the side as they flutter.
You haven't forgotten what you told him, what you confessed, but right now pushing back the black in the sides of your vision was more important.
And Rorke. What had happened to Rorke?
“Yeah,” Hesh watches you, face screwed with concern. “Yeah, I’m with Harp and Logan. We’re…we’re alive. Rough shape, but alive.”
“And Rorke?” You hold your breath.
“Dead.” Logan ties off a quick tourniquet and your spine tightens in agony, hissing out as your nerves spike with electricity. The brown-eyed man spares you a sorry glance but you shake your head in dismissal. “He’s dead.”
Out in the water, the enemy warships are firing off missiles inland, some smoking and others already sinking. Merrick gives you the news as Hesh brings a hand up to your chin, tilting your head his way. You go willingly, skin on fire from the scrape of his gloves.
Logan moves back, having done what he can, before he collapses back into the sand, panting with an arm over his stomach. His older brother’s forehead bumps into yours, eyes stuck.
“Copy that. The Federation is in full retreat—the rest of the payload is inbound to finish the…”
Whatever else Merrick relays is lost and Hesh’s lips splay over yours, his nose letting out a long breath and body sagging, dead-weight. Cheeks hot and mind running, you let instinct take over and reciprocate, quick fingers pulling at his vest straps.
“Since when?” He asks, breathless when he moves back an inch.
“After you introduced me to your first girlfriend, Cassie Albrook,” you smile, eyes crinkling. “Seventh grade. The one with the black hair? God, I was so jealous.”
Hesh chuckles deeply, body jerking as he kisses you again, pulling back and holding your cheek in his hand. His eyes are wide and open.
“You mean to tell me, I could have been kissin’ you all the way back since seventh grade?” Your face moves with pure love, flesh going soft—even the pain diminishes somewhat.
Merrick’s voice still gruffly moves down the line, and the last bits of his sentence are heard.
“...Sit tight, Recon’s comin’ for ya.” Everything was looking up.
Missiles slam into the Federation ships out in the water, the sudden burst of liquid and fire making Hesh briefly cover you with his side to protect you from the shockwave. When you turn to look, nothing but sinking metal remains.
“I’m sorry,” Hesh tells you, and you don’t have the energy to pull away from his neck as you let your head rest—the thumping of your brain and the calming shadow of his form giving way to believe you had a concussion.
“Hm,” you hum, letting him continue. His voice echoed in his breast.
“I…I’ve been an ass these past few days, weeks, I shouldn’t have said what I did—wanted to take it back as soon as I turned away from you.” You close your eyes and sigh long, sarcastic even now.
“You owe me dinner and a movie, then I’ll see if I can forgive you.” Hesh chuckles, nose pressing down into your scalp. He kisses you there as water falls from his chin.
“Sounds like a plan, Doll.” The man lets himself rest, curled around you and waiting for the recon team as the sand and the water move. “I love you too…just so you know. Long time.”
Your failing mind lets off a scoff. But a happy one.
When you wake again, not remembering when you’d fallen asleep, it is to the sound of screaming.
“Logan!” You jolt up and have to place a hand on your head to stop the pounding. Hesh is struggling to move, fighting to get to his younger brother who you turn as quickly as you’re able to face. “Logan!”
Your face voids of blood.
Rorke is dragging the other man away, pushing him to the ground as Logan tries to fight like a dog on his back, with only one arm working properly. Growling, you try to stand—body falling and sliding right back down as Rorke kicks Logan’s combat blade from his hand, walking over to you and Hesh.
He stands and pants, limping from your shot to his foot and a hand across his abdomen in obvious pain.
“Look what you did,” Rorke motions behind him to the still-falling missiles being disposed of from space into the ocean; atop the wreckage of what Rorke had been a part of. Falling to your side, you leave behind a raging Hesh who attempts to move and get to Rorke while you go to Logan. The devil wheezes and points from you to the boys, forcing a grunt of approval. “You’re good.”
Hesh is shoved back by a ruthless boot into the rock, and you snarl, coming over to Logan and his very broken arm as he weakly writhes on the ground. You place your body over his and bare your teeth as if a beast.
“Rorke!” You bark. “It’s over! It’s done. Everything you’ve built is dead and recon is on its way for us…you’re finished.”
“Nothin’s finished, no,” Hesh tries to lunge again as Rorke’s body stumbles closer to you but falls into ragged coughs and stays on his side in utter agony.
“Stay away from them!” The man you’d just confessed to hisses, hand grasping futilely at the sand. Green eyes run back and forth from you to Logan, desperate and breaking by the second. “Rorke! You son of a bitch!”
“Nothin’s ever finished.” Grabbing you by the scruff of your neck, you’re being tossed off Logan and thrown to the side in a cloud of sand, body screaming at you as you yell out loudly.
Rorke bends a knee to look Logan in the eyes, shaking his head.
“You’d of been a hell of a Ghost.” Yelling, you wrench at the combat knife in your vest, set your feet, and tackle Rorke off of the Walker boy with a feral curse on your breath.
“Get the fuck off of—” Your leg twists with a defining crack as you’re grappled and thrown off, only able to slice a nice long cut down his jaw and at the beginning of the man’s throat.
Screaming you hear briefly Hesh’s rageful bellow, his calling of your name in high keens of helplessness. Promises of revenge and justice.
Breath breaking as tears line the back of your eyes, Rorke comes over you and pins your dominant hand to the ground—you look up and grimace, trying to make your body function.
Move!
Rorke laughs, great shoulders shaking with glee. He’s fucking demented as he continues his sentence from before your fruitless attack.
“...But that’s not gonna happen, is it?” The man smiles and you struggle as Logan and Hesh rapidly try to assist.
“Harp!”
“There ain’t gonna be any Ghosts.” Rorke’s eyes shift to Hesh, and you follow with a sense of dread and horror. The man’s mind had been made up when he turned back around, disregarding Logan entirely in favor of you and your ‘unbreakable’ loyalty.
The joy it would bring him to destroy you and set you loose after such. Set you loose on Hesh.
He leans in close to you, so you can feel his breath and his conviction.
“We’re gonna destroy ‘em together.”
“Harp!” You’re shoved back, knife grasped and ripped from your hand as your broken leg is grabbed and pressure is applied.
You scream again, arms carding across the dunes as Rorke begins dragging you backward like a child holding onto a stuffed toy. Blown green eyes meet yours, Hesh reaching out and screaming at the top of his lungs for you.
But he can’t move.
“Harp!”
And you can’t feel your fingers.
“I love you,” you whisper, perhaps for the last time and he sees your lips move. Hesh screams and slams his hand into the ground, Logan stumbling to his knees but immediately dropping back with a small cry.
And Rorke chuckles.
—
You don’t know where he took you, but you do know the jungle floor is cold and wet, and the mud under your fingernails makes you feel gross.
What you do know is that the earthen walls of the pit you are in are pointless to try to climb—the top is slatted with a covering of long sticks with wide square openings. You know it’s going to rain by the smell in your bloodied nostrils.
You know that your leg is broken, your bullet wound is festering through the tourniquet, and your concussion is making you sleepy.
In your head, you count these ‘knowns’ and sprinkle them like seeds as you stare blankly at the sky far above. Everything aches; hurts. When you breathe, it comes in and out with a wheeze.
You know that Hesh loves you, and perhaps that’s the only fact you care about. Wherever he is, you’re glad he can’t see you like this.
Rain patters against your head, the storm clouds finally rolling through. Leaves can be heard shuffling on their branches. You breathe in and out, rising and settling your lungs slowly.
You can’t break—not like Rorke.
No matter what he did to you, you can’t betray the Ghosts. Logan. Hesh.
Elias’s words echo as you curl into a tiny ball, shivering and whimpering as your wounds move and pull.
...I’m proud of you. And I’m sure your folks would be too.
You know this game. Torture. They’ll pump you full of hallucinogens, starve you, beat you within an inch of your life; and through that you cannot give in.
But it’s easier said than done.
In the middle of the night, the top of the pit is pushed away and there are the voices of multiple people that dance above the rain storm. They jump down and in the state you are, there’s nothing you can do to stop them from hooking their arms under yours and hauling you up, limp and motionless.
The words are in Spanish, and you still can make out some over the commotion and the way your hearing dips in and out.
“Where do we inject….”
“...neck, I believe…arm could work too…”
“...nasty…was it? I heard…mix of drugs…Who knows?”
Your head is harshly yanked back, and the sharp pinch of a needle digs into your neck, the action making your good leg kick out in panic but there’s little you can do.
A flood of thick fluid enters your veins and like sap seeping out of a tree some drops exit the wound and mix with the rain weighing down your clothes. They’d taken your gear, only your undershirt and cargo pants still clothing you.
When they’re done, they let you drop back to the floor, where you flop and smash your face into the mud with a weak drag of your cheek along the sludge. With calls from above, a rope is tossed down and they all ascend. The top is clattered back over moments later.
Laying still and groaning, teeth clenched, already you feel ten times more strange than before.
“Ah,” you grasp at your head, which was bursting to begin with, as it gains a looseness to it—the mud below you shimmered with puddles, the chill got colder, and your clothes felt grating against your skin. “Not good. N-not good.”
You pull at your shirt collar, coughing as your eyes bulge; your heart breaks itself as it immediately can be felt hammering into your ribcage far more sensitive than you’d ever experienced. It felt like your chest was going to rip open.
Panicked sounds emanate from the back of your throat, fingers digging into your scalp as the drugs carry their venom through your blood.
Your wounds blazed.
You start screaming, babbling for nothing, and pulling at your flesh, but the overhead striking of lightning leaves the desperation mute to all but the trees.
—
Hesh stares at you from the corner of the pit, but his eyes are not green. You watch, silent, barely moving, from where you curl into a tiny heap of bloodied flesh. You’d torn at your skin for days; time looped together with more injections and no food. Water you got from the sky.
They had offered soup, but you knew better even as you dug harsh lines into your neck. There were just more drugs in the broth.
But Hesh. Hesh.
He wasn’t right—didn’t stand like him, or breathe like him; there was something off about his smirk as he watched you gaze at him in an addled stupor.
“Feelin’ good over there, Kid?” Not Hesh. Not. Hesh.
You’re panting, your body sweating profusely in the humidity and so, so hungry.
Not Hesh takes a step forward and his image tilts like the turning of a page with Rorke taking his place, but as soon as it happens it flips back on itself to your Love.
“N-not right,” you hurriedly whisper.
Not Hesh puts a hand to his ear, kneeling down in front of you. “What was that, now?” A long chuckle. His voice is…is…deeper. Your eyebrows flinch up and down. “Who do you see, Sweetheart?”
“Hesh,” you whimper out. “Hesh, what are you talking about? What’s going on? I…I feel like I’m…I’m twisted inside out.”
“Hesh, huh?” The man looks to the side, smiling. “Well, that’s better than I expected. This’ll be fun.”
“W-what—” A fist connects with your face and you get catapulted into the wall. Before anything else, your stomach is kicked, making your call of alarm get forced out as a gasp as your clotted bullet wound reopens in a great tear. A large hand grips you hard by the chin, snapping it forward to stare into those wrong eyes but the familiar face of Hesh.
What was he doing to you?
“H…Hesh,” you can’t even stutter out his name before you break down into coughs and gagging; tears rolling down your cheeks, and blood and mud everywhere.
“Yeah, that’s right. You just keep lookin’ at me.” You dry heave and push at his hands, fingernails digging into his skin to create crescent moons. “Keep lookin’ at Hesh.”
—
It’s three months of the same, and you can’t go on anymore.
You lay in a near comatose state on the ground, flesh completely covered in mud and open wounds—maggots eat at your dead skin, wriggling deeper. Not having the heart to pick them out, or even move the few non-broken fingers you have, you lay in blank agony. Pain so deep you can’t scream or make a single noise. It would make it worse; it is making it worse.
Breathing is becoming a chore.
“Is today going to be the day?! God, I sure hope so.” Hesh looks down from over the edge, fiddling with another syringe of drugs. “Enough blood down there to make a fuckin’ painting out of. Shit…You lasted longer than I thought, Kid.” You don’t look at him. At his dark, wrong, eyes.
“I’m nearly impressed.” There’s a low chuckle and the crackling of branches.
You close your eyes and try to think of a single kiss and green eyes, but the rest of the image is tainted to you. Your mind can’t call it forward without the corruption of the puppet ahead of you, this shifting specter of mist and smoke.
Memories that used to bring you comfort call to fear and spine-curling hurt.
This couldn’t be Hesh, you told yourself for the millionth time, but…who else could it be? Your body was too broken to try and work through the hallucinations, to think or rationalize.
There’s a thump of boots and a grunt. Someone coming closer as birds speak far above. Singing. It's the first you can recall another living creature being this close to the smell of infected decay.
“Now, now, let’s see that neck of yours.” You’re seized and pushed onto your back, head lulling and eyes fluttering. Hesh’s image shifts and bends into another, one you should be able to name but can’t quite recall. It’s hard to focus. “Just one more, and we can fix this. Together. No more Ghosts, huh? We’ll make it right.”
Birds songs. Birds and flying shadows. Rapid wing beats like an eagle or the pound of paws on the ground.
There is an un-godly snarl and a call of rage.
“Rorke!” The dark-eyed Hesh snaps his head away, his needle stilling in his grip only inches from your flesh. He’s grappled and ripped away, thrown up and slammed down into a full-body jerk of pure strength not a second later with a cry of shock. “Get the fuck off of her!”
Shadows roll and wrestle, feral yowls like that of beasts bounce off your impaired hearing, mud stuck in your ears. You think your vision cuts out for a moment because the next there’s a different man gripping your shoulders, slightly shaking you back awake.
Blue eyes like the ocean. Your brow barely twitches in confusion.
Keegan?
“C’mon, that’s it. Right here.” A light is taken and directed right into your eye in the fading light. “You’re doin’ great, Harp. Just keep lookin’ at me.”
The light passes over your blood-coated eyes and barely diolates. Keegan’s lips under his balaclava thin to an alarming degree.
“Fuck,” he grunts, looking down at you before he darts his vision over to Hesh, the actual Hesh, who’s locked limbs with the former Ghost; fists to guts and primal anger.
In his haste to get to you, Hesh had damned himself—he’d left no opening for any of the others to get a clean shot at Rorke. But no one could blame him, even if it was reckless; incredibly stupid.
The man had been on your trail nearly every day since you’d been taken. Barely sleeping, eating little. A man possessed.
The Ghosts had been half convinced something had taken over his image and scooped out his personality.
“Merrick,” Keegan patches into the secure line, looking back down at you. “Positive ID on HVT, three klicks West. Hesh has engaged—we found Harp.”
There’s an instantaneous response, worried breath. “Solid copy…how’s she doing?”
“We need MedEvac immediately. She won’t last another night.” There’s a curse on the other end, a loud and quick call to the rest of his squad.
“Copy! I’ll call it in!” Keegan tries to stabilize you as Hesh and Rorke rip each other to shreds, and Hesh, who had the upper hand in the beginning, is quickly losing it.
“Awe, look who tracked ‘er down!” Rorke snatches at Hesh’s collar and lays two jabs to his ribs—there’s a definitive crack as the younger man shouts in pain. “Young love! So fucking pointless.”
“I’m going to rip you into pieces,” Hesh bares his teeth, eyes wild and unrestrained. For a moment Rorke looks taken aback by the utter conviction in his green gaze. “And make you choke on your own damn teeth! You hear me?!”
Ripping away with a tear of fabric, Hesh bends low and tackles the former Ghost to the ground, splaying him out on his back before his fist is snapped back and brought down; again and again and again.
“Hesh!” Keegan shouts, pressing deeply into your wounds and trying to give you fluids with one hand. “This fucking kid.” The Sergeant gives up, shaking his head.
Trust had to be given, and Keegan knew that at this moment he had to trust Hesh to hold his own. He needed to keep you conscious.
“Easy, Harp.” You can feel the cracks in your dry throat as the water seeps past them, and you cough up droplets before the blue-eyed Sergeant tilts your head and helps you. “Easy, Sweetheart.”
Keegan doesn’t even want to look at your body as the brutal sounds of a fist on bone continue, clothes scuffling and gargled breaths—the savagery and barbarous remnants of mental and physical torture too much even for him.
“Christ,” he hisses.
You gulp down water slowly and let it fill your stomach like a brick.
Hesh reduces Rorke’s face to a mess of flesh and busted bone, sweating and not even stopping as his knuckles split under his gloves or his fingers dislocated from their sockets. His eyes burn, his face goes red—he looks insane.
He looks like a spirit of utter revenge.
Only when Logan and Merrick drag him off the spasming body does he stop, but not after he tries like hell to fight out of that hold as well. Whipping around, he attempts to land a punch on Merrick before Logan is forced to put him in a restraint hold.
Hesh’s cheek meets the mud, face being sunk into it as his right arm is twisted so far behind his back it nearly breaks. The older brother growls, free arm and legs moving—back sliding.
“David!” Merrick barks at him, face pulled in a sneer, enraged at the man’s lack of sense. “Shut this shit down. Look at her, dammit!” Logan gets bucked off, but the youngest Walker boy has enough sense to wrestle him back down and grab onto his chin; forcing those green eyes to lock on you and Keegan.
The second he sees you, he entirely freezes.
Merrick sighs out harshly, jogging over to you and already checking in with the MedEvac that Kick’s flying in. There would be no resistance—all the other hostiles were dead.
“Jesus Christ,” the Commander breathes, kneeling by you instantly and studying your body.
Hesh’s reaction is slower, but the spread of vile tears burns the back of his eyes. Logan lets him go at seeing this, standing and holding out a hand, but the brunette stays on the ground a moment longer; utterly still.
Hesh’s mouth opens and closes.
All at once he’s rushing over and limping up at your side as Merrick grabs more medical supplies from his packs to help you.
“Oh my God,” Hesh breathes, and Keegan sends him a glance. You’d drank all of the water. “Harp, hey, you’re going to be okay—it’s gonna be alright, you hear? I’m right here, Logan and I are gonna get you home. Back to California, okay? Riley’s waitin’ for you, Doll.”
You flinch at that voice, and Merrick looks sharply at the blue-eyed Sergeant. Their eyes lock, holding for a long moment. Logan’s brows tighten in confusion.
The brunette seems not to notice it at all, hands finding your cheek before Merrick can give him a warning. Your eyes slowly shift to him before they peel back with fear.
Hesh’s vision goes glossy, clenching his jaw. “Shit, what did he do to you—”
“Hesh!”
You yell and yerk back, shoving the man off of you with a fear-filled sob.
“No!” Keegan and Merrick grapple to keep you down, not wanting to aggravate your wounds as Hesh falls to his ass, hands slapping behind him before he hisses and brings them back up. He blinks quickly in confusion and panic.
Logan rushes over and hides him from your view, beginning to understand what was going on.
“No!” You call again, Keegan having to hold your head into his chest to hide you away. Merrick yells down his comms to hurry the Helo up, and that he doesn’t care about anything else. “No,” your voice gargles off as you sob into Keegan. “Please, no more.”
“Shh,” the Sergeant mutters, looking over his shoulder at a pale and shaking Hesh. “Nothin’s going to happen to you. Not anymore.”
“Harp,” Hesh whispers, jaw slackened. “I…I don’t…”
“Hallucinogens,” Merrick says grimly, watching you shake and wail. Logan has to look away, his fists clenching. “Who knows what she’s seen. Reckon it wasn’t anything good.”
It’s like he doesn’t hear anything besides your cries. Whenever you gasp Hesh tenses as if he wants to run to you—comfort you the best way he knows how.
Hallucinogens? He thinks and feels tears dribble down his cheeks as he blinks, rubbing at his jaw and shakily placing a hand over the back of his neck. Logan puts a heavy grip on his shoulder, weighing them down even more.
—
Rorke’s death should have been a time of celebration—of honoring the fallen. Elias Walker, Ajax, and countless others. The Federation was nothing more than broken factions now. Dust to the wind.
But no one can celebrate when they’re trying to fix one of their own.
You were being kept in the secure medical ward under twenty-four-hour surveillance and around-the-clock care; only Keegan was allowed in, seeing as you were the closest to him outside of Logan and Hesh and had no adverse effects to his presence.
Merrick had said he didn’t want to risk Logan going in, as it might worsen things. Hesh was taking it hard.
He just got you back, how was this right? How was it fair that you’d had to go through that right when it was supposed to be over and done with? The man got sick over it, thinking about what Rorke had done to…break your mind like he had.
Two months.
Two months of nightmares plaguing him, of your eyes when you looked at him. If Hesh had just been stronger, then that bastard would never have dragged you away on that beach. He resulted in working out more, running laps around Fort Santa Monica with Riley at three in the morning—he grew bags under his eyes. He grew quiet.
When all of his broken ribs and fingers healed, the artificial wounds, he was offered awards for taking down Rorke; even a summon by the President.
He’d denied all of them.
If a medal was going to get you better faster, he’d have taken them in an instant. But he wasn’t that stupid. Hesh was withering, and everyone saw it. He loved you more than anything—more than fame or recognition. The man lay awake at night fearing that you were too cold or uncomfortable in the far-off ward, he was paranoid about your safety.
More often than not, the nurses found him and Riley fitfully sleeping outside of your door on the hard ground, arm used as a pillow. They didn’t have the heart to move him.
In the last two weeks before the third month of your isolation and evaluations, in his nighttime routine, Hesh finds your door open.
He stares at it now with a blank expression, fatigue once burning his eyes all gone for a deep and pounding panic. With a hand gesture, Riley halts and sits, and, sensing his handler’s mood, lets his ears go straight up in attention.
Hesh reaches for the gun in the back of his pants, peeling it out slowly and taking a nearly silent step forward. Ready, his ears strain for a sound…but there is none.
His free hand reaches for the door, the short sleeves of his gray sleep-shirt bunching. A moment later, he lightly taps the barrier farther out before entering the room with the gun drawn.
He said he wouldn’t get distracted, but it would be a lie to say his eyes didn’t immediately go to you.
You were there, asleep, curled up on the far recliner chair instead of the bed. Head lulled to the side and knees kept close to your chest. But it was the scars that broke Hesh.
They were large and long—on your face and arms; legs. All moving and stretching like a child’s drawing up your sleep shorts and shirt, disappearing only to reappear somewhere else. Healed over but still fresh.
Hesh drops the gun and turns his body slightly away, staring at the side wall before he takes an unsteady breath. He re-hides his weapon and turns to leave, not seeing anyone else.
Maybe Keegan had forgotten to close the door…he’d have to chew him out for that. Already a dull point of anger was making his jaw clench at the sly older man.
“Bastard,” Hesh mutters.
Before he can exit and close the door softly behind him, he hears a broken squeak of alarm. He halts as you stare heavily into his back—awoken by the sound of nearly silent feet. In a steady motion, the man’s hands are by his sides, open and visibly holding nothing.
“I was just leaving,” Hesh whispers, not looking at you. His heart hammers. “I’m sorry, I thought someone else was in here—the door was open, okay?”
Your hands twitch, body still and breath held tight.
“Hesh?” He flinches, eyes closed tight.
Don’t look at her. Don’t turn around. Leave.
“Are you really…him?” You ask silently, eyes darting nervously around the room and quickly waking up fully.
It’s a moment before he answers you.
“Yeah,” he forces out, voice tiny and sad. “Yeah, it’s me, Doll. Just David Walker.”
Your throat bobs with a thin swallow. Treatment was still ongoing, but it’s not every day you wake up to find the man who you had nightmares about standing in your room.
Breathe, you have to remind yourself. It was the drugs. Not Hesh. Never Hesh. Rorke.
But you were still scared.
“I…I need to see your eyes,” you say.
Hesh turns carefully, staring hard at the floor. His heart lurches, hands going clammy.
What if she has a setback? He asks himself. What if I mess this up…Shit, Hesh, you couldn’t have minded your own business?
Oh, but he never could when it came to you.
“Then look at me, Sweetheart.” The man breathes slowly, darting his eyes up to your face. “They only belong to you.”
But your gaze can’t slip to his sockets, only able to glare fearfully into his neck. But this Hesh felt different, more like the one you grew up with—those memories still coming back but tainted; you need to see green, but it was hurting you to think that you might not.
“I’m scared,” you admit, shakily. The man’s thighs tense, but he stops himself before he can go and take you into his arms. That wouldn’t help. “I’m…I don’t know what’s real anymore.”
“I’m real. I swear to you, Harp, I’m real. I’m right here and I’ll wait for you as long as it takes. Even if it’s years, I will always be right here.” He pleads, hands still at his sides and going nowhere if you don’t tell him to. It’s like a floodgate opens, months of internal pain and heartbreak spilling out. You needed to know this, even if he never got to see you again.
“I have loved you since I saw you get jealous over Cassie Albrook in seventh grade and tried to hide it because you thought she made me happy—she could never make me happy, Harp. That was you. That was always and will always be you. I…I can’t breathe when you’re not near me, I don’t know how to act right when you’re hurt. Seeing you hurting is…is…” Hesh’s voice breaks and he falls silent.
“Please, if you need to look into my eyes, I’m beggin’ you, Sweetheart, please, do it. Even if it’s only one glance.” Your breath is stuck in your throat, tears welling and sliding down your cheeks.
In your skull your brain pounds, bordering on hysteria and an urge to flee. There was so little that you trusted anymore. Keegan, yes—the nurses and doctors? You had no choice there.
You knew that the Hesh you’d seen in the pit was Rorke, Keegan had explained it all to you after the drugs had been pumped from your system; you understood that part. But it didn’t make the sickening confusion any better.
Symptoms of severe PTSD, paranoia, anxiety—you’d seen the charts when the nurses thought you weren’t looking at them.
You still wouldn’t let anyone with a needle anywhere close to you, had to be put under for it.
But you’d been so lonely here. A simple kiss seared into your mind before the horror set in, a stain of a smile on your lips. A chest vibrating with a content purr.
Hesh. You want your Hesh back.
Taking a stuttering breath, your eyes dart upwards. You push through your misty gaze and lock on a color that can only be described as a grassy field of verdant growth. Great open plains of viridescent being—showing you a world bathed in tender belonging.
Home.
You sob and rush from the chair on legs that still hurt even now, meeting Hesh in the middle as he takes a step forward and wraps his arms around you. You’re covered and kept in a hold so tight it’s like he’ll never let you go, heart pounding and his face loose with shock.
But he says nothing beyond a loud shuttered exhale of relief, pressing you to his chest and burying his face into your scalp, breathing you in; taking you down like a sinner in church until all that remains is you. Your fingers digging into his shirt, your face in his neck, how you call his name as if calling a ghost back from the dead.
“Oh, my Girl.” Hesh chuckles through the tears in his eyes. “My Girl. I missed you so much, you won’t even believe it.”
You push yourself into him tighter.
Riley, at some point, had come to stand in the doorway, his dark beady eyes seeing only the colors in gray, brown, yellow, and blue, though that never truly mattered. Color was only half of the picture.
And the rest of the image in front of him was seeped with the pigment of love.
The dog’s tongue lulls from the side of his mouth, and in the air behind him, his tail moves back and forth into a soft arch.
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@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @waves-against-a-cliff, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast
#cod#cod x reader#call of duty#cod x you#x female reader#call of duty x you#call of duty x reader#hesh walker x female reader#hesh walker x reader#david hesh walker#hesh walker#cod ghosts#cod ghosts x reader#call of duty ghosts#cod x female reader#x fem!reader#call of duty: ghosts
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Psalm 150:1-6 (NIV). “Praise the Lord. Praise God in his sanctuary; praise him in his mighty heavens. Praise him for his acts of power; praise him for his surpassing greatness. Praise him with the sounding of the trumpet, praise him with the harp and lyre, praise him with timbrel and dancing, praise him with the strings and pipe, praise him with the clash of cymbals, praise him with resounding cymbals. Let everything that has breath praise the Lord. Praise the Lord.”
“Everything That Has Breath Shall Praise”
“Make it your daily habit to look for the good things God gives and does.”
“The desire to give praise is hardwired in the human spirit—it’s an impulse we can’t ignore. And as Christians, we’re called to direct that tendency to the One who made us. The apostle Peter says it like this: “You are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for God’s own possession, so that you may proclaim the excellencies of Him who has called you out of darkness into His marvelous light” (1 Peter 2:9).
It’s a beautiful truth that we are God’s own people—created, chosen, and called by Him to live a life of praise, both on our own and with other believers. In Psalm 34, David says, “I will bless the Lord at all times; His praise shall continually be in my mouth” (Psalm 34:1). However, he’s not content to be a solo act. He exhorts other believers to join him: “Exalt the Lord with me, and let’s exalt His name together” (Psalm 34:3).
So let’s praise Him at church on Sunday morning and on our front porches at sunset—when we start the workday and each evening as we lie down to rest. Also, let’s remember to praise Him not only for what He has done but also for the excellency of His character. God truly is worthy of our adoration!”
#psalm 150:1-6#praising god#praise and worship#praise the lord#god loves you#bible verses#bible truths#bible scriptures#bible quotes#bible study#studying the bible#the word of god#christian devotionals#daily devotions#bible#christian blog#god#belief in god#faith in god#jesus#belief in jesus#faith in jesus#christian prayer#christian life#christian living#christian faith#christian inspiration#christian encouragement#christian motivation#christianity
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S on BBC 4's Saturday Live: 'anything but a quiet life'
As you all know, S was today on BBC Four's Saturday Live radio talk show, sharing the scene with people like super male model David Gandy, Catrin Finch - a Welsh harpist of international repute and the ever fascinating Lucy Worsley, a strong contender (along with Mary Beard) for the title of personal favorite (living) historian.
You can listen (as I dutifully did twice) to it here: https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m001t96r. I don't know how to embed it on this page, but that shouldn't be a problem.
The show is always interesting and I strongly suggest to let it play along and not rely only on my summing up & comments. I particularly enjoyed Lucy Worsley's Medieval and Baroque musical selection (flawless!) - but enough said, we're here for S, who was live on show from BBC's London studios.
As usually, I am going to transcript it as much as I can, primarily for those reading this post and using Google Translate (@bat-cat-reader, you are served!). So, you will kindly excuse the length, thank you.
At the 07:40 mark, a half jocular mention when prompted by the host: not a cricketer and not a harpist either (you can say many things about S, but not that he's got no humor - always a big plus in my book). But then things quickly get emotional, when he immediately mentions his mother (the question generally asked was 'what did your parents sacrifice for you?'), who 'sacrificed a lot (...) [as] a single parent, (...) she gave us everything, I think'. And then he quickly gets emotional, mentioning Chrissie H. again:
'(...) can I give my mom a shoutout, it's her birthday, on Monday [Nikki Bedi, presenter: 'aww, of course you can!'], so happy birthday, Chrissie, and thank you so much and I wish... I'm glad you never got me a harp, because I would have never dedicated myself. I think that's why I became an actor, because I didn't have to work too hard at one thing.'
It's then David Gandy's turn to talk about his own rural childhood in Billericay (Essex), his close knit family and his parents' endeavor of building a business and the now incomprehensible need to use faxes, something he has now to 'explain to the younger ones'. Then Nikki Bedi turns to S (13:08): 'Sam's laughing at that. Do you remember faxes?' Answer: 'I do.. I mean, I remember faxes getting scripts through or couriers bringing you know, scripts to your door, it..it's just a completely different world, now, and I am sure the fashion world is completely different now, isn't it, David, I mean it's changed so much'.
Onwards to more questions asked by Mrs. Bedi. This one was interesting (19:16): 'Sam, do you fear that each job you do is an act that could be your last? Is that always in the back or front of your mind?' Answer: 'Yeah, I think.. David, I mean...um... earnestly, everything you're saying there kinda rings true for my career as well... I am sure for Catrin being, you know, being a musician, I think it's, you know [Nikki Bedi: is it true, Catrin? CF: yes, absolutely, yeah, many things David said... it's the same (...)'].
Huw Stevens mentions alternatives to 'gigs', the need to plan for the future and the fact 'you always have to remain busy', mentioning S's whisky. Gandy also mentions S ('you've got quite a few businesses [...] a man after my own heart, we'll then gonna have to go out'), immediately cued in by Nikki Bedi ('whisky, tequila, gin').
Just after Lucy Worsley's superb intervention (easily my favorite of the whole program!), cue in to the kilt on a glacier part of S's chit-chat I am sure we all dutifully 🙄, by now. I noted the slight hesitation in his voice, while mentioning 'my...my friend, Graham McTavish', so I will not - yeah, sue me-, I repeat: I will not transcript this verbatim, simply because it doesn't really bring anything new or important to what we all know, already. Sitting on a glacier 'in a kilt, in commando, yes, it's my claim to fame'. Disgruntled Tumblrettes, beware - he poked fun at himself (shall I sign this to you, or are you able to read my lips?) and that is something only very intelligent people are able to do without sounding pathetic. Another interesting thing is the way Nikki Bedi presented S ('the actor, award-winning liquor maker and writer'- 36:00), roughly midway of the whole broadcast.
His dedicated segment begins at the 49:10 mark and lasts until the end, about 10 minutes in all. He was introduced by Huw Stevens: "Sam Heughan, it seems, would like anything but a quiet life", plus some cursory bio elements, mentioning his mother's influence on his own creativity, his breakthrough as JAMMF, but also TCND (Nikki Bedi watches it and 'apparently the third episode is the most steamy' 🤦♀️). 'He is also a philanthropist, businessman and thrill seeker, and of course, as mentioned earlier, has his own whisky and is a best-selling author'. Mentions his 'parents, characterful people, hippies, in the Seventies, with a love for Tolkien'. S: 'my mum would probably kill me if I called her a hippie' - also, 'she is not the best singer, but there was always music around'. Stevens mentions the Gandalf's Garden Soho hippie community both his parents were a part of before he was born, but S doesn't develop it. The rest (difficult childhood, loner, using his imagination sparked his creativity, etc) we know from Waypoints. The very Scottish concept of 'stravaigin'' comes along in the conversation, which is not exactly a drifter and a bit more than a wanderer (if I understood correctly) - perhaps a good title for a second personal memoir, S? I'll leave this idea float in here for free, heh. OL comes along then, and by far the most interesting thing he mentioned about it is that "it is my life, it's taken over my life', hoping it would sparkle at least some conversation in the comments' thread. OL 'has also been hugely beneficial for Scotland, increased tourism by 200% in some locations (...), and it's all down to the magic of Scotland'.
Next projects: exciting not to really know what is next, but 'I am also saying no to a lot, because I am in a place now where I think the next decision is really important (...). I enjoy being in control now (....), producing my own shows and you know, my own products. (...) once you take control of that creativity (....) there's a lot of freedom and yeah, we shall see'.
And then Huw Stevens makes a joke - but was it really a joke? it's the BBC, after all - and says that all four of the guests could contribute something to what 'could be the next generation of Bond', (S: 'the finest British production'). Cue in an anecdote about S being invited to present an event to Buckingham Palace and taking a cab to a pub, right afterwards. MPC and tomorrow's book signing at Saint Pancras station wrap off the show.
Quickly, my 50 cents on it: way, way better than expected and S always delivers when they ask no weird questions about his private life (hallelujah, maybe they listen to us, after all?). The question about the fear of each job being the last reminded me of one of his answers in a very early interview: 'your biggest fear? getting the sack'. This time, his answer, whatever he intended to say, got lost in the brouhaha, but I suspect not much has changed, essentially, even if the 'after OL' part of the show strives to tell a more optimistic story.
But the thing that impressed me the most and in a very good way is the attention he got from all the other people invited in that studio. Unlike the social nobodies of Tumblr, they did not find bizarre the fact that he created his own spirits business and is actively promoting it. They were far from judging him: in fact, I even think he made a new friend of David Gandy, who had quite positive and nice and honest things to say about him. S was articulate and graceful and very moving every single time he mentioned Chrissie. And I am also sure he would have loved to share more things, especially when David was lovingly talking about his wife and daughters. But he couldn't. And that is a shame. But this too, shall pass - The Boy is slowly learning to say no to a lot of things, as he just let us know. Probably the best news we've got from him in a good while.
And now, onwards to a particularly venomous Anon I am still pondering the answer to.
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Silly things Bertie did pre Jeeves
drunkenly bycled naked around Oxford and sang songs
once, possibly multiple times, (also in Oxford) got drunk, thought himself a mermaid and wanted to jump in the fountain and play the harp
Bertie definitely (maybe) was a bit gay with his pal Harold P. Pinker "Stinker Pinker", he Compares their relationship to David and Jonathan from the Bible (suspected gay, biblically in love) & spends lottss of time describing his skill, figure, and their closeness
Bertie definitely (maybe) was a bit gay with "Kipper Herring", he once again describes his appearance in detail. They've been friends since prep school (elementary) & has lunch with him often even post Jeeves
Bertie definitely (maybe) was a bit gay with Ginger. He Compares them to Damon & Pythais which was at one point (late 1800s/early 1900s) was used as code for gay couples. Spends much time on appearances & missed him sorely when he moved away. They're rooms were adjacent in Oxford, where they met.
Bertie was definitely (maybe) a bit gay with most of his school friends. Catsmeat and Boko stick out to me as some others
stole biscuits and cigars from his old Schoolmaster's house many times (he was chased out one occasion)
Was a boyscout when he was very little
Won a scripture prize (mentions this all the fucking time Jesus Christ)
Won a blue ribbon in Choir Boys Bike Race Handicap bc a kid dropped out to fight someone mid race and Bertie had been granted a large headstart
Won a blue ribbon in tennis
Participated in boat racing (he dislikes it)
Won best collection of pressed wildflowers as a boy
Took a dance class with Catsmeat's sister and socked her when she made fun of his pimples (which he apparently had lots of at 8 years old)
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I can't wait for the husbands to finally have a life where they get to do "boring" every day human stuff. They retire to a cottage in the Downs and Crowley digs a whole garden by hand and fumbles through growing vegetables, learning that you can't yell at potatoes because they're just naturally stubborn and will smother their row neighbors with their roots no matter how much you threaten them.
They both learn how to cook but Crowley finds he's quite good at it (even if he uses a teensy miracle to make sure nothing burns again) and always wants to cook because we all know how he loves feeding his angel.
Aziraphale maybe working part time at the local library and taking his time shelving books and drinking tea so he doesn't have to get on those awful computers to use their digital catalog system. He also teaches the local students who visit about the Dewey Decimal Classification and starts a petition on the community board to put it back in place, in an actual card system as it should be. The only signatures on it are his and Crowley's (a reluctant participant but wants to support his husband's causes no matter how cringe).
Aziraphale dragging Crowley to one of those Paint and Sip parties where you paint the same thing and drink wine. Crowley only goes for the wine and, already being a talented painter, recreates a likeness of Francis Bacon's "Pope Innocent X" while everyone else paints a daisy in a vase.
Crowley stalling in taking out the garbage even though Aziraphale has been harping on him to do it all day, and he finally takes it out to the bin at one in the morning only to be accosted by a pack of raccoons because he forgot to close the bin lid the night before.
They prefer to stay in most nights, as they did at the bookshop but now they have a huge TV and watch old films or yet another David Attenborough special or yet another cooking program. Crowley usually falls asleep with his head on Aziraphale's lap because he always strokes his hair when he's laying there and Aziraphale gets to think of all the times that he resisted things like this as there were ample opportunities. This wasn't the first time Crowley fell asleep with his head in his lap, but now he can sit there and play with his husband's hair to his heart's content as his husband snores to where he can't hear the TV.
Aziraphale doesn't care that they skipped a honeymoon phase and went straight to retired married couple. They got to do it together. It took a few thousand years and a lot of patience and lots of time devoted to sitting down and finally talking. After 6000 years of heartache, stress, running, and hiding...the reward for their faith and love for each other brought them to a cozy cottage.
Their cottage. Their car (yes, it is). Their quiet life. Their "boring" life that still carries a bit of celestial magic that keeps their spark alive. That keeps their marriage like new every day, even in their new routines of living.
Crowley usually stirs himself awake from his loud snoring and smiles up at his angel. "Is it bedtime yet?"
Aziraphale glances at the old grandfather clock by the hallway. It's 8:30pm. He smiles and strokes his husband's cheek. "Sure...why not?"
#don't mind me I'm just putting my fluffy head canons out into the universe#good omens#good omens season 2 spoilers#good omens season 2#south downs cottage#south down retirement#ineffable husbands
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Wanted to pop-in with a little correction about Lucifer wanting to usurp God, being prideful, temping Adam and Eve, falling, the works.
Biblically speaking, that's actually conflating 3 separate characters who not only aren't even the same entity, none of them are the same species.
Lucifer was not a fallen angel, but rather a human. An incredibly prideful human who saw himself as above others and at the level of the heavens (as many kings and pharaohs did in those days, seeing themselves as manifestations of the divine), but a human nonetheless. The king of Babylon, to be precise. Remember that point in The Prince of Egypt where Rameses says "I am the morning and the evening star, if I say day will be night it shall be written"? Same basic idea. Pharaohs and kings in those days saw themselves as commanding a divine right over others. Lucifer was just a particularly cruel one who didn't treat his people with respect.
From Isaiah 14, verses 3 through 20:
3 On the day the Lord gives you relief from your suffering and turmoil and from the harsh labor forced on you, 4 you will take up this taunt against the king of Babylon: How the oppressor has come to an end! How his fury has ended! 5 The Lord has broken the rod of the wicked, the scepter of the rulers, 6 which in anger struck down peoples with unceasing blows, and in fury subdued nations with relentless aggression. 7 All the lands are at rest and at peace; they break into singing. 8 Even the junipers and the cedars of Lebanon gloat over you and say, “Now that you have been laid low, no one comes to cut us down.” 9 The realm of the dead below is all astir to meet you at your coming; it rouses the spirits of the departed to greet you— all those who were leaders in the world; it makes them rise from their thrones— all those who were kings over the nations. 10 They will all respond, they will say to you, “You also have become weak, as we are; you have become like us.” 11 All your pomp has been brought down to the grave, along with the noise of your harps; maggots are spread out beneath you and worms cover you. 12 How you have fallen from heaven, morning star, son of the dawn! You have been cast down to the earth, you who once laid low the nations! 13 You said in your heart, “I will ascend to the heavens; I will raise my throne above the stars of God; I will sit enthroned on the mount of assembly, on the utmost heights of Mount Zaphon. 14 I will ascend above the tops of the clouds; I will make myself like the Most High.”(edited)
15 But you are brought down to the realm of the dead, to the depths of the pit. 16 Those who see you stare at you, they ponder your fate: “Is this the man who shook the earth and made kingdoms tremble, 17 the man who made the world a wilderness, who overthrew its cities and would not let his captives go home?” 18 All the kings of the nations lie in state, each in his own tomb. 19 But you are cast out of your tomb like a rejected branch; you are covered with the slain, with those pierced by the sword, those who descend to the stones of the pit. Like a corpse trampled underfoot, 20 you will not join them in burial, for you have destroyed your land and killed your people.
The metaphor of a “star” is used in referring prophetically to the Davidic kings of Judah (Nu 24:17), and if you look into Bible history, the Babylonian dynasty for a time did rise above these Judean kings by conquest of Jerusalem. A similar prophecy in Daniel chapter 8 describes the small “horn” of some future power as trampling down certain stars of “the army of the heavens” and moving against the Prince of the army and his sanctuary (Da 8:9-13)". So human kings being seen as stars was a rather common metaphor.
Satan was an angel who was God's prosecuting attorney in Job, who fell from Heaven in the New Testament for unknown reasons, likely because by the New Testament God was getting out of his "I control all good and evil and demand you slaughter these nonbelievers to show my power" phase, so there needed to be another to be the new evil with God being seen as all good. And when Satan did fall, he was cast down to Earth, not Hell. He wasn't cast down to Hell until Revelation (by which point centuries from Genesis Satan and the serpent were seen as the same by that time), but Revelation was just an acid-trip of a metaphor for Christian persecution under the Roman Empire anyway.
And the serpent? In Genesis it was just a crafty serpent who was described as being "the craftiest out of all the beasts of the field the Lord God had made". And it was declared in the Genesis story as being cursed to slither on the ground, likely as a way of explaining why snakes slither and have vestigial legs.
There's plenty of interesting things you could do with Lucifer, Satan, and the serpent. Make them all the same guy. Make them all different. Make Lucifer Satan's jealous rival who wants to usurp him in Hell and has the serpent as a talking animal sidekick. There's a lot you can do with it.
But Lucifer should be prideful. Whether you go with him being a human, an angel, the devil, something, his pride his always consistent. Or should be. You'd think it would be in Viv's universe, since he's the King of the Pride Ring.
Except he's just... not. So why did Viv even make him the King of Pride in the first place if he doesn't have a prideful bone in his body. He's more like P. T. Barnum in The Greatest Showman than anything else.
Man, I'm as agnostic as they come but Biblical lore is nuts. So many opportunities and Viv ran with approximately none of them.
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Detail and full picture.
King David playing music in the altarpiece of Sant Vicenç church in the village of Espinelves, Central Catalonia. It was painted around the year 1187.
The altarpiece is dedicated to the Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus. On the top left, the scene represents the Three Wise Men and the shooting star they followed to bring presents to Jesus; on the top right, Jesus' entrance to Jerusalem. The bottom row represents the 6 prophets who foresaw the arrival of the Messiah: Isaiah, Jeremiah, David, Ezequiel, Daniel and Zachariah.
King David is often represented playing music because of his devotion to the arts. He is said to be the author of psalms, dance in front of the Ark of the Covenant, and play the lyre, the harp and the zither.
Museu Episcopal de Vic. Detail photo by Romànic Català.
#arts#pintura#medieval#middle ages#romanesque#romànic#catalan romanesque#art#painting#art history#europe#catalunya#travel#espinelves#wanderlust#historical#violin
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One thing I keep asking myself now in relation to Ahsoka is: does Filoni like samurai films? Does he have thoughts about any of them? And if he does, why isn't any of it in the show?
Like, regardless of anyone's views on The Last Jedi, Rian Johnson engaged with the genre. Rather than just pull from things that had already been used by Star Wars, he explored. He understood the themes of Rashomon and Three Outlaw Samurai, and understood why those films work. You can tell that he has a relationship to and appreciation for the material. He borrows Rashomon's "three versions of the story" and echoing that film, the truth lands in a murky in-between exposes a critical error by a character, but also incites them to an act of real moral courage. The energy of Three Outlaw Samurai, meanwhile, comes through in the slovenly DJ and the frantic, scrappy melee combat.
In the same way, Andor and Rogue One are applying more than just the aesthetics of espionage thrillers and modern war movies to SW (also they understood what those aesthetics are for). For that matter, TCW's Umbara arc used Vietnam War film nods pretty well.
The Mandalorian, I think, has increasingly lost the sense of having anything to say with its Western elements, and in Ahsoka it's even more frustrating. Characters pose with their lightsabers in ways that mimick the likes of Toshiro Mifune, there are musical echoes, the framing vaguely evokes those films at times... yet it stops there, at the surface. They're not doing anything more than The Jedi borrowing frames from Yojimbo back in Mando S2. It begins to feel performative, doing homage to the things which influenced Lucas because they influenced Lucas (and missing the fact that Lucas adored these films because they are terrific works of art).
And that doesn't even get into how much of Kurosawa's actual style isn't imitated at all here. Kineticism, the thing which the master did better than basically anyone else, is pretty much absent, let alone his dramatic use of weather and smoke.
The reason I'm harping on about this is that Filoni and his writers room could really have made hay if they dug into these stories, because they would've found themes that informed the story they were ostensibly setting out to tell. Plenty of Kurosawa films are about ronin (sometimes left masterless by a war that destroyed their clans) and their ambiguous, often fraught relationships with the rest of the world.
Seven Samurai, Yojimbo and Sanjuro all get into this stuff. The former also asks searching questions about what place there is for a warrior in a land at peace, which Masaki Kobayashi's Harakiri explores through a much darker and more cynical lens. All of that feels extremely applicable to an Ahsoka who is meant to be scarred by her experiences and feels a gap in her life, where so much of the Jedi's traditional role as peacekeepers and protectors was meant to go. (There is a similar struggle at the heart of David Kirk's wonderful Musashi Miyamoto novels).
But instead we end up with this very shallow attempt at doing homage, which comes out as rather disrespectful in itself when you break it down.
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Quiet morning in Kaer Morhen.
[ID: Digital painting of Jaskier and Geralt in a room in Kaer Morhen. Geralt is lying on a large stone windowsill with his sword in his hand, leaning on his elbow, looking down at Jaskier who is sitting cross-legged on the floor, bare-chest, playing a harp. Both are barefoot and look relaxed.]
Based on Julius Kronberg’s David och Saul (under the cut).
#the witcher#jaskier#geralt of rivia#geraskier#geraskier fanart#geralt of rivia fanart#jaskier fanart#the witcher fanart#echo's drawings#beautiful art#digital art
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Instrument HCS for the Mates!!
Sweetheart plays the keytar
Can sing too
Tap dancing/dancing in general
Yes (do you get the vision- PLEASE GET THE VISION ARGHHSHS)
Them jamming out on the keytar, probs singing some old song they learned from Marie that she loves, Milo secretly recording
They love synthpop, disco, alternative rock etc etc
They also play the piano very well (CHIQUITITAS ENDING ARGSJH)
They dance so well with those little clackers/castanets (HISPANIC SH WOO)
They have an accent in their speaking voice and its barely heard when they sing
Angel with the tambourine, weirdly gives me tambourine vibes, also harp
They sometimes strum their fingers on the harp string too hard and David is immediately there to help, no questions asked
They can also go hard on the drums its crazy
Backing vocals, has an (ironic) angelic voice, breathy and sweet
They like jazz, has written a few songs that they keep to themself
They have those boots that make a hard noise on the ground, act like a drum/bass, they love to dance around
Learning acoustic guitar with David
Babe has an electric guitar but is rusty, its gathering dust somewhere in their place with Asher
Hasn't played in years
Played the accordian as a kid
Has a deep speaking voice but light singing voice than SH and Angel
Can play the hand drum/bongos
Picked up the violin and cello
Asher saw them waxing their violin and went "Oooo, you can play me like a fiddle-" "ITS A VIOLIN"
Has played for Asher before, he loves it
Sam, as confirmed, cannot square dance
Can also play piano
Will start singing if he's drunk enough
Trombone. 👍🏽
Flute kid, he likes woodwinds
Was gifted an ocarina by Asher one Christmas, has done his hardest to learn it
Has a pan flute from when he was a Freelancer, always keeps it clean and in good condition
The Mate band's name would be smth like BASS (get it... Babe, Angel, Sweetheart, Sam- yeah ok)
ABBA inspired name bc of well, ABBA
#redacted audio#redacted asmr#redactedverse#redacted milo#redacted sweetheart#redacted wolf boys#redacted shaw pack#redacted marie#marie greer#redacted milo greer#redacted asher#redacted david#redacted sam#redacted babe#redacted angel
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MORE Prime Defenders Band AU head cannons
- Ashe has a room in the house just like his dad but for his music, writing and recording
- Ashes room holds three gorgeous guitars he loves deeply but will never replace his prized bass
- Vyncents mom tried to teach him to play the harp,, it wasn't the best attempt but he bought a miniature one to practice whenever he misses home
- In Fauna Vyncent has a large collection of handcrafted instruments and when they went snagged a few to bring back to his new home
- Dakotas parents put him in drum lessons when he was little, he's sort of a pro :))
- Dakota is also learning keyboard from Vyncent, he's very excited
- Dakota wants to learn a wind instrument eventually but shhhh it's a secret
- William was a classics kid, his brother taught him the cello and he played it in his school orchestra program
- William also played the organ at his church before he stopped going in DeadWood
- David accidentally damaged Wills old acoustic guitar when slamming a door in an argument so he only has an electric guitar now
#jrwi#just roll with it#just roll with it prime defenders#jrwi pd#prime defenders band au#music talk?#they're amazing i love them#jrwi dakota#dakota cole#ashe winters#jrwi ashe#jrwi william#william wisp#vyncent sol#jrwi vyncent
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Bigger, Scarier, More Teeth
Paleontology is, by its very nature, a very speculative science. For most of its history, we've only had fragmentary remains of ancient animals that sometimes have no easy modern day counterpart to compare with. Of course, the field is also good at self correcting these errors, which means our image of dinosaurs and other prehistoric creatures is constantly evolving. While admittedly we may never know with 100% accuracy what these animals were like, we can certainly narrow down and tweak our perception to come up with the closest possible image.
Then...there's instances where dinosaurs were deliberately modified. Not a case of misidentification mind you. Cases where the animal was physically altered in order to seem more impressive or threatening.
Case in point: the Giganotosaurus from Jurassic World Dominion. One of the most recent examples, the Giga was depicted with a row of spines running along its crocodilian esque back. Naturally, we have no evidence of these in actual specimens and was probably added to make the final big carnivore of the series look more threatening.
Admittedly I'm not gonna harp on too hard about this since there is a difference between a fictional portrayal and something that's supposed to be accurate and the Jurassic Park series isn't really known for its accuracy. This is honestly just a bench mark for what we're working with and a notable and recent example.
What's a bit more headscratching when said altering happens in more scientific portrayals of dinosaurs.
Take shrinkwrapping for example. For decades, shrinkwrapping was the standard fair in portraying dinosaurs. What it involved was basically showing visible bone structures underneath the skin of the animal.
The results were...
...basically skeletons with skin stretched over them.
The idea, as pointed out by Mark P. Witton in the link above, is not just to portray them as fast, agile, bird like animals, but also matching a popular but inaccurate depiction:
Secondly, images of prehistoric animals as heroically-built, powerful beings are preferred by many merchandisers and palaeoart fans, these interpretations most closely matching the erroneous but popular portrayal of prehistory as a savage struggle for survival, where only the most powerful animals survived.
Thing was, these depictions completely ignored the muscle and tissue underneath the skin which gives the animals more bulk in favor of portraying them as more intimidating. Which in retrospect didn't work since if a dinosaur looked shrink-wrapped in real life, it probably was starving, ill, or basically on the verge of death.
In contrast, there are some artists that go the complete opposite direction. As is the case with David Peters and his...unique look at pterosaurs.
David Peters, a once respected independent researcher and artist, once claimed that he was able to identify hidden features and anatomical structures in pterosaur remains that no-one else had been able to identify. These include elongated fleshy crests, spines, and extravagant feathers.
The results speak for themselves. It's almost astonishing that anybody would think that any animal could even fly with that amount of extra weight and protrusions.
Now while we can poke fun at paleoart all day, the thing is that altered dinosaurs or other prehistoric animals aren't just restricted to art alone. There have been cases where specimens themselves have been altered to look more impressive.
Such is the case with Irritator challengeri, a spinosaurid first discovered in Brazil, South America in 1996. While the original specimen is noted for having one of the most complete skulls of any spinosaurid anywhere, its name is referring to a much more...interesting background.
Irritator wasn't actually discovered by scientists. It was purchased from a fossil dealer which made its way to Germany’s Stuttgart State Museum of the Natural Sciences. In this case, material from the back of the skull had been removed, and placed on the tip of the snout, making the skull appear longer. Presumably this was to make the specimen more marketable. Paleontologist David Martill and his team had to painstakingly remove the altered bit of the snout and restore them to their original location. It was such a pain, they eventually named the species Irritator due to the difficulty of removing and reattaching the material without damaging the specimen.
But even the case of Irritator is nowhere near the levels of altering than the case of Archaeoraptor. AKA: the dinosaur that was completely made up.
Like with Irritator, the Archaeoraptor specimen was an altered fossil (also known as a chimera) sold on the fossil market. Though instead of a single specimen, it was several individuals put together to create a complete product that would sell for a much higher price. Smuggled out of China and sold in the US for $80,000 USD during 1999, it ended up in the hands of amateur dinosaur enthusiast Stephen Czerkas who wanted it to be the centerpiece of his museum in Blanding, Utah. Working with noted paleontologist Phil Currie and Chris Sloane of the National Geographic magazine, they determined that the specimen was the long sought-after missing link between dinosaurs and birds. A groundbreaking discovery like this would've revolutionized the field. So much so the magazine did a story on it and christened it Archaeoraptor even before a more formal study could be conducted.
The result: a complete disaster and embarrassment to both paleontology and National Geographic when it was revealed to be a hoax. Creationists had a field day, practically tearing the reveal apart and used it as evidence against paleontologists and their work. The zeal for the missing link resulted in an absolute blunder for science.
Ironically though, it's now believed that the two species used in the specimen belong to Yanornis (an early bird) and the famous Microraptor, both of which are stronger contenders for the title of "missing-link".
Here's a link to an excellent video by Dino Diego that goes into detail if you're interested: The Bizarre Archaeoraptor Hoax - YouTube
Needless to say, the field of paleontology is full of fabrications and falsehoods. And more often than not it's difficult to truly pick out what's real and what isn't. Which is a problem since it draws into question the validity of both research done by paleontologists, the work of paleoartists, and the very specimens themselves. Naturally it should come to no surprise that researchers need to be diligent in how dinosaurs and other prehistoric animals are portrayed and studied. Especially when sensation overcomes the truth many work so hard to find.
#dinosaur#dinosaurs#paleontology#paleoart#paleomedia#long post#giganotosaurus#shrinkwrapping#david peters#pterosaurs#irritator#archaeoraptor#fossil market#fossils#fossil chimera#feel free to check out the sources for more details
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Ignoring his inflammatory rhetoric, do you think Bernie's *POLICIES* are actually that extreme? I've read them over and, if he had a softer approach, they seem like they'd be sound policies to me
The problem with Bernie is that it's hard to know, in actual practice/reality, what his policies are. Yes, on paper, everyone knows what they are, and it's not a week if he's not writing yet another op-ed in the Guardian about Workers' Rights or Climate Justice or whatever. But like.... what good does that do anyone? Everyone who reads the Guardian probably agrees with those things already, and that includes me -- I read it, I financially support it, etc., but it's not where I come for policy actions or where I want to see US senators spending all their time. (Like, Bernie, aren't there other people you could be talking to, who could actually do something about this?) It's the definition of preaching to the choir, where he's regurgitating a boilerplate piece of progressive ideology but not actually doing anything about it or attempting to reach an audience who doesn't already agree with him. (Plus the Guardian, unfortunately, is always also willing to let his ex-campaign manager, David Sirota, bash the Democrats for something, but never mind that.)
Likewise, Bernie's actual voting record in the Senate isn't always a match with the things for which he has (very loudly) advocated, and he's a multi-millionaire old white man from Vermont (one of the whitest states in the Union) who has often seemed interested in preaching socialism for everyone else but resisting any scrutiny or participation in that for himself. He has gotten a lot of mileage and built a disproportionately influential political career out of championing so-called leftist progressivism/socialism, but as I keep saying about him, he never seems to do anything about it. "Tax billionaires" or "save the planet" are extremely broad-brush statements that everyone in the liberal camp can mostly agree on. And no, I wouldn't say those positions are particularly extreme; they're pretty much mainstream Democratic ideology at this point. Indeed, I think Bernie gets unwarranted traction out of positioning himself as the "radical" alternative to the Democrats, when most of the things he says are now basically part of the party platform and have been adopted or explored in some shape or form. Just because they can't actually be implemented at the moment, whether due to legislative roadblocks or otherwise, doesn't mean that they're not moving in that direction.
Likewise, Bernie's favorite hobbyhorse of Medicare for All is often used by his fans to irrationally bash the Democrats, as if we don't have universal healthcare -> quod erat demonstrandum, Democrats Are Neoliberal Shills. I've written many posts about the state of the healthcare debate in America and how passing even a much-watered-down Affordable Care Act cost Obama control of Congress for pretty much the rest of his presidency. So if Bernie and co. want to offer a roadmap for how to pass another major healthcare reform/overhaul that goes even further than the ACA -- trust me, everyone's listening and wants to know how to do that. That is neither extreme nor particularly, at least among Democrats, controversial in the way it was in 2009, when we still had Blue Dog Democrats in red states like Nebraska and South Dakota. But a) we have the united fascist bloc of Republicans who would object and obstruct it on principle, and b) we DON'T have enough Democrats to just pass it by fiat and have that be the end, because that's not the way things have worked in the history of anything.
So basically: if progressives want to endlessly harp on the Democrats for not magically pulling Medicare for All out of a hat, they're welcome to do that if, and only if, they can produce a credible policy/platform/program of action to actually get it passed that the Democrats could be following and aren't (and "they don't care enough about this and could fix it if they wanted!" is not that). That way, they could actually show that the reform is empirically possible and the Democrats are not carrying it out. But flatly ignoring all the political realities and blaming them for not producing a miracle in an extremely adverse legislative and political climate does not count as good-faith engagement and isn't directed toward any constructive end. It's just performative gesturing to show that they are Better Than The Establishment, something something something, and Bernie is usually one of the chief offenders in this regard, despite actually being part of the Establishment for decades.
I will give Bernie credit for two things: he has voted for all the major Democratic legislative packages with the relative minimum of selfish hostage-taking/sabotaging such as that carried out constantly by Manchin and Sinema, and he quickly shut down any talk of running (yet fucking again) in 2024, in order to support Biden's re-election bid. But as far as policies go, he's still not shown me that he either has a concrete plan to carry them out, that he knows what they are aside from broad-brush, vague and general talking points, or that he will put in the work to get them achieved, so yeah.
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First things first, these articles are harping on about him being Superman and The Witcher which he isn’t any more. Like it or not it’s David Corenswet and Liam Hemsworth. Not Henry anymore. These are the only titles that give him relevancy in tabloids because now he has nothing else and no one knows him, just the roles he played - That’s what gets clicks.
Every article recently speaking on it since Henry and Natalie showed the bump in a very public, multiple pap walks have reached out to his team and they have all refused to comment. He’s refused to comment. But he’s commented on previous relationship via reps before. With Tara, Lucy, Gina for much less serious matters. Why? It’s already out there and not private from both their actions. Can’t he just tell his team to say ‘we’re excited for our next chapter’ like he’s done on social media many times before easily and happily? He knew it would be coming. He’s been in the industry for years, and knows how PR works.
Instead it’s a no/refuse to comment from him. Too late now to be private about the baby. Why does he not want to speak on something he has wanted for so long, with the woman he loves. Even a simple ‘yay’ comment would’ve took no effort. Strange. 🤷🏾♀️
#henry cavill#natalie viscuso#hollywood#opinion#relationship#the witcher#celebrity#celebrity gossip#actor#superman#pregnancy
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Brave black crow," she mocked. "Well, long before he was king over the free folk, Bael was a great raider."
Stonesnake gave a snort. "A murderer, robber, and raper, is what you mean."- Jon(ACOK VI).
Replace Bael with Rhaegar. It's basically Lyanna and Rhaegar story. Like Bael, some considered Rhaegar loved Lyanna while others claim him rapist. Ygritte also told Jon that every lady fall in love with Bael in his songs and his truth is different from theirs
Most interestingly Jon considered Bael a liar and he was surprised that the Stark girl loved him. Personally I hate both Bael and Rhaegar.
(about this ask)
Oh, I hate Rhaegar too 😂 However, I think how we feel about characters/plot developments is a distinct category from speculation/what we think Martin is saying. The best part of his series is that he wants each character's POV to feel true to who they are, for each to shade our understanding. So, I agree with you that Rhaegar could be substituted for Bael here, but I think it makes sense that Ygritte would have one view, a Northman another, to clearly illustrate and maintain the conflict of the cultures (that is elaborated on via Jon and Ygritte's relationship), and from that I conclude that we, the readers, are expected to develop a more nuanced understanding as a result of the conflicting views, not conclude that one of the other is entirely correct.
And, if the goal is to understand where Martin is going, we should take the new revelations regarding Rhaegar seriously. Robert’s version is evil rapist, Ned’s thoughts make that difficult to believe, Dany’s vision makes us realize, oh, not lust driven, prophecy driven, and then we have Bran’s and Meera’s convo which starts to (maybe) contradict the Lyanna as an abductee narrative and suggest, maybe she was enamored with Rhaegar’s singing as Martin starts to indicate, all women were? I guess I think it’s worth the effort to pay attention to the wrinkles Martin is introducing into the story.
Also, I can’t remember if I’ve seen a meta on this, but Rhaegar is a little Biblical David-y, what with the harp playing, the paranoid king, going after someone else’s wife (betrothed), and of course, everyone recognizes Jon as a take on a Christ figure, which fits with that reading too, so I kinda…feel like Martin is likely wanting to say more, not less, with his version. That doesn’t mean justifying his actions ofc. I would think Jon will be appalled when he learns the truth.
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Nehemiah Dedicates the Wall
27 Now at the dedication of the wall of Jerusalem they sought out the Levites in all their places, to bring them to Jerusalem to celebrate the dedication with gladness, both with thanksgivings and singing, with cymbals and stringed instruments and harps. 28 And the sons of the singers gathered together from the countryside around Jerusalem, from the villages of the Netophathites, 29 from the house of Gilgal, and from the fields of Geba and Azmaveth; for the singers had built themselves villages all around Jerusalem. 30 Then the priests and Levites purified themselves, and purified the people, the gates, and the wall.
31 So I brought the leaders of Judah up on the wall, and appointed two large thanksgiving choirs. One went to the right hand on the wall toward the Refuse Gate. 32 After them went Hoshaiah and half of the leaders of Judah, 33 and Azariah, Ezra, Meshullam, 34 Judah, Benjamin, Shemaiah, Jeremiah, 35 and some of the priests’ sons with trumpets—Zechariah the son of Jonathan, the son of Shemaiah, the son of Mattaniah, the son of Michaiah, the son of Zaccur, the son of Asaph, 36 and his brethren, Shemaiah, Azarel, Milalai, Gilalai, Maai, Nethanel, Judah, and Hanani, with the musical instruments of David the man of God. And Ezra the scribe went before them. 37 By the Fountain Gate, in front of them, they went up the stairs of the City of David, on the stairway of the wall, beyond the house of David, as far as the Water Gate eastward.
38 The other thanksgiving choir went the opposite way, and I was behind them with half of the people on the wall, going past the Tower of the Ovens as far as the Broad Wall, 39 and above the Gate of Ephraim, above the Old Gate, above the Fish Gate, the Tower of Hananel, the Tower of the Hundred, as far as the Sheep Gate; and they stopped by the Gate of the Prison.
40 So the two thanksgiving choirs stood in the house of God, likewise I and the half of the rulers with me; 41 and the priests, Eliakim, Maaseiah, Minjamin, Michaiah, Elioenai, Zechariah, and Hananiah, with trumpets; 42 also Maaseiah, Shemaiah, Eleazar, Uzzi, Jehohanan, Malchijah, Elam, and Ezer. The singers sang loudly with Jezrahiah the director.
43 Also that day they offered great sacrifices, and rejoiced, for God had made them rejoice with great joy; the women and the children also rejoiced, so that the joy of Jerusalem was heard afar off.
Temple Responsibilities
44 And at the same time some were appointed over the rooms of the storehouse for the offerings, the firstfruits, and the tithes, to gather into them from the fields of the cities the portions specified by the Law for the priests and Levites; for Judah rejoiced over the priests and Levites who ministered. 45 Both the singers and the gatekeepers kept the charge of their God and the charge of the purification, according to the command of David and Solomon his son. 46 For in the days of David and Asaph of old there were chiefs of the singers, and songs of praise and thanksgiving to God. 47 In the days of Zerubbabel and in the days of Nehemiah all Israel gave the portions for the singers and the gatekeepers, a portion for each day. They also consecrated holy things for the Levites, and the Levites consecrated them for the children of Aaron.
— Nehemiah 12:27-47 | New King James Version (NKJV)
The Holy Bible; New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. All rights reserved.
Cross References: Numbers 1:8; Numbers 18:21; Deuteronomy 18:8; Deuteronomy 20:5; 1 Kings 8:63; 2 Kings 7:10; 2 Kings 14:13; 1 Chronicles 6:40; 1 Chronicles 9:16; 1 Chronicles 9:33; 1 Chronicles 25:1; 2 Chronicles 8:14; 2 Chronicles 29:30; Ezra 3:11; Nehemiah 2:13-14; Nehemiah 13:4-5; Nehemiah 3:8; Nehemiah 3:11; Nehemiah 3:15; Nehemiah 3:26; Nehemiah 11:23; Nehemiah 13:10; Nehemiah 13:22; Nehemiah 13:30; Psalm 9:2; Psalm 92:4; Psalm 137:4; John 5:2
#Jerusalem#wall#dedication#service#Temple#provision#Nehemiah 12:27-47#Book of Nehemiah#Old Testament#NKJV#New King James Version Bible#Thomas Nelson
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