#it was like comparing table salt and sea salt

[swaggypsyduck]

i did a small survey at uni today and showed mason mout and declan rice to 2 different groups of women (ages 19-22). both groups are women in stem. anyways my current findings are:

10/20 voted mason mount: of those 8.5/10 were white canadian, 1.5/10 were chinese

8/20 voted declan rice: 8/8 were women of colour; 4 arabs (2 yemeni, 1 syrian, and 1 palestinian), 1 korean, and 2 black women (both from somalia)

2/20 made their own box and voted "girl bffr where is the melanin": 2/2 were black women (1 rawandan and 1 camaroonian)

19/20 were born and raised in canada. 1/20 was born and raised in the uk (the syrian woman)

the photos i used are as followed:

mason mount:

declan rice:

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Immortal (Ghost x Medic!Reader Pt. 3)

"The path to paradise begins in hell."

— Dante Alighieri

Word count: 5.5 k

Summary: He knows now why he always returns to her. It's because he was injured. Badly, severely, life-threateningly injured – no, he was already deceased. What kind of a medic has the power to resurrect the dead? (Last part of Ghost stories.)

Tags/warnings: 18+ only. Angst, fluff, smut. Protective!Simon Ghost Riley. Graphic depictions of PTSD, suicidal thoughts and depression, mild violence. Emotional sex, love confessions, happy ending. Ghost POV.

"You can't come here, lieutenant. Not unless you're injured."

No one has ever scolded him.

He's the one who whips people into shape, who makes them recall who and where they are, that Task Force 141 is no place for fuckery. Now he's the one being reminded of his place. 

Somehow it's ok to bring her flowers before dinner, but ever since he started to bring her coffee to get an excuse to see her at work, she began to shut down. He can fuck her doggy style at her place, but if he so much as lifts his mask to kiss the back of her neck at her office, she bats him away like an annoying fly.

And he's fucking confused.

He thought he was doing the right thing. He thought that women like to be courted. Now he's standing in the middle of her apartment, waiting for… he doesn't even know what. Pardon, perhaps.

"Why do you always call me lieutenant?"

"Well I can't call you Simon at work, can I?"

She's chaste and decent. Has been like that for a while now, retreating back to her role of a distant professional. 

Something's troubling her, and he tries to get to the bottom of it. Tries his best to cheer her up, even if it's absurd that someone like him attempts to do that.

"Y'could use the alias."

"I'm not going to call you that."

She reads Virgil while making it clear that he's quite ridiculous. A ghost. It must remind her of a children's book rather than something stealthy and fatal; to her, it's a grown man's sad attempt to play a superhero.

"Did you come up with the name yourself?" Her voice has a whiff of irony as she finally spares him a glance from her hard-cover poetry.

"...No," he lies, too soon. Far too soon. She catches him on it, pants down.

"You're a silly, silly man." She shakes her head slowly and returns to her book. Last week, it was Dante who had better things to offer, far better things compared to him – such as a more poetic depiction of hell.

But even with the distant aura he can't quite pierce, she gives him a concept of what it would be like to have a home. A real home where you don't have to dread the evening and everything it brings out in people. Even when he was doing the SAS Fan Dance and lying on the cold ground to have a compulsory 2-hour shut-eye, he never missed home. The weather-beaten trail and a flapping tarp were still a cosier place than the one he'd left behind. 

The closest thing to an actual home was always solitude. A few days without routine. A cold shower in the morning to wake him, but not frigid enough to kill the erection. A good, unhurried fap and some stale spit circling down the drain. No one giving him a pitiful eye for tossing old takeaway in the bin and opening the cupboard only to be met with some canned food and table salt.

Now, the first thing in the morning is the sensation of her. Fingertips sneaking their way under his arm and ghosting his stomach, stirring him so softly he doesn't quite know if he's gone to heaven. Home is a sleepy nest and slow kisses followed by the sounds of brewing coffee. Home has become a place of mundane tasks: helping her water the plants and tasting whether the vanilla pudding she made has enough sugar. Changing sheets together, listening to the fitful sea as it breaks upon the shore. Watching how she reads of the Trojan War.

When he just stands there, admiring how her manicured nails glide over the pages, she talks to him again without raising her lashes from the book. 

"Did you need something?"

…You. All of you. 

Now and forever.

"Ya wanna go out to eat tonight?"

Finally, he grabs her attention. The distance between them is sewn up so fast even a jerk like him can understand he finally made the right fucking move.

"What about your… The mask?"

He shrugs.

"I thought you liked my cooking," she gives him a smile. Sly… Foxy.

"I do. But let me feed you for a change."

He sees in that stare and the way she purses her lips that she's trying to prevent a dirty joke from coming out of her pretty little mouth. As much as he appreciates that little cunning look, as much as he loves when that mouth gets a little dirty, he's more than serious now.

"Come on. Let me take you out."

"Well. If you insist," she smiles, shuts the book, and flies to her closet to pull out a stunner of a dress.

…..…..…..

Her fingertips always make his cock stir. They were supposed to go to sleep – a rare thing, to not slip inside her after a nice lil evening. To his surprise she starts to trace the few hairs on his stomach, threading through them as they thicken below. 

He can feel how she gets tense upon seeing that he's hard and heavy before she even reaches there. But she's not tense from anticipation.

"I overheard some of the guys talking about us. Or, well, me."

His cock gives a tug, and she still doesn't touch it.

"How I'm your luxury whore."

The curtain shifts as the wind plays with it: softly, while he's ripped out of the dark safety of the womb.

"Luxury…" She laughs, but it's bitter and thick. "Isn't it funny?"

He's hard now mainly because of the fury that rises. It ripples through his chest and pulls his stomach taut.

"Was it the rookie?"

He hears his voice from far away, from under the sea, but luckily, her hand brings him back. It's placed on him again, this time further up. She likes to trace the cavity between his pecs, pet the hair she finds there, too. Sometimes, she buries her face there and inhales his sweat, then uses that spot as her pillow. It's that very moment when he finds peace if he already hasn't by then.

"You don't have to defend my honour," the night speaks softly.

So, it was the rookie.

Nothing but a boy, younger than Soap and cockier than he was when he left Manchester with nothing but a duffel bag on his shoulder. Nothing but a boy, and she knows how boys are. She knows how boys talk. She wouldn't be in the Force if she took filthy quips seriously. 

But this is fucking different. The fantasies of what he'll do to the fucker when he gets back get sicker and more beautiful by the second.

"Just… don't come there anymore unless you're injured. Ok?"

He can't hear her because the vile word overrides even the gorgeous visions of torture. It gathers up his throat as bile, and he barely has time to take a deep breath to force it down before it's too late.

"I'm gonna go take a shower." 

"At this hour…?"

"Can't sleep anyway."

He reaches the bathroom just in time before the vomit flies. The power of it forces him on his knees, forces him to take hold of the door frame. Everything he fed to her shoots up, like it was only a dream that he could make her happy.

…Are you just here for sex?

Her shy question echoes from the tiles as another retch pulls the rest of his love out. 

He's sweating worse than the time they had to operate him in the field, back when a bullet had worked its way through the naked spot between the straps of his plate carrier. The shower washes some of it away, but the stench stays, the foul word and the insolence, all the shallow things he has given her coat the insides of his mouth no matter how many times he tries to spit it away. The water only does so much, and she's still not asleep by the time he returns to her. 

The luxury is waiting for him, silky and sweet. 

Wet, even, if he wants.

"Baby… Honey?"

Baby.

Baby.

He feels his guts in his throat again but swallows them down. She's beautiful, even when sad and sorry. Sorry, and for what? For him, instead of herself and what she's been called, the spite she has had to suffer simply for lying down in the filth with him. 

"Are you okay...?"

"Yeah."

He goes to her, pulls her in his arms, and hopes he doesn't smell of puke.

"They're just words. Right?"

I'm more than just your whore, right?

Her hand doesn't shy away from the sweat that breaks through his back. She's not afraid of him, even when he's the monster she never asked for. He can respect that kind of fearlessness. 

"You're awfully quiet," she tries. 

Baby, please don't go berserk, is what he hears.

"Go to sleep, pet," he calls forth his softest voice, relieved to notice it sounds more like a lullaby than a command. He allows her to kiss him, wondering if she can taste the grave. 

"Yes, sir," she breathes a soft smile in his mouth. Then she turns and coats herself with his arm. It must feel heavy around her, but she only gives a happy sigh. "I always sleep better with you. You feel so good… Safe."

He wonders how strange it is that love sometimes feels like pain. Her words come close to a knife slowly being pushed to his insides. They're still burning when she mutters the last essential thing, already half-asleep in his arms.

"They're just words, Simon…"

…..…..…..

He doesn't know much about poetry, but perhaps Dante was right. 

The heart of hell is not a fiery lake of torment but an icy, cold, stagnant place. There's nothing there. Everything is frozen: screams, thoughts, even dreams. 

He's walked through grey rubble and drenched asphalt, through alleyways of havoc and debris, he's trekked through desolate woodland and marsh. He's run through life like it's a day-to-day race to not get killed, but the worst of it isn't the bullets or the cold or the wind or the rain. It's the sleepless nights, the inertia. His soul in chains. On those nights, he wanted to get killed. 

And yet, he's not the only one who has suffered the unfortunate event of being dragged through every plane of hell. He's not the first man to go through the funnel, nor is he the last. It only looks bad in a society where he's supposed to own a credit card and a house. It only tastes like shit when someone asks "How does it make you feel?" 

People like him shouldn't go to therapy at all. His solution was to quit playing a modern man the minute he realized he's no longer fit for that role. He's simply a dead body, reanimated to serve a purpose. He's a sharp tool, a weapon. (A zombie.)

He serves the greater good, but everyone knows the greater good is propaganda too. There's no grand fight between light and darkness. Good and evil only conduct people's choices: even his old man must've thought he was making the world a better place by playing the rebel. He told him he served the Queen just to piss that sodded bastard off, but the truth is he never served anyone. Not even himself.

Now, there's an odd purpose to his task. Now, every cell in his body is full of animus. 

He's an animated corpse, perhaps, but they forgot to bury the wrath.

"Where's the rookie?"

"Getting stapled."

"Where?"

Which room? 

Which fucking room?

He doesn't stay to heed directions. He doesn't need them; his instinct tells him enough. He doesn't even bother to knock, simply barges in, only to see that the boy sits on the bed he used to sit on, in the exact same position as him. And he knows it's not just the blood loss that makes the fucker look so drowsy and smug. 

The fury is pierced with an ice-tinged sword as he sees her gentle touch – she's tending to the wounds of an ungrateful kid with the same compassion she gives to all her patients, and the first thing on his mind is that she would make a good mother.

"What're you doing here?" 

His voice is soaked in ash, but the boy only looks up from the bed with pure, trouble-seeking gall.

"What are you doing here…? Sir."

She's looking at him too. She's pleading with those eyes. Silently, desperately. 

"You can't come here, lieutenant. Not unless you're injured."

Her request only now makes sense as he sees how the boy looks him up and down and sees there's not a scratch on him. There's no reason for him to be here other than to relieve the pain in his loins.

"Well… Have fun," the rookie jumps from the table, and the rage threatens to pull him underwater like a tide. He never needed anything but his voice to stop a man in his tracks. Not size, not rank, not even his reputation, just voice. 

"My office. Five minutes."

The boy dares to give him another foul look.

"Is that all you need? Just five minutes?"

He even detects admiration in that stare – like he's some stallion, a prized old stud who receives fine mares to rut. Like the celestial woman standing behind this… boy is just some slag thrown to him like they threw to gladiators of old. His luxury whore.

The rookie finally catches the impending wrath that must swell and roil like sea inside the sockets of the skull. 

Yes, boy.

Death is coming.

"Sir," the boy swallows with an arduous blob, then walks out of the goddess's domain, finally with some humility upon those shoulders. 

The torture has already begun, and it shoots him full of sweet adrenaline. He tries to mask the rising war from her, but she sees enough just before he leaves her as well. Her words follow him but cannot penetrate the cloak of fury that shrouds him as he goes to prepare for carnage.

"Simon. I just stitched him together..."

…..…..…..

He doesn't solve the problem with a gun or a cock this time. 

He uses his fists and a knife.

It should disgust him; how much he enjoys it. It's one of those rare occasions when he almost loses himself in the riptide of blood. The things he imagines are far worse than what he finally allows himself to do. When the boy has a split lip and half his face swollen so bad he can't even see from the bruise, when the wetness dampens the crotch area and threatens to stain the carpet, he lets him go.

"Get out."

He's a different man when he rises from beside that broken boy; from next to the knife he plunged to the floor an inch away from his face to make his intentions clear. The boy is stripped of all arrogance and probably regrets the day he got the splendid idea to insult a woman. 

He doesn't have to get his hands deep into paperwork to have the rookie transferred; the boy does it for him. He leaves the base quietly as a shadow and with a face that looks like it has been forced through a waffle maker.

After that, everyone salutes him feet away.

His orders are obeyed without question, without a second's delay on missions. He has never pursued to be loved, but neither has he worked on making people fear him. Now he's not only a source of mystery and intrigue but also fear and wonder.

Soap isn't scared quite as shitless as the rest of them, but neither is he as friendly as he used to be. Price says nothing but he gets a few looks that tell him he has gone too far.

"You shouldn't have," she whispers when they're alone, stopping him in the quiet hallway. She's the only one who doesn't have fear and avoidance in her stare. If anything, the adoration in her eyes has deepened.

He has avoided her strictly, this time obeying her request not to go to her unless he has business there. He doesn't defend himself; he doesn't have the luxury to decide what should or shouldn't be done. He's not a saint nor a judge. He is territorial, though.

"You must be the craziest man I've ever met." 

She talks to his shadow as he's standing only a few feet away, unable to touch her.

"Good."

"...and the most incredible."

His sharp intake of air hisses between them as the artificial light casts shadows in electric blue. She tries to thank him for bashing a face in, all her noble Hippocratic Oaths forgotten.

She takes a step – just one, to make it perfectly clear she wants to touch him too.

"You're a brute, Simon."

The woman's eyes are a deep sea of gratitude. He wonders if she's equally as wet between those legs. Her voice says it all: she likes brutes.

The worship in her stare makes him understand why wars have been waged – this is the reason why crusaders sloshed through rivers of crimson blood, why whole civilizations were destroyed. This is why swords are forged and guns are fired. He draws another breath to swear his allegiance, an oath bound in blood.

"No one's gonna call you a–"

She crosses the final breadth of air between them and lifts his mask.

…..…..…..

The waves crash on the shore like clockwork. To him, it's the sound of limbo. 

The sea used to pull him in like a seductive pit, especially at night, during the sleepless shifts when he walked to the beach with nothing but the ghosts of all the people he had lost to keep him company. Watching all the futures and should have been's slowly drowning in the sea. 

Now he’s here with a living being, and the cold, dead sea has turned into blooming fireworks of crimson and coral. The amnesia has turned into bliss; all the treasures lost in the depths suddenly wash up on the shore like a sunken hoard.

She takes her shoes off the minute they reach the shore, then descends the sands with laughter. She could be from a movie or a magazine, gliding through bleached gold with sunbeams in her hair, sandals dangling from the crook of her fingers, heathers kissing her feet as she dives down the path. Her smile eclipses even the setting sun, and for the first time ever, he thinks it might've been a stupid idea to enlist. 

If there’s an opposite to ice and inertia, it's this. 

It's her. 

"You lied to me," she turns around but doesn't stop walking. "You have been to the beach."

She tilts her head as if reprimanding him, but he knows she's just laughing at his expense. She laughs at his name… She laughs at his broodings, she laughs at his shadows and his hubris. 

"Does anyone else know about this place?"

"No."

There's no soul out here but theirs; even the seagulls have withdrawn to rest. She stops to admire the sun, features turning soft as she takes in her counterpart. Apparently, she likes his humble tribute, the scarcity he has to offer. Some hollow bones, his opinion of a beach. Emptiness… A day coming to an end.

"I have no words for this."

"It's just a beach," he offers, and swallows when she turns. When the fuck has he ever felt embarrassed? His mask is gone, so she can see him swallow again as she approaches. It's the strangest thing how she can still cause his heart to hammer in his chest. He's used to stepping into a hail of bullets, driving a truck through a wall, waiting for that last unaware step to lunge forth and slit a man's throat. The organ never wailed then.

Her eyes take in his every flaw and scar, the rotten work on his skin before she wraps her hands around his neck. 

"No. No it's not. This is paradise."

She has to rise on her toes to kiss him, and he's glad he got rid of the mask. There's nothing between him and the taste of summer anymore – she reminds him of some bright tropical drink, something pure and sweet and innocent, pure fucking fun, something he has come to understand and define only through movies and tv. 

And he knows now why he always comes back to her. It's because he was injured. Badly, severely, life-threateningly injured – no, he was already deceased.  

She has introduced him back to the world: the sun, the birdsong, the simple, good life. How it feels like to have curtains, or bake just because it's Thursday, or walk barefoot on the beach in order to feel the burning sand on your skin. 

What kind of a medic has the power to resurrect the dead?

"Simon," she shivers into his mouth. "I'm sorry. I didn't want people to think that… That we're just…"

"Pet. I know."

"They said you didn't trouble yourself with relationships."

Years of instinct and training make his spine tingle. He's holding another future in his arms and hopes it's not possible for a sea to swallow a sun.

"They?"

"Well, John. Captain." 

Her lashes hide what's going through her mind, but he can tell she's feeling shy from the way she shifts in his embrace.

"I asked about you. In spring. If there's someone… waiting for you."

He wrestles down a bitter laugh. The only lover ever waiting for him was nothingness in that chair; the only wife he came home to was shades, shadows, and dust. 

But he's starting to understand what she's trying to say. How, without even thinking about it, he just made the strongest possible declaration of not being here just for sex. He couldn't have sent a louder message with that boy.

Because not only Jonathan Price know that she's his. Soap knows too. Gaz knows too. Everyone working in Task Force 141 knows, even the fucking scrubbers and accountants know what's going on. Everyone knows that Ghost is real, and alive, and troubles himself with a relationship.

"I dreamed of you, you know." Her lashes flutter open, and he's met with the perfect example of total surrender. She's more than happy with the outcome, and why the hell shouldn't she be? Actions speak louder than words. He of all people should know that.

"Love–"

"Do you remember the day I found out you were a smoker?"

"...Sure."

She laughs, taking him back to the odd meeting in the yard when she was prying her suffocating latex gloves off, and he was trying to find some solace in a cigarette because he couldn't have her. 

"I was so angry at you. Playing with death at every turn..." 

"Yeah. Not the perfect man."

"But you were. You are." 

"Pet. If someone's perfect, it's you."

"No… I'm a hypocrite. I wanted you to just–just take me against the wall. After your stupid smoke."

He always wondered if she was suffocating too. In her gloves, in her beauty, in her sterile, medical, professional chasteness.

But he had no fucking clue that she–

"Or during, I don't care…"

Even the thought of her wanting him to tear apart her facades shatters the last sane thought in his head. He has tried to be civil, tried to suffocate the longing, but apparently, he doesn't have to. The image of burying himself inside her cunt while taking a drag from the thing she despises even more than his name or his mask or his guns is too fucking much. The fact that she views a dog like him as a perfect man makes his cock answer her call like a good, stout soldier. 

"Is that so?"

She stops breathing for a moment as he takes a drag from her now. She's raw whiskey straight to an empty stomach, the way his mind goes blank from sliding his mouth over the column of her throat. She tastes of sea there, and it's not pulling him in; it's pulling him under. The open-mouthed kisses make her jolt, he even draws out a moan or two; they swell between his legs. 

"You like that…?"

She answers to him with a soft whine. A soft nib of her ear, and her hips reply with a roll. The woman tries to latch onto him by gripping his shirt, threatening to do permanent damage to the fabric.

"No walls here, pet. Gotta take you on the sand," he gruffs in her ear, cock hard and ready from her tight little breaths. He could bet half his money that she's wetter than November down there. He could drag his cockhead across her cunt and the sound would be divine. 

"Simon–"

"I'll light a cig first."

"Stop teasing," she laughs, voice thick with hunger.

"...Roger that."

His hand is on his belt before he knows it. It's pathetic how much patience he has if he needs to crouch in a downpour and wait for a kill, but at the sight and smell and taste of her, he can't stop himself from wrenching his belt and pants open like a starved dog. It's a rush born of fear - that any time could be the last time.

She seems to shiver from his stare only when she lays herself upon the warm sand, naked as can be. She's like a vision on that beach: leaning on her elbows, thighs slowly parting, revealing the glistening sex between her legs. And she's fucking dripping, like an overripe peach. He could've safely bet all his money on her.

"How do you want me?"

Fucking fuck… 

He's walking in a dream: the most beautiful woman in the world is lying naked before his feet, bathing in gold, asking how he would prefer to take her. He doesn't even bother to get out of his clothes; he merely tugs his pants down and crawls between her legs, relishing the tight gasp he gets from being so crude.

Her eyes grow wide at the sight of him there, so close to her core, cock hanging heavy just an inch away from that tight cunt. She tries so hard to look composed while lying under his shadow, to not make it obvious that she wants that ugly thing inside. And it does feel like sin not to spread those legs and plough right in, especially when his fingers meet her silk and find that she's already throbbing.

"Want you just like this, pet," he rasps while dragging the pad of his thumb around her clit. Her back arches on the sand, forcing his fingers deeper into the dripping fruit.

It's different, her wetness; not thick and halfway there, but flowing, leaking, soaking good. The pussy is so glazed that he slips at the first attempt to slide a finger in. Her walls grip him the second he's seated deep, making it known how much she appreciates it that he's not here just for sex. 

"Someone's greedy," he's breathing rough, and she whines – he only gets to two fingers before she demands him to fuck her already.

"Want your–I need your cock…" 

She's begging, poor thing, almost crying on the sand, and he has no fucking choice but to remove his fingers and grab his cock instead.

"Have to go slow, love."

"Riley–for god's sake, now."

"F' fuck's sake…" He stumbles forward, all but gracefully, forces the tip on her soaked cunt as delicately as he can before pushing right in. She cries from the spread, fingers curling in the sand: a futile attempt to take him in without fainting.

"Tried to warn ya–"

"Don't you dare stop," she gasps, eyes full of love. As always, her wish is his command, and the tightness makes it an endless journey to bliss. The basest parts of him think about dying – having a heart attack on the same beach he almost drowned in, about ceasing to exist just for the sake of knowing that nothing is as good as this. 

He's deep as can fucking be, and it's still not enough – it's never enough. He collects her in his arms with a frustrated grunt, cock giving a tight pull only when she's finally safe and snug in his embrace. It's a tight cuddle that leaves them both breathless.

"Hold me tighter..." 

It's a soft order, but he can't get any closer: chest plastered on her skin and balls pressed against her ass, the sand grinding against her back as he makes love to her. She’s not made of twigs, but he’s far bigger than her, already threatening to crush her with his weight.

"Tighter…" she begs on his lips, tries to pull him closer with her whole being.

"Pet, I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," she sings, completely shieldless. Something warns him of danger, a reset far worse than drowning or being buried alive or shooting himself in a lonely apartment. He tries to calm her down with a kiss: he knows she loves kisses - but there are tears in her eyes, and his heart is hammering, hammering… 

"Simon, do you love me…?"

She asks that question right on his lips, and the first thing in his dog mind is that it's a stupid thing to ask when he's balls deep inside her and still trying to get closer.

"Yeah," he almost chokes on it, knowing it could be their wedding day and he would still choke on it because it doesn't taste like salt or metal or grave.

"I love you," she whispers. "Do you understand?"

No. No…

I fuckin' don't–

"And I'll always be here for you."

To his shock, there’s no sea water in his lungs, no dirt in his mouth. He’s not choking on anything, he's not in fact dying at all: he’s floating, somewhere between the sun and the sand and the sea. There's no more rush, no jaws of death snapping at his heels. He doesn't even long for heaven anymore. Not when there's a paradise on earth.

"Love, I need you to–need you to focus," he tries to stutter nonsense while she's pledging herself to him. Of course she only laughs at him: it hits him with the sweetest warmth.

"You're so silly…" 

"Yeah? I know." 

He's laughing too. It's just a few notes that get taken away by the sound of waves. It's just a breath from deep within, and still… Her gaze drops to his mouth, a flutter blinks back more tears.

"I love it when you laugh..." Her eyes shine brighter than the sun, riding the spine of the sea as one perfect tear rolls down her cheek. "Love it…"

The sun sets in tangerine, his new favourite colour. There's a whole bloom out there in the sky when she comes, fast and bright in his embrace. He comes right after, just from trying to stay inside her warmth, deep inside her, around her, and she says it, again and again and again… Until he breathes.

….….….

"Remember when I said I could've managed? Without you," she asks when they lie on the sand, skin on skin, watching the sun set beneath the onyx sea. The waves rise and break, but around them, the air is still. He's still inside her as she pulls his hand over her heart, entwining their fingers together: it's the softest little arrest, but her squeeze doesn't lack strength. 

"I lied too."

"I know."

She chuckles softly. "Is there something you don't know?"

"...Yeah. Why you're here out of all places."

She turns her head from the sunset into the falling darkness of him, and he wonders if that's why she's here... To be with his night. She said that people always get the dark wrong: that it's not supposed to be scary at all. That the purpose of darkness is safety, security, that there are tales where the day chases the night, and the night chases the day. She said it's because they're in love with each other.

"You really don't know…?" 

"You were smiling before we met and now you're crying all the time."

She looks up at him with trust and devotion, his daylight, his sun. There's none in the sky anymore, but it doesn't matter. It lives in her eyes.

"People cry from happiness too, Simon."

[makeitmingi]

The Cat and Dog Game [Chapter 11]

Genre: Romance, Fluff, Comedy

Pairing: Yunho x Reader (y/n)

Characters: Chef!Reader, RestaurantOwner!Yunho, MaitreD!Hongjoong, Waiter!Yeosang, Waiter!San, Waiter!Mingi, SousChef!Seonghwa, SousChef!Wooyoung, PrepChef!Jongho

Summary: Yunho's dream was to open and run his own restaurant. But he doesn't know anything when it comes to cooking. Until you came along and accepted the job, bringing with you a small crew. How will the black cat tame the energetic golden retriever?

Word count: 3.3K

You tilted your head, staring at the bouquet that was now sitting in a glass vase on your counter top.

"Staring at it isn't going to make it grow legs and walk, darling." Seonghwa chuckled from behind you. You rolled your eyes, straightening up and turning to walk to the fridge. You grabbed a tray out and put it on the island.

"I'm still in shock, Hwa. A little empathy or even sympathy would be greatly appreciated. I've never gotten flowers from anyone before." You said.

"Wow...."

"You don't count." You hissed. You grabbed another tray from the fridge. But this one was covered with aluminium foil.

"What are you trying?" Seonghwa rounded the counter and came back to where you were, peering over your shoulder. You removed the foil to show him the second tray.

"I'm trying to see if I prefer the flavour of a dry brine compared to a wet brine for monk fish." You explained.

"Because it's meatier and tougher?" He tilted his head. You nodded.

"Usually for fish, we use a wet brine but since monk fish is so firm and can act like chicken or red meat, I was thinking if a dry brine might enhance the flavour a little more." You said. You took the pieces of fish out of the flavoured water, patting it dry between two pieces of kitchen roll.

"What's in the dry brine?" Seonghwa asked, taking a brush to help you brush off the salt seasoning mix on the surface of the fish. He wasn't going to wash it or it would get rid of too much flavour.

"One has salt, white pepper, kombu, dried shiitake. The other has salt, black pepper, rosemary, thyme, bay leaf, garlic and a hint of sweet paprika."

"Not smoked?" He turned to you.

"No, as much as I wanted a herbier, heavy flavour combination, I didn't want to overpower the flavour of the fish." You shrugged.

"Good choice. Especially since the monk fish can be sweet, it only enhances the natural sea water flavour that's already there." Seonghwa hummed.

"How should I cook it without impacting the flavour...?" You scratched your head.

"Ooh, you're making me think of a monk fish curry now." Seonghwa smiled, almost drooling at the thought.

"I said I don't want to impart any of flavours, Hwa. If we make a curry, all the dry brine flavour will be overpowered." You slapped his arm. In the end, you decided to lightly steam half of them and pan sear the other half. Seonghwa helped you manage the pan.

"As much as we should, we shouldn't baste it. Even butter will affect the taste." Seonghwa said. You agreed. When the fish came out, you left it to rest for a few minutes.

"So, you want to talk about that?" Seonghwa nodded over to the vase of flowers you were looking at.

"What's there to talk about except why did you put it in a vase?" You raised an eyebrow.

"You just left it on the table, sweetheart. They'll die if you just leave it like that, you have to put them in some water to let them survive." He rolled his eyes.

"Oh, so you're the flower expert now?" You asked.

"We're digressing here... Tell me what he said to you when he gave you the flowers." He said.

"I already told you. He wanted to 'cheer me up' and give me energy so he got me sunflowers. And he thought sugary sweets would also do the trick so he got me donuts, which were rather tasty, by the way. I'll be curious to try more flavours from the shop." You shrugged and took the tray of fish to start slicing.

"And what did you reply to that?"

"I said thanks and split the donuts with him. You know I don't eat sugary things much... What else was there for me to say or respond to him?" You questioned.

"Well, I guess it's the first time he's seen you in your... grumpy tantrum mode..." Seonghwa sighed.

"I wasn't grumpy and/or throwing a tantrum." You frowned.

"Sweetheart, there was a literal dark cloud floating above your head." Seonghwa chuckled. You glared at him with a small pout before focusing back on slicing the fish pieces.

"Okay but that's all? You didn't say anything else?" Seonghwa went back to the topic.

"Oh. I... patted him on the head..." You said, remembering your actions. Seonghwa's eyes widened before he burst out laughing at your words. You sent him a flat look for laughing at you. You ignored him and put the fish slices on plates.

"HE'S NOT A LITERAL DOG, (Y/N)!" He exclaimed amidst his laughter. You felt your cheeks heat up at his words.

"I know! I didn't mean to, I don't know what came over me so I just reached out to pat his head. It's not my fault he caught me as I was snoozing." You muttered.

"Still... You must have surprised him." He laughed, wiping a tear that had formed in the corner of his eye.

"Now that you're done laughing at me. Here." You handed Seonghwa a fork with gritted teeth. You both dug into the fish, quietly tasting and savouring each one for their different tastes.

"Oh, wow." You were amazed.

"The different dry brines bring out such different flavours." Seonghwa said as he chewed.

"Between the dry brines, the delicate seasoning of the kombu one fits steaming method while the heavier seasoning benefits from the pan sear." You noted.

"I think because the pan sear toasts the herb flavour on there like how we usually toast our herbs to bring out the aromatic oils. So after searing this piece, you taste a lot more rosemary, thyme and paprika." Seonghwa theorised. You nodded your head, writing all this down in your iPad journal.

"It takes on more flavour with the dry brines. But the texture is softer with the wet brine." Seonghwa took another piece.

"I think the dry brine has been able to remove more moisture so it's firmer in texture. If serving on it's own, I would like the dry brine. In stews or curries, wet brine for sure." You concluded.

"Should we do something with monkfish for tomorrow's dinner service then?" He suggested.

"Lotte à l'Armoricaine (French tomato based stew cooked with white wine and monkfish)?" You looked through your recipe archives.

"Good idea. Since it is served with rice. I think customers will like that." Seonghwa nodded, moving to start on the dishes. You took a piece of paper to write this down.

"The supplier said he has some nice pears so shall we make baesuk for dessert (Korean poached pears)?"

"Yeah. What will you poach them in?" He asked.

"If we go Korean inspired, I think a light honey, ginger poaching liquid. Maybe add some pink peppercorns instead of black peppercorns for a more berry-like flavour. We can accompany it with yuja sherbet and candied ginger." You said.

"That sounds good."

"I think we should do burgers tomorrow. Cheese stuffed burgers with bacon on top and caramelised onions. Koreans love burgers and fries." Seonghwa laughed.

"That doesn't sound too bad though. But I'd hate to be the one stuck on deep fryer duty." You cringed.

"We should do at least one savoury dish that has Korean flavours." Seonghwa reminded.

"Hmm... Scallop, kombu angel hair with perilla oil? It's light on the taste buds." You scrunched your nose, trying to come up with a dish and flavour profile.

"That'll work. I was thinking for appetisers, we can do mussammari (Julienned vegetables wrapped in a thin slice of pickled radish) with a gochujang sauce." He finished the dishes and sat with you.

"I like that. We can grill pork collar with salsa verde. And beef carpaccio with brine tomatoes and shredded shiso leaf." You turned to him. Seonghwa thought about the flavour profiles and nodded while you wrote it down. If Wooyoung and Jongho wanted to add other dishes, they were free to. Any of them could.

You put the paper aside, leaning back against Seonghwa's shoulder. Tomorrow's morning bake items had already been decided so you didn't need to brainstorm on what to bake.

"Tired?" Seonghwa asked.

"Not physically. But my brain is, I think it's fried." You sighed, closing your eyes.

"You don't need to tire yourself out so much. Don't think and overthink too much. It'll only lead to faster burnout." He said as his hands massaged your achy ones.

"I know..." You said.

"Hwa?" You called out. He hummed in reply.

"You don't have to always take care of me and watch out for me, okay? You have to make sure that you take care of yourself too." You told him.

"I know." He replied, reply identical to yours. He knew you always felt guilty that he was constantly taking care of you, especially because you're known to not take care of yourself. But Seonghwa didn't see it as an obligation to care for you, he just wants to.

"Don't feel guilty or bad. You take care of me too, (y/n). We take care of each other, it's what we do and what we have been doing since we've met." He said.

"But you take care of me so much more."

"It doesn't matter who does more, you shouldn't worry about that. We're best friends. No one is measuring." Seonghwa chided.

"I just don't want to hold you back from anything. Like you said, we're best friends. And I would want you to venture out and do what you want to do, what's best for you." You sighed.

"What I want to do is be here with you. My best is being by your side. You're not holding me back." He comforted.

"Sure? Promise me that if I am, you tell me." You looked up at him.

"I'm sure. And as silly as that is, fine, I promise." He said. You held up your pinky and he chuckled but laced pinkies with you, stamping it to seal the deal.

"Tch, we've been glued together for so many years and you're still worried about all this. I already told you the day that we met that you're not getting rid of me so easily. That's why we never had any other friends growing up, except each other." Seonghwa playfully scolded you, flicking you on the forehead.

"Oww!" You held the place his flicked. Seonghwa clicked his tongue, knowing you were exaggerating. He didn't even hit you with so much force. He would never actually hurt you.

"So technically, you admit you're the reason I was a loner growing up?" You raised your eyebrows in accusation.

"You weren't a loner. You were with me and that's more than enough." He scoffed.

"That's true. You always made sure I wasn't left alone, Hwa." You giggled. You couldn't really remember a time where you and Seonghwa were apart.

Sure, you weren't spending every waking minute together but you've both never really let the other person feel lonely.

"Alright, it's time for an afternoon nap." You stood up, stretching your arms over your head.

"Shall I order Vietnamese food for dinner? I know you've been craving it." Seonghwa said. You were not shocked at this point that Seonghwa remembered something that you casually said in passing. You nodded your head excitedly.

"Yes. I would like bun bo hue (spicy beef noodle soup), pork tau hu ky (fried beancurd skin rolls with pork filling) and lemongrass pork please." You ordered.

"Okay." Seonghwa took it down.

"What are you having?" You asked as you laid down in bed, getting under the covers. Seonghwa took the spot beside you.

"My usual, bun rieu cua (tomato, crab and pork noodle soup). And some other sides to add on." He said, scrolling on the menu. You hummed, snuggling into your pillow.

Seonghwa has a large appetite so you could usually order a variety of food and he'll help you with finishing them.

"Go to sleep." Seonghwa put his phone down, turning to you. You hummed again, already starting to drift off. Seonghwa was always encouraging you to sleep more since you've had insomnia for as long as you can remember. It could build up and lead to you sleeping for a few days. Hence, you being sleep deprived the other day.

"Hwa, it doesn't mean anything, right?" You asked, half asleep.

"What?" He was confused by your question and what you were referring to all of a sudden.

"The flowers... He's just nice, right? I shouldn't be mulling over it or thinking that it means anything more." You clarified. Seonghwa was quiet for a while.

"If he meant something else, I'm sure he would have said it. Yunho wouldn't do one thing and mean another." He said.

"You sure?"

"We've known the guy for a like two weeks, (y/n). There's nothing really to be sure about when we barely know him. I'm just stating based off intuition and observation so far." He chuckled.

-

Yunho smiled stiffly as he sat at the table with his parents and younger brother at their family favourite steakhouse. He wasn't listening to their conversation at all, only plastering a smile but his mind was elsewhere.

"Hyung, what's up with you? Your head is in the clouds." Yunho's younger brother, Gunho, teased. Yunho sighed, his head wasn't in the clouds, just focused on something else.

Or rather, someone else.

"Is it work, Yunho? Something with the restaurant?" His mother asked. Yunho shook his head.

"No. It's nothing, don't worry about it. Sorry for not paying attention." He bowed his head, cutting into his steak and taking a bite.

"Which reminds me, we should pop by for dinner one of these days. You know, to support hyung." Gunho suggested to the two. It was true, Yunho's family had not visited since the opening.

"That's a good idea. But we don't want to pressure you, Yunho. We'll go when you're ready." His father smiled.

"Thanks, appa. I'm confident in my team. So please, when you're all available." Yunho smiled. His father was a lawyer and his mother was an accountant. Yunho knew that they were always trying to make up for the fact that they were never around while the two were growing up. But Yunho never really blamed them.

Them being busy also meant that Yunho was able to form such a deep and rich bond with his grandmother. And that was something Yunho would never, ever regret.

"That is exciting, I can't wait to see how things are." Mrs Jeong said with a big grin.

"As long as you're not helping out in the kitchen, hyung." Gunho snorted, making Yunho glare at his younger brother.

"I'm a lot better now. I'm slowly learning small things to help out in the kitchen. My head chef is always ready to teach me." Yunho rolled his eyes.

"Oh, tell us about him." Mr Jeong said in interest.

"Her, actually. She's an amazing chef, the whole team is. They work well together and you can tell when you watch them. It is almost like watching an orchestra play." Yunho explained.

"They must have been working together for a long while then." Mrs Jeong said.

"Yeah, they've known each other for a long time to know each other's likes, dislikes, work habits, skills, everything. I think you will be just as impressed by them as I was when you come to the restaurant." Yunho smiled proudly.

"That's good, Yunho. I'm glad you found a team that can work well not only amongst themselves but with you and your friends too. Good job." Mr Jeong commended.

"Thanks, appa. I couldn't have done it without my friends as well, especially Mingi." Yunho chuckled.

"Ah, you and Mingi hyung are inseparable as always." Gunho said.

"We just went to his mother's restaurant the other day to eat and see how she is doing. She sounded so happy that her son is working in the food industry too." Mrs Jeong giggled.

Of course with Mingi and Yunho being best friends since middle school, their parents were also close friends.

"San's father was proposing a fishing trip for all the fathers soon." Mr Jeong laughed.

"The mothers should take a trip too while the fathers go fishing. You all deserve it." Yunho said, glad that his parents were friends with his friends' parents. Mrs Jeong smiled softly, her son was always so caring and considerate of others. Mr Jeong nodded in agreement, raising his glass to clink it against Yunho's.

"But Yunho, I take it the restaurant has been well?"

"Yes. Business has been going well and we've been receiving lots of compliments and good reviews despite being so new. I pray it'll only go up from here." Yunho said.

"We know you can do it. If you ever need any help, you know you can always ask us." Mr Jeong said.

"I know, I am very grateful for that. But I hope to not rely on both of you, I want to be independent in this." Yunho spoke firmly.

"You're right, that's a good thing to want." Mrs Jeong reached over to pat the back of Yunho's hand. Yunho nodded his head with a hum, holding his mother's hand.

"However, you should make sure to have some time for yourself. Find a girlfriend." Mrs Jeong added.

"O-Omma!" Yunho stuttered nervously.

"Aren't you just gonna marry Mingi hyung?" Gunho laughed. Yunho kicked Gunho under the table, too flustered to respond back to the teasing. Yunho's mother was always invested in Yunho's love life, encouraging him to 'venture out' and find a partner.

"Dear, he's too busy running the restaurant. He doesn't have time to find a partner now." Mr Jeong said, taking a bite of his food. Yunho agreed with his father.

"Plus, I'm not in a rush to find a girlfriend, omma..." Yunho muttered.

"I can only dream, can't I? Both you and Gunho don't have girlfriends, I want a daughter to pamper and do girl things with."

"What sort of girl things?" Yunho asked.

"Oh, you know. We can go shopping, do mani pedis together, go get our hair done, all that stuff you can do with a daughter. You boys never want to do anything with me." Mrs Jeong scoffed.

"Omma, sounds like you have your own motive in wanting us to get a girlfriend." Gunho pointed out.

"Of course I want you both to be happy too! Who knows, maybe Yunho can settle down and start a family." She said.

"Alright, I think we're thinking a little far here, omma. Who knows if I'm going to settle down with the next person I date? But anyway, I'm currently focused on getting the restaurant up and running before looking for a partner." Yunho spoke. Honestly, he hadn't thought about settling down or starting a family.

"Like I said, I can only dream." Mrs Jeong sighed dispairingly.

"Look, omma, when the time comes and I meet the right person, then I'll start thinking about all that." Yunho said, trying to somewhat appease his mother.

"Sorry to say hyung, but you can be a little... how do you say? Oblivious when it comes to girls." Gunho snickered.

"What do you mean? I'm not oblivious." Yunho said.

"When a girl tries to flirt with you, you always think it's just her being a nice person in general. Meaning, you don't flirt back or reject her. You're too impartial to everyone you meet." Gunho explained.

"It's good to be impartial. And being nice isn't a bad thing, Gunho ah." Yunho crossed his arms.

"But you never know, someone might misunderstand your kindness as something else. Let's hope your future girlfriend doesn't get jealous."

~

Series masterlist

[amywritesthings]

SEEING YOU, SEEING ME. (1/7)

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Word Count: 1.8K

Summary: After handling a life-or-death favor for Tess, you're in deep shit. Until she can make things right, she suggests you lay low at her place for the week. The issue? It's also Joel Miller's place, and you're pretty sure he hates you.

Warnings: Mentions of death and violence, Age gap/difference, Slow burn, Angry!Joel, Eventual Smut, Enemies to Fuckers, Before the events of TLOU 1.01

( Read on AO3 )

Next Chapter / Masterlist

CHAPTER ONE: THERE, EVERYWHERE

“Where are we going?”

The scoff from the woman stalking ahead tells you it's a stupid question to ask, if not already one too many.

Head down, hood up — in the cover of night, you have managed to slide in and out of alleyways unscathed and unseen. With every darkened hour, curfew gets that much more dangerous. Risky; the gallows are a recent addition to the zone to make an example out of deserters, rule breakers, and degenerates alike.

One false move, and it'll be two additional necks tomorrow morning.

None of this running around, however, is by your own doing: Tess Servopoulos is the thing that goes bump in the night. The smuggler that knows her way around the quarantine zone with little error.

The person that gets shit done around here.

You’re only by her side because you happened to be at the wrong place, wrong time — or, in her instance, the exact spot she needed in order for Tess herself to avoid that miniscule margin of error from increasing.

A lucky fuck-up, she calls it, except the concept of luck is all for her.

For you? It’s a matter of life and death — Fedra, the gallows, are only a drop in the bucket compared to having your fate at the hands of one Robert's underlings in a domino chain of petty fights and turf wars.

Tess swears on an eye for an eye: if she can clear your name and settle a deal, then no blood will have to be shed.

(A luck fuck-up, indeed.)

“You want to live?” she asks under her breath, a pace ahead. The hallway is empty at this time of night, wrapped tightly in militant fear. “Then you stay here.”

You shove your freezing hands in your pockets. “And where is here?”

“Just a place.”

“Yours?”

The woman finally halts at a door, glancing once at you as she fishes for her keys with an irritated boredom; a Tess classic. 

“Did I say you could ask so many fucking questions?”

Bingo.

You were right: one too many.

With one quick shove of her shoulder, you’re met with a sea of earth tone pinks engulfed a low light hue. Sun-stained curtains billow against the open air. The dilapidated floral wallpaper brings an uncomfortable Deja vu of a not-so distant world that's still rapidly decaying. The furniture seems well kept, sturdy, with a dining table set and a half-sunken couch. Eerie is the sound of a soft seventies ballad crooning Looks Like We Made It by Barry Manilow from a static-filtered FM radio between the windows.

But someone is already there.

Hunched over the small, square table for two sits a broad-shouldered man with salt and pepper hair. His shoulders lurch protectively over what seems to be paper and pen. The back of the jean-clad torso tightens at the sound of Tess's boisterous entrance, and their chin turns at break-neck speed to assess the intrusion. The person's eyes do not meet yours, but your certainly meet his face.

Shit.

You know that scowl.

It never leaves his damn face.

Here, Tess has conveniently left unconfirmed, is not only her place but Joel Miller’s place. Joel Miller — the guy who will take any hardened zone job no one wants so long as no one speaks or looks his way. The person who, at the end of the day, wants to be handed what he’s owed and to be left the fuck alone.

It's the guy you have spent dozens of shifts working alongside, desperate to make rationed ends meet, without so much as an introduction or a hello.

And you're fairly certain he hates you.

While it's rumor that Joel hates everyone, it's the way he hits your shoulder as he passes by to pick up the next dead body that's festered a full-blown fabricated story like a virus in your mind. You swear his gaze hardens every time he shows up at six a.m. sharp, only to find you waiting at the dig site.

With intimidating urgency he stands, slamming the notepad closed with an open palm. 

“What’s all this?” the southern drawl is unamused. Gruff.

Angry.

Tess doesn’t look at you when Joel steps once, twice, meeting her in the middle. “A favor.”

Joel’s eyes narrow a fraction of an inch. “We don’t do favors.”

“No, we don’t,” Tess confirms with an air of aloofness, “but she did one for me.” 

“And that’s my problem, how?”

Tess looks him dead in the eye, unblinking. Joel stares back with the same intensity, nostrils flaring. Mentally they continue to argue while you stand at the mouth of the apartment. An unspoken language, fit for the two of them and leaving you clear out in the cold.

Regardless, you’re no fool. You're not a face he wants to see.

(Goddamnit, Tess.)

Joel relents, shifting his weight from one leg to another as he places his hands on his hips. The movement is followed by a hefty, exhausted sigh.

“So then what’s your plan? Since you're suddenly feeling all sorts of generous today, Tess."

Not an outright refusal. Not a threat to turn you in.

Just like that, your not-so-lucky day has turned around.

Tess nods her chin once in appreciation of this acceptance, only to gesture to you.

“Let her lay low.”

His fiery eyes flicker to you, finally, and your fingers instinctually tighten against the strap of your pack slung loosely over your shoulder.

“I assume you mean lay low here.”

“Yes.” Tess tenses, if only a little, as if to brace for the oncoming storm. “For a few days.”

His expression shifts instantly, brows knit tight to blink back at Tess. Joel starts with a bite, louder than before. 

“A few—?”

“Days. Until I can sort shit out and make everything even.”

Joel pauses for a moment, taking a much needed breath to level the rage rolling off of him in waves. You shift your bag, attempting to make no noise. Prey meet predator; God forbid you provoke him.

Then he speaks between gritted teeth.

“That’s a big fucking ask, Tess.”

Tess nods, though it's a contrast softer this time around.

“You know I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important. I gotta make it right before shit hits the fan. You know how Robert gets.”

And he does know, it seems, by the way he backs off with a miniscule step. His shoe scuffs at the floor, creaking the wooden boards. 

Joel lands his eyes on you for a second time. It's lessened in intensity, but it's unforgiving all the same.

You nervously shrug one shoulder, turning into a counterpoint. “If this… is an issue, I can just—”

“Go back out there until someone kills you?” Tess interrupts, craning her chin to watch you, too. “No. It’s just a few days. We can make this work.”

“And where will you be, during all this?” Joel asks, but it’s gentler this time. Worried, even if it’s laced with sarcasm. 

Tess keeps her eyes on you as she fixes her coat. “Out, but safe. It’s better to do this shit at night sometimes, as stupid as that sounds.”

"You're right, it does sound mighty fucking stupid," Joel gripes in the midst of Tess crossing the threshold between the two of you towards the door.

You almost want to beg her to stay, just for the night, but you know it'll be for nothing.

"Besides," when Tess reaches the door, she turns her head and smirks at the older man, "you could use a friend that isn’t me every once in a while.”

Joel's face drops in time with the boot taking one step ahead.

“But we don’t—”

Tess doesn't wait.

The door closes behind her faster than Joel can finish his statement.

(We don’t do friends.)

Now it’s just you, the white noise from the radio, and Joel Miller in his apartment.

Great.

Dropping his chin to his chest, Joel emits a drawn out groan and shuts his eyes. Yours wander, uncomfortable with staring, until they land on a half-full glass of amber liquid on the table with two white circular tablets.

Oxy.

Oh.

When you blink back to him, however, he notices you noticing all of this — the room, what he’s been up to, what his vices are. No explanation is read on the tip of his tongue.

Instinctually your head shakes, gentle and non-threatening.

“We all cope with whatever we have, right?” you ask despite yourself. “Not gonna… try to steal your shit or anything.”

“Good,” Joel responds, gruff yet almost uncertain. After a beat passes, the man clears his throat and gestures to the emerald couch in the corner. “I’ll, uh… I only got one bed.”

The statement makes you squint, confused, before it hits you:

“Oh.”

“It’s a small apartment,” he reasons more like a hotheaded apology than anything else, but you wave your hands in front of you.

“No, no, it’s fine. I can take the couch. I don’t even mind the floor. I really don't care.”

“I don't give a shit either, but Tess’d have my head if she found out I was good with letting you sleep on the goddamn floor,” Joel laments, sulking back over to the kitchen table to pick up his whiskey glass. You remain standing where you are in the middle of this makeshift living room as he flops down on the couch, denim-covered knees spread apart. “You take the bed. Got mostly fresh sheets put on yesterday.”

You want to ask — are you sure — but decide it’s best not to make more waves in the tsunami you’ve brought to his doorstep this late Tuesday night. You nod wordlessly, not even sure if he’s looking, before shuffling towards the open floor bedroom.

A mattress sits stacked on top of cement blocks in a makeshift frame. At first you reach out towards the pale salmon-colored sheets, gingerly pressing down on the mattress to test its give.

The bed doesn’t move.

Safe, for now.

From here you cannot see him, but you can feel him. There is a very suffocating air about this apartment; a sense of displacement. This is not home, but neither is this quarantine zone. Some people could make it as such, but it appears Joel Miller is about as unwilling to get comfortable as you are.

“Goodnight,” he chimes out of the blue from the other room. 

Your eyes widen, following the creaks of the couch as Joel situates himself on the other side of the wall — until the room goes silent.

You don’t say it back. Instead you slowly lower to the mattress that isn’t yours, afraid to contaminate his safe space with your germs. You sit with your back against the wall, fearful to touch the pillows that smell too much like a man you barely know.

For twenty minutes you wait at the left side edge, stirring in the silence, until incoherent mumbles fill the apartment.

It’s Joel, gone from the lull of an alcohol-induced slumber.

Author's Note: It's officially begun! Thank you so much for reading. This series is tied to my one shot reckless. Chapter Two is quickly on the horizon, so never you fret on the wait. As most of my works are, this is a slow burn. This will also not be the most lovey-dovey Joel, so I warn you all ahead of time. As always, comments and reblogs mean the world to me. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your support and enthusiasm over my first fic of 2023.

[gvfmarge]

Lighthouse of my Soul - Chapter One

Hi everyone!

This is my very first multipart fic! I hope you enjoy it! I’m feeling a little underwhelmed with how this first chapter turned out. I want it to be more, so hopefully you’ll stick around! I’m hoping to grow my writing a with this fic and maybe get some feelings out while doing it. This is going to be a bit of a slow burner, so be gentle with me, I’m a baby!

(Ghost)Jake x Reader

Warnings: none? Some cussing, some slightly spooky stuff but not too much for now.

I’ve also never had a tag list, so if you’re interested in the next parts just let me know and I’ll tag you! Xoxoxoxo

Were you running away? From what? It didn’t matter. You felt like you had finally reached your destination. You felt the ocean was your new beginning. The Outer Banks had always been your comfort place, growing up vacationing here was always your favorite. It felt like home every time you visited, so it was a no brainer when you had been offered a temporary position at the local newspaper in Hatteras. You felt that you were going to finally make something of yourself. All the hard work you had put into studying and writing was going to pay off. 

You had luckily stumbled upon a tiny cottage to rent. The owner explaining it had been built in 1874 and had weathered many storms and tribulations. It had originally been part of the life-saving station before they had built a newer building and eventually became the Coast Guard. The house had endured damage along the years from storms and each time had been repaired. When you stepped foot inside, you could feel the history. The floorboards squeaked with each step inside, taking a deep breath it smelled like sea salt and fresh air. Everything in the house was basically original. The dark hardwood floors showed signs of wear, with little scratches here and there and you could see the discoloration throughout the house where many footsteps had worn down the stain. The walls were fully covered in shiplap and had been sanded down and painted a beautiful light blue color. The kitchen was small, with only 3 overhead cabinets, a small older fridge and a stove. The living room was connected to the kitchen, you could barely see where the owners had taken out the wall to try and have somewhat of an open concept. Slowly inspecting each room, you came to realize just how small it was compared to the pictures you had viewed online. You realized you might not even have enough space for a couch and a table, but you would figure logistics out later. Walking up the steep rickety stairs you came upon a short hallway, at the end was a window stretching from the ceiling to the floor with an amazing view of the beach and ocean outside of the house, from the second floor it seemed you could see forever over the horizon. There are two bedrooms split by the hallway. Looking inside the room to your left, you noticed a small desk sitting underneath a window looking out to the ocean. On it, sat an empty white vase and a typewriter. It piqued your curiosity, the home came unfurnished and you were not made aware of anything left behind for you to use. 

Walking over to it, you sat down in the tiny wooden chair and ran your fingers over the vintage keys. As soon as your fingertips met with the cold metal, you felt electricity flow through your hand, up your arm and down your spine. Goosebumps rose over your skin and you quickly pulled your hand away. The shock and stress of moving must be getting to you, you thought. You gazed out the window taking in the ocean waves. You were finally alone, it felt peaceful but somehow, you felt a longing in the house. There was something that you couldn’t quite place your finger on. 

You felt a presence with you and quickly turned around to the entrance of the room. You could have sworn you felt eyes on you but there wasn’t a soul there. You slowly turned your body around again to face the window and your mind wondered back to the memories you had that led you here. Suddenly, a faint smell of tobacco burning filled the room. The sweet but heavy aroma seemed to swirl around your body. It was intoxicating but slightly overwhelming. You felt frozen for just a moment, not quite understanding what was happening. With another deep breath you slowly stood up and scanned the room for any sign of someone else. As quickly as the tobacco smell came, it was gone. You shrugged the smell off to the history of the cottage and made your way back downstairs to begin unpacking and making yourself finally feel at home. 

The sun had slowly crept through your first floor windows and shown brightly against the kitchen cabinets. You looked at the clock you had just hung on the wall to see that it was 6pm. You had worked for hours trying to unpack all of the boxes the moving company had just piled into your living area. Thankfully, the moving company had taken your mattress upstairs for you so you didn’t have to figure out how to lug it up the tight cornered stairs by yourself. Deciding it was best to take the empty bedroom, you asked them to place it under the window that overlooked the ocean. The bedrooms were narrow, with only about two feet of space between both sides of the mattress and the walls. At the other end of the room was a built in closet that was actually a nice size considering how small the whole house was. The door opened up beside the closet, so there was really no other option for your bed. You were not a fan for your bed to be facing the door or the closet, but it would have to work. 

 Boxes on top of boxes had somehow dwindled down to a select few that you didn’t know what to do with. As you carefully climbed the steep stairs with box in tow, you felt just how tired your legs really were. You had climbed these stairs at least a thousand times today just trying to get everything in your desired spot. You had been avoiding the typewriter room. It just felt odd to you and you really had no use for it now, so deciding to use it as storage for now, you slowly pushed the heavy wooden door open with the cardboard box and peaked inside. No one, just the lonely typewriter. There was such a sadness in the room and you didn’t know how. There was no explanation but you understood with old houses came a lengthy wrap sheet of history inside the walls. You finished bringing the random boxes into the room to go through later. Slowly exiting the room, you once again felt goosebumps raise across your skin. You quickly slammed the bedroom door shut and almost ran down the stairs. 

“You’re just imagining things, it’s an old house. You’ve watched too many scary movies.” Scoffing to yourself. You turned to the front door which was from top to bottom glass and stared out to the ocean. You felt such a connection. There was just something special about the ocean. It always made you feel whole, even as a child when you didn’t know you were missing something, you knew it was to be in awe of. 

You made a mental note to buy curtains to place over the front and back doors to keep your privacy. The two doors mirrored each other in the house, you could walk a straight line from the front door to the back door and see right through both doors of glass. 

That night you sat in the floor of your living room, using an empty cardboard box as your coffee table to eat the pizza you had ordered in off of. Thankfully you did have a TV, so there would be a little bit of entertainment to keep you occupied before you started your new position on Monday.  

After watching what seemed like hours of trash TV, you decided to tuck yourself in for the first night in your new home. Brushing your teeth and doing your skincare in the only bathroom downstairs, you stared at yourself in the mirror. “Am I actually doing this? Is this actually real?” Your mind was spinning miles a minute and you hoped you would be able to turn it off enough to get a little rest. The first night in new homes never seems to go smoothly. You either can’t sleep because it’s too quiet or the ceiling fan is too loud, or the room is too hot or too cold. You were nervous for what you would find when you made your way upstairs in the darkness. You huffed when you realized the owners hadn’t thought of putting a light in the stairway when they remodeled the house, so you had to use your senses to make sure you didn’t fall tumbling down to the bottom. 

At the top of the stairs, you sped walked to get inside your bedroom and practically slammed your bedroom door shut. “What are you so afraid of.” You laughed at yourself. This would be a long summer if you couldn’t get it together. Crawling into bed, really just your mattress on the floor, you turned the switch of the lamp off and faced the window that was on the left side of the bed. You could only see the stars and the moon through the window panes, you stared for what seemed like minutes until your entire bedroom was suddenly lit up with a bright white light. You shot up in bed and stared. “What the hell” is all you could say. Until a few seconds later, your bedroom was lit up like the Fourth of July again. “There’s no fucking way, are you serious.” You hadn’t realized on the drive here or even unpacking your things, that Cape Hatteras Lighthouse was literally in your back yard. The lighthouse was close enough to shine its light through your bedroom window and make you feel like you just got busted for drugs by the police. The lighthouse’s light rotation takes about 7 seconds, which is more than aggravating when you’re trying to sleep. You flipped your body over like you were trying to slam through the floor and groaned. “Of course, I would get stuck with a creepy old house and the lighthouse in my backyard.” You grumbled. After calming down, sleep finally found you and you more than gladly welcomed the darkness. 

How long had you been asleep? You picked up your phone and the time read 3am. You huffed out another long sigh. Your bladder felt like it was going to explode. There was no falling asleep like this or you would most definitely wet the bed. You laid there for a few moments until you felt like you could brave the dark house in the middle of the night. Of course the only bathroom was downstairs. Why wouldn’t it be? 

You turned your bedside lamp on and rolled out onto your feet. Creeping down the dark stairs with only your phones flashlight, you didn’t sense anything. Everything felt calm to your surprise. There was no uneasiness and you didn’t feel like the devil himself would pop out around the corner. You finished your business quickly and started the ascent back up to your room. On the fourth or fifth step up, a rhythmic sound stopped you in your tracks. You stood silent and as still as a statue, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your toes. Your ears became hot as you realized what the sound was. The vintage typewriter. You were frozen. Even if you wanted to turn around and bust your way out the front door and squeal like a baby all the way back home, your body wouldn’t let you. Your feet felt like they had been cemented to the step.

Suddenly the bell of the typewriter rang out in the upstairs bedroom and the keys were being pressed in a quick but precise fashion. The person using the typewriter knew what they were doing and they seemed to be in a hurry to write whatever they were writing. You heard the paper being ripped out of the roller. Silence. No foot steps, no more typing, nothing but the ocean waves outside. You took a deep breath and steadied yourself on the wall of the staircase. Did you imagine all of it? Are you still just half asleep and dreamed it? Are you actually going insane? Everything felt like it was moving in slow motion and turning black, the world felt like it was swirling around your head and you squeezed your eyes tightly shut to try and stop the uneasy feeling. 

When you opened them, you were staring at your wooden bedroom ceiling. You followed the grooves of the shiplap until your eyes met the window you had been looking out to see the lighthouse light. The sun was warming your face and the brightness almost seemed too bright. You scrambled around your comforter to find your phone, which showed 8:45am. 

“There’s no possible way that’s right.” You quickly googled the time and realized it was correct. You had somehow blacked out on the stairs and made it into bed? How? Your mind was racing with confusion and then you remembered, the typewriter. 

You quickly opened up the text thread with your landlady and hit the call button. Hearing the ringing tone you couldn’t even conjure up what you were about to say. Were you just giving up? Was this going to break you? 

“Hello?” The sweet lady answered in a joyful tone. “Hi Mrs. Hartley, did you accidentally leave a typewriter and desk in one of the bedrooms upstairs?” 

There was silence on the other end of the line and you were becoming more and more anxious the longer she took to respond. “No honey, I didn’t leave anything in the house. It has been empty for over a year now.” She quietly answered in her sweet but concerned tone. “Is everything okay?” 

“Yes, yes. No worries at all. I had a great first night here. Thank you so much again!” You hit the red button before she could even think of a reply. 

You looked up to your bedroom door that was wide open and felt the goosebumps rise once again down your spine. What the actual fuck is happening here? 

[mamamittens]

A Lone Melody (Pt. 10)

Main

This chapter was sponsored by @yanderefangirl as part of the "Oh Shit Sale", thank you so much and I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Warnings: Implied but not seen violence against a child. Health/dental issues. Racism.

Word Count: 2,109

Melody had been crying a lot lately.

To be fair to the young girl, she had a lot of reasons to cry.

Her dah, silly, aggressive fishman that endlessly teased her only to toss her high above his head with a toothy grin, had left.

Uncle Fishy, the sad man who held her so tenderly despite the hurt in his eyes, had died.

Her face hurt from the way her teeth had broken on her pah’s necklace one night. The jagged shards cutting her skin more than her small fangs ever could before. Venom seeping into the wounds providing no relief but heat. The thick liquid thinning out in her mouth as it wept endlessly from her teeth. She kept swallowing it so she wouldn’t just be drooling onto the table but it made her feel worse. Too full to eat or drink anything considerable even if it smelled really good.

Melody felt bad too. On the inside. Where her heart softly stuttered when she sobbed, not just her stomach that wanted something filling besides her own tainted spit.

She knew everyone was worried about her. Pah. Auntie Shar. All the nice ladies at the café. Even the two weird pirates that sat across from her.

But Melody just couldn’t stop crying.

The least she could do, was try and cry quietly. Maybe if she did, it would stop hurting.

Maybe her teeth would get better.

Maybe she wouldn’t swallow so much of her own venom anymore.

Maybe dah would come back…

And then she could eat with Tha-ch and Mar-co with a smile so even they wouldn’t look so worried for her.

Everyone would be happier if she stopped crying…

But Melody just couldn’t stop.

She gave them a hug after wiping off her face—something that they seemed to appreciate given how wet her napkin was.

They smelled… different. Familiar. Like sea salt and sun. The burn of booze and aftershave. Different but familiar. Their skin soft despite the rugged nature of piracy as she rubbed her face on their throat, teeth painfully clenched shut despite the instinctive desire to bite. To see what it felt like to cut into something warm.

Dah taught her better, even if he didn’t like humans compared to fishmen. Though he did emphasize exceptions to the rule.

But Tha-ch and Mar-co weren’t exceptions.

They were friends.

Friends that pah seemed wary of when she told him. Auntie Shar whispering something in his ear too low for Melody to hear. He seemed to relax, swiping his gentle thumb under her eyes.

“I think I may have found a dentist for you, pup. We’ll go to the office tomorrow and see if he’s willing to try and help.” Pah rumbled softly, smiling as she buried her nose into his chest, rubbing her face against his skin.

The promise of relief brought with it a swift collapse into sleep.

Melody will remember this day, though hazy with pain and emotions.

The kindness of her family as they sought to comfort her until a solution could be found.

And the two strange humans that eagerly distracted her and shared a meal despite her state.

The next day, however, Melody would remember far more.

--*--

Hody Jones slinked through an alleyway, nose wrinkled at the foul stench of refuse and humans. Those damn pirates had managed to worm their way into the good graces of his king and saw fit to stick around. Polluting the very air he breathed like they had a right. It sickened him, honestly.

The way they all happily traipsed down the streets, gawking at the land and people.

Obviously, Fishman Island was a beautiful place outside of the slums. The mermaids an obvious attraction to outsiders. But that didn’t mean Hody wanted to see them drool over his people. Even the frail mermaids deserved more respect than that. Though, they at least kept their hands to themselves, unlike many other groups of humans that managed to get in.

That was about the only thing they had going for them though.

Hody wished, not for the first time, that he had the strength to beat them all away. Show them how little they were worth compared to him. But this wasn’t just any group of pirates. These were the Whitebeard Pirates. They swarmed like cockroaches under the banner of Edward Newgate. And as pissed as Hody was, even he knew his limits.

But the sound of soft sniffles over scraping refuse under his feet challenged that notion swiftly.

Enraged, Hody quickly rounded the corner and found the mutt sitting on a bench outside a dentist’s office. It was almost dizzying how rapidly his emotions swirled with the realization.

The tiny half-breed was curled in on itself. Trying to appear smaller, perhaps. Why they were there… well, Hody could guess, but not why they were alone. He’d never seem it alone before. Always being carried and doted on. Spoiled. Hody felt his lips curl into a sneer.

Well… if he can’t do anything about the worthless humans, the least he could do was solve everyone’s problem with the mutt’s teeth.

Sneer twisting into a more approachable look, Hody stepped forward and called out.

“Hey there.” It turned to look at him, bright red eyes locking with his.

…she looked so young.

His hand itched to get it over with already.

--*--

Edward huffed, a smile hidden under his moustache as his sons argued behind him. Thatch whining about his innocence as Marco mercilessly teased him for flirting with a married mermaid.

“I was just speaking facts! She is beautiful! I didn’t know it was a crime to state the obvious!” Thatch complained, to which Marco scoffed.

“Maybe not, but leaning into her space and putting your hand on her tail was probably what offended her husband more than anything else.”

“I didn’t see her tail! I SWEAR!” Thatch screeched, “I meant to rest my hand on the table—how was I supposed to know she was resting her fin there?!”

“By looking?” Marco responded dryly.

Thankfully, Edward was there to scold his son enough to get the incident blown off with no issue, though the mermaid in question seemed deeply amused.

As a favor to his silly boy, Edward was taking the long way to the ship. Allowing the two to tease each other without dragging the rest of the ship into it. The slums weren’t exactly welcoming, but between his size and reputation—as well as the show his sons were putting on without realizing—no one argued about their presence. His boots clicked against the dirty street with a familiar cadence. Slow, steady gait eating the distance just enough to let his sons keep up in their distraction.

The sound of the slums background noise in his ears. An unfortunately familiar one even after all this time.

Hushed arguments. Small, contained violence as street kids shoved each other, daring one to try and pickpocket ‘fresh meat’. Store keeps selling wares at ridiculous prices to whoever was dumb enough to wander so far from the marketplace. It all blended in behind his son’s argument.

Until a sharp sound cut through it all just as they rounded a corner.

A heavy, meaty slap.

And then a high, young wail.

Edward’s eyes snapped to the scene, his sons falling silent instantly.

A tall fishman towered over a toddler. Hand raised over his opposite shoulder. The baby collapsed on the sidewalk, small hand to their face. His eyes narrowed as his strides quickly ate the distance. Curly black hair like his son, Teach, contained under a small white cap. But the resemblance did little to soothe the instant anger Edward felt. His hand curling in the back of the man’s shirt and tossing him into the wall.

“Oh, shit, that’s Melody!” Thatch gasped, scrambling past Edward and falling to his knees to fret over the child. Edward felt pride in how quickly his son acted as he pinned down the offender with his boot. The fishman glaring at him with a sneer as the child cried great, heaving sobs. “H-Hey, baby, it’s alright. The mean, mean man can’t hurt you. Pops got him—lemme see the—oh he got you good, huh?” Thatch cooed in his softest voice.

Marco quickly joined Thatch as the two helped the child up and inspected the damage. Edward was a little surprised Marco hadn’t already tried healing the obvious bruise but trusted his son had good reason.

The door to what appeared to be a doctor’s office slammed open. A man Edward recognized as Jinbe looking around wildly with a fury he felt sharp kinship with.

Clearly, this was ‘Melody’s’ father.

Jinbe seemed to pause at the curious sight before him, glancing between his crying child, Edward’s fussing sons, and himself. Boot digging into the fishman snarling up at him.

“What is going on here?” Jinbe growled with an impressive depth. The fishman under his boot seeming to pale despite his already white skin, expression faltering.

“W-Was just trying to help the mutt!” He defended with a gasp as Edward pressed his boot down a little harder in fury. “C-Clearly someone needed to knock those teeth loose!”

Jinbe sucked in a sharp breath and spun on his heel, gently pushing aside Edward’s sons to scoop up his child, taking in the damage.

Even before the child was in Jinbe’s arms, they were small. Pale gray skin with dark fingers. White hair tipped black and red with the biggest, watery ruby eyes Edward had ever seen. A large mark on her cheek cradled by small hands rapidly growing a dark purple. Blood and some sort of bright blue liquid seeping from her lips as she whimpered. Edward’s heart went out to the poor child.

“Melody, pup, let me see.” Jinbe held his daughter close and gently opened her mouth, eyes narrowed at the jagged, bloody mess of her teeth. The man inhaled sharply with a hiss. “I do not care what your excuse is—you. Struck. My. Daughter?”

Marco, ever brave, stood up and cleared his throat. Jinbe’s eyes were sharp as he looked at Edward’s son. Not faltering in the slightest, Marco gave a thin smile.

“I’m a doctor with the phoenix fruit. If you want, I can see what I can do while you handle… that.” Marco offered, Thatch instantly standing at his side.

“I’ll hold her hand if it helps! Marco’s the best doctor.” Thatch grimaced. “We heard you were… having trouble finding someone to treat her already.”

Jinbe seemed to struggle, body tense as he looked at his crying child and the three humans. Edward felt regret settle in his chest at the obvious distrust.

Still, he understood. Even under better circumstances, Jinbe had little reason to trust human pirates.

“P-Pah-pah?” A soft, hoarse voice whimpered. “H-Hurts, pah…” she spoke with difficulty through tears and her swelling mouth. Broken teeth likely not helping matters any.

Jinbe melted, pressing a kiss to his daughter’s hair.

“Doctor…Marco?” Jinbe partially cooed at his child, glancing at Marco in question. “—He wants to help. Can you be brave for me, pup?”

Melody sniffled but nodded, burying her face into Jinbe’s yukata before turning and reaching out to Marco.

A little surprise, Marco reached out hesitantly, looking to Jinbe for permission.

It was given reverently. Exactly how Edward would if he had to hand one of his children to someone else to take care of them as he could not. Heartbreaking reluctance and resolve to have the best hands sooth his child’s need. And Marco nodded, lifting the toddler to his chest before looking to the office.

“Think they’ll let me use their space?” Marco mused mostly to himself and Thatch.

Jinbe snarled.

“They better.” Jinbe glared pointedly at the window where a fishman in a doctor’s coat flinched away. The door opening seconds later.

“O-Of course! C-Come in—oh, you poor thing I-I—come in, please.” The fishman doctor wilting at the sight of the bruised child still clutching the side of her face.

Marco and Thatch went in.

“…thank you, Captain Whitebeard.” Jinbe huffed, tears in his eyes as he reluctantly looked away from the now closed office door.

“Just Whitebeard will do… father to father.” Edward acquiesced, lifting his boot as Jinbe stalked forward towards the now thoroughly frightened fishman.

Jinbe took in a sharp, steadying breath and bared his teeth at the man who struck his child.

Edward gladly took a step back and smiled.

He couldn’t wait to call this fine young man his son… and gain a granddaughter in the same breath.

[sunniskyies]

𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐞-𝐄𝐲𝐞𝐝 || 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐎𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐟𝐢𝐜

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Finnick Odair x original female character 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: All warnings can be found on the series' masterlist 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 8.97k 𝐀/𝐍: Another long chapter !! I don't expect people to read this, I'm just posting old stuff :)

𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐞-𝐄𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝟎𝟒 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟐𝟑𝟎𝟖

The scent of salt still clings to Eloise's skin as she pushes open the cottage door, droplets from her sunrise swim dripping onto the worn wooden floor. She had swum longer than usual, for once having a whole morning free of classes and work. It’s mid-morning now, and Cova sits wriggling on Cressida’s lap as she pulls out the cloth bound in her hair to reveal two large blonde ringlets. The little girl squeals joyfully, the nervousness for the day ahead absent in her smile. Marlowe sat at the small square table picking at a plate of runny porridge. She for once doesn’t complain as Eloise quietly approaches her and begins plaiting two braids into her long dark locks. She ties them together in the back in a half-up half-down style.

“You’re gonna be okay Marly. Don’t worry so.” She assures the girl quietly and lets the conviction of her words seep into her tone. Marlowe wouldn’t be going to the games this year or any other year, Eloise would make sure of it.

She looks over to Cova to see that her mother has also decided on a half-up half-down style, but instead of braiding it she lets the ponytail sit amongst Cova’s new ringlets.

“Wow, Mama!” Cova chirps, admiring herself in the reflection of Cressida’s dirty old hand mirror. “I nearly look as pretty as Eloise.” She looks over wistfully at the older girl. Eloise snorts. 

“Yeah right. I’m as plain as they come, you and Marlowe are way cuter than me.” Eloise pinches Cova's cheeks, making her giggle.

“I put your reaping dress on the bed.” Her mother says, placing a plate of porridge in front of Cova with shaky hands. “There’s a pail of water on the stove. Wash the salt off yourself and clean your face.”

Eloise’s dark eyebrows knit together. “Do I have time? I thought I needed to go get errands done before we go.”

Her mother shakes her head but doesn’t elaborate. This happens often when she gets overwhelmed, so Eloise obliges. She stands on the sliver of grass behind their house and douses her body. She shivers, the sun well up in the sky but the air still crisp, as if the sun itself was mourning.

Back inside, Eloise’s reaping dress lays out on the bed. It was the same every year, but perhaps this time it would finally fit. It’s a long, sea-grey, sleeveless Gunne Sax dress with tiny floral patterns all over it. It was simple, perhaps a little frumpy, but Eloise didn’t care much. Staring in the mirror, Eloise saw how now that she had grown into her body, the dress hugged her somewhat nicely..

“It matches my eyes?” Eloise had said half-heartedly to Jenny-Grace once a few years ago before the reaping, comparing the colour to Jen’s one. It too was a Gunne Sax dress, but hers was soft spring green with pretty ribbon details.

“It does not match your eyes. That thing is mental illness grey. Your eyes are as blue as the ocean, everyone always compliments them. Grandma says you got ‘em from swimming in the sea too much.” She had responded. Eloise had flushed, and Jenny-Grace had burst out laughing.

“Can I do your hair now?” Her mother’s frail voice snaps her out of the memory, and Eloise turns away from the full-length mirror in her shared bedroom. Cressida stands with a matching sea-grey hair ribbon. Eloise had made sure not to get her hair wet this morning in the ocean, but she didn’t realise they were going to style it.

“My hair isn’t straight like the girls’, Mum.” Eloise laughs, gesturing to her long dark blonde curls. “You don’t have to doll me up.”

Her mother just spun her around to face the mirror again, running coconut oil through her ends, lifting a heap of curls and tying it in a matching style to Cova and Marlowe’s. She ties the ribbon in a long bow at the back.

“So you all match.” Her mother says in that whisper-like voice.

Eloise kisses her on the cheek gently. “Thanks, Mum.”

“Have you got your bracelet, Petal?” Eloise nods. She never takes it off.

Her mother gives her a soft smile, a rare sight. “Now, sit down on the floor.” She instructs, stronger now.

Confused, Elosie looks down to see her mother had extracted a handful of cosmetics from her pinafore pocket. Her eyes widened.

“Makeup? Mama, I’m only 17, and I’m not a television star!” Makeup in the districts was limited to the wealthy and adults. It was a luxury for those who earned it, not some sea-nymph who brawls at the docks and drinks beer with 40-year-old men. Her mother shakes her head, meaning that Eloise can’t argue any further.

So she watches in awe as Cressida brushes light swathes of the precious powder over her cheeks, careful not to hide the subtle freckles on her nose. Then she adds a kissable pink to the bud of her lips, and finishes off by applying dark paint to her eyelashes. 

Looking at herself now, Eloise suddenly sees that vision of herself sitting with Caesar Flickerman, wearing a beautiful gown and a TV-worthy smile. Except it isn’t just a fantasy, she really can put the almost pretty face that was staring back at her onto that girl.

Behind her, Cressida let a soft sob slip from her lips. Eloise rips her gaze away, quickly wrapping the dark-haired woman in a tight embrace. “Thank you, Mama. I look great. Come on. Come on, we need to take the girls.”

Her mother sucks in a breath, letting Eloise help her to her feet. Together they gather up the girls, dumping porridgeless plates in the sink and tying the wriggling childrens’ laces. Holding hands, the four girls walk to the square where the reaping would start at 1:00.

It takes longer to get there than it takes when Eloise is by herself, it would be improper to scuff her shiny chestnut boots running around. By the time they make it to the square, it’s swarming with people. Tear-stained children saying goodbye to their mothers, older siblings guiding youngsters to the right pens. But a solemn air hangs everywhere, filling the children’s frail little lungs and choking out the warmth of the sunlight.

The girls take turns hugging their mother, and Eloise watches as she totters off to the parent’s area. Marlowe and Eloise hold each of Cova’s hands, the little one now swamped with nerves about her first reaping.

“Now Cova, remember what I told you? They’re gonna prick your finger for a teensy bit of blood, and then you’re gonna follow your school friends to the right pen, okay?” Cova looks dazed, nodding absently. Eloise squeezes her hand reassuringly.

“Look, I’ll go first, show you it’s not a big deal, m’kay?” She says, partly for the 12-year-old, and partly for Marlowe too. The poor girl had gone as white as a sheet, her dark eyes huge.

A few more kids get pricked, and then it’s Eloise’s turn. She holds out her finger as confidently as possible to the masked Peacekeeper, wanting to encourage her younger sisters. But in all honesty, Eloise has a slight phobia of needles. She grits her teeth as the needle punctures her soft finger, rough hands pushing her scarlet blood onto the page alongside a hundred others.

As she’s sent along, Eloise tries to look back at her stepsisters. But a wave of children sweeps her forward, blocking her view and forcibly dividing her off into the 17-year-old pen. She can only hope Marlowe and Cova found their way as she’s jostled around by nervous bodies.

Finally, everyone settles down, and Eloise cranes her neck to see the stage. An elegant podium perches at the prow of the stage like a ship’s figurehead, behind it a row of chairs hem the seam between the wooden stage and the Justice Building. The chairs' occupants appear, walking up the stairs and filing along to their seats.

District 4’s Victors line up in order of victory, 74-year-old Mags Flanagan at the head. She won the 11th games, Eloise recited automatically in her head. Next, Marino Bay, victor of the 42nd games. Eloise remembers seeing the 45-year-old occasionally, popping his head in for handfuls of advice at the academy now and then. Then follows Rio Fathom, 34-year-old victor of the 53rd games. Eloise doesn’t know much about him other than he only lives with his wife and has a fondness for rum. Behind him, Caspian Dune. A meticulously vain man of 26 who won the 60th games. He wasn’t not handsome, but Eloise found his beauty artificial and tremendously upkept, hair gelled into the perfect way, lips curved in a practised smile. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say he radiated egotism.

We, he would if it wasn’t the Finnick Odair who walked a few steps behind, the arrogance that bloomed from the young man overpowering anything Caspian could muster. Finnick Odair won the 65th games at a record 14 years of age, and this is his fourth year mentoring, despite him only turning 18 five months ago. Not that Eloise is counting.

He is constantly gracing the television screen, the ‘Darling of the Capitol’ always wearing the latest fashion with a new woman at his hip and a camera on his heels. He had won over the conceited people of the Capitol with one flash of his charming smile, and after he came back from the games as a Victor his person is the only thing the Capitol seems to want to talk about. How he looks, who he is with, the whole thing makes Eloise’s stomach turn. But unlike Caspian, Finnick is undeniably gorgeous. Golden skin and bronze hair, toned physique and an alluring smile, Eloise can see the appeal. She herself finds her eyes following him as he takes his seat at the end of the line.

There used to be more Victors, 3 or 4 more, lost to ‘old age’ or ‘health issues’, but Eloise remembers the hush-hush murmurs of suicide or substance abuse.

Once all the remaining Victors are seated, the thin figure of District 4’s Mayor Saltwick followed closely by the broad shoulders of Anemone Kale appears on stage. Anemone Kale is a ridiculous woman and is well known for fully embracing the role of District 4’s escort. While other Capitolites get surgical enhancements to have colourful skin, replicate animals or other gruesome body modifications, Anemone has gotten scales, gills, and skin colouration done until her head and shoulders resemble that of a mermaid. No one in District 4 admires this look, but the woman seems to believe this is a groundbreaking beauty standard in the seaside district. Because of course, they are fishermen! What do you mean looking like a fish isn’t attractive?

The two of them barely sit in their designated seats when the large clock at the top of the Justice Building heralds 2 o’clock. The Mayor stands once again and makes his way to the podium. Eloise zones out as he rambles on about the history of Panem, his annual reprimand fading into the background. She finds her gaze sliding back over to Finnick, reclining in his chair with his leg resting comfortably over the other and arms draped about him. He looks so at ease, she thinks to herself, no sign of the drunken mess she had seen yesterday.

His gaze seems to be roving over the faces of the children, and for a moment, his sea-green eyes seem to rest on her ocean-blue ones. She instantaneously looks away in fright.

She swore he had recognised her at the docks yesterday, but did he? They had never met before, so surely he must’ve gotten her confused with someone similar… Then why did it feel like he was staring at her? Eloise scoffs at herself. He is a hundred kids and a stage away, he can’t possibly have located her eyes! But when Eloise looks back, she could’ve sworn his gaze caught on her again.

Her reverie is shattered as the crowd around her begins to clap and the Mayor, apparently finished, steps away and is replaced by a bustling Anemone. ”Happy Hunger Games!” Anemone practically sings, the microphone whining uncomfortably. “Now for the selection! May the odds be ever in your favour!”

Trotting over to the girls' bowl, Anemone rifles through the pool of tiny white envelopes. Each paper contains the name of a child, a daughter, a sister, a life. The one Anemone holds in her silk-gloved hand now contains the name of a doomed child, a lost daughter, a missed sister. Anemone leans back into the mic. “As always, ladies first!” She drawls, pawing at the black seal of the paper slip.

The mass of children and parents stills, watching with bated breath for the name that is to be announced. The fear that surrounds Eloise is stifling, but she can’t deny the validity of it. Regardless of the blood that runs through their veins, Marlowe and Cova are her sisters, and the thought of their rosy cheeks and curious eyes being sent to slaughter aches deep within her. ”Florence Bay!”

A wave of relief washes over Eloise. She isn’t a friend or a loved one, and that is the best outcome. But the same can’t be said for everyone. From behind Anemone, Eloise can see that the Victor Marino is stiff, hands clutching the armrests, eyes wide. Then she realises. She must be his daughter, Eloise grimaces.

About thirty heads in front of her, she can see the young girl pushing her way through the 16-year old pen, her curly brown locks tied in two loose plaits down the back of her eggshell blue pinafore. The girl stumbles up to the stage, hesitantly joining Anemone at the front, glancing at her father, who somehow looks more terrified than her.

Eloise feels a churning deep in her stomach at the sight of the Victors, a nervous flutter that slowly fills her whole body with a electrified buzz. Was it the way the Victors held their heads high? Was it the strong limbs and weaponry skills they all harboured? Or was it the knowledge that each one of them had entered an arena with 1/24 odds and came out with glory dripping from their names?

Eloise stares up at the female tribute, trying to picture her sitting on stage in the beautiful gown and the whole of Panem watching, but she can’t. The poor girl looks green to the face, and by the pitiful way she stands, she resembles more of a scared newborn giraffe than a fierce warrior. That girl will die for sure, and Eloise feels the strange sensation one usually gets when seeing a dead person. Unfortunately, Florence seems to know this as well, and frantically looks around at the other girls in the audience when Anemone speaks again.

”Now, as is customary, we will call for volunteers!” The escort’s voice rings out to be met by silence.

A handful of heartbeats go by, roaring in Eloise’s ears like an earthquake despite the deafening silence that stretches out, until;

”I volunteer as tribute!” a strong voice calls out.

For a second Eloise wants to look around to see where the voice comes from, before she snaps back to reality. It is her arm in the air. Her voice that had called out.

She has paused in her moment of realisation, and now everyone in the square is looking around for her. Eloise feels dizzy. But Anemone just lets out a small cough, prompting Eloise to come up and swap with Florence.

Eloise jerks into action, her legs taking her through the crowd of murmuring girls and into the corridor between the girls’ and boys’ pens. She vaguely registers Peacekeepers plodding behind her as she walks toward the stairs. There, she passes Florence walking back down to her section. Up close, Eloise can see the tears swimming in her eyes, her cracked lips forming a hasty ’thank you’ before the Peacekeepers push her onwards.

Eloise does her best to hold her head high, not wanting to look weak. She still hasn’t fully grasped the situation she’s in right now, but she knew how many people were watching this moment and on the television replay tonight. Sizing her up.

Before she knows it, Eloise finds herself standing before a sea of people, hundreds of familiar eyes trained on her. Heart pounding, her vision stretches and warps at a swell of disorientation that starts stirring in her head, and Eloise has to clasp her hands behind her back to steady herself. The cameras can’t see this, of course, but the Victors lined up behind her surely can see the way her fingers involuntarily squeeze the blood out of each other, white knuckles tangled together.

She is so out of it that she almost doesn’t hear Anemone asking her name over the roaring of blood in her ears. Eloise steps slowly up to the microphone for fear of her knees buckling beneath her. ”Eloise Thorne,” She says, managing to steady the hoarse tremble that threatens to crawl into her mouth before she speaks.

”Splendid!” Anemone trills and Eloise steps to the side of the flamboyant escort where she has seen so many girls stand before her. Never before did she actually think she’d be here herself. They were just daydreams, weren’t they?

”Let’s give Eloise a show of our support!” Anemone all but gushes, her enthusiastic claps slowing awkwardly as she finds herself the only one clapping. Hesitantly a steady smattering of applause fills the square, but Eloise can’t bring herself to search for the undoubtedly applause-less figures of Jenny-Grace and her family, she doesn’t need to look at them to see the looks of horror and disappointment on their faces.

”Now for the boys!” Anemone continues, her heels clicking on the hardwood as she strides over to the glass bowl that holds the names of hundreds of wide-eyed boys. Another wave of that stifling atmosphere swamps the plaza, and even the breeze holds its breath as Anemone’s gloved hand flits through the bowl before decidedly plucking an envelope as if it were a particularly juicy treat and not the name of an innocent boy doomed to death.

The sound of paper rustling seems to echo throughout the surrounding buildings as the escort click-clacks her way back to the microphone and slips open the paper sleeve. ”August Reed.” Anemone announces.

Eloise’s body goes slack, her previously knotted fingers dropping to her sides in disbelief. The name sounds distant, as if being read underwater, until she realises she is swaying. She swallows.

Squaring her feet to steady herself, Eloise searches the crowd for the sweet curly mop of August’s hair. She sees it, bobbing as he slips between bodies and trips over feet before he finally emerges from the 15-year-old section, brown eyes as round as saucers locked onto Eloise’s. She winks and tries to project reassurance into the smile she shoots at him. He still looks tense, but the cloudy glaze seems to clear from his eyes when he realises she wasn’t already sizing him up for murder. He pads up the wooden steps and hastily crosses the stage, the beady eyes of the crowd finally leaving Eloise and looking at the boy instead.

Eloise’s fingers twist together again when no one volunteers in the young boy’s place. No academy kid raising their arm to say ‘Leave him! Take me instead!’. 

They numbly stand a mayor-length apart as the haughty man drones on about the Treaty of Treason. Eloise isn’t listening though, her mind thinking about poor Jenny-Grace Reed in the crowd losing her best friend and her brother in less than ten minutes. Eloise begins to feel the weight of her actions sinking through her shoulders and clenching her heart. Her life that once stretched out in front of her now curls up, forming an impenetrable door that everyone else has the key to but her. Because she already knows what she has to do.

She has to get August home.

Once the Mayor finishes his dreary recitation, he gestures the tributes to clasp hands. But without hesitation, instead of accepting August’s outstretched hand, she reaches over and pulls him into a tight hug. While tense at first, August quickly melts into her familiar embrace, her arms seemingly the only thing holding him together in that moment. The crowd lets out the breath they were holding, a gentle hum of relief, pity and regret all stirred together.

The anthem of Panem begins to trickle from the large speakers mounted around the square, and soldiers dressed in white take this as a call to action. The Peacekeepers usher them into the Justice Building, unsympathetic gloved hands prodding and pushing them down opposite hallways.

Finally, at the end of the hallway, the Peacekeepers lead her into a secluded room and shut the door behind her. Looking around, Eloise can’t help but gape at the wealth cloying to every inch of the room. The walls were covered in wallpaper, white ducks and tiny seashells on a background of blue, velvet sofas and chairs, deep chocolatey wood and a shimmering crystal chandelier.

Eloise walks up to the window and peers out. The crowds have almost dissolved, Peacekeepers shouting orders around muffled by the glass but still audible. Eloise can’t bear to look at those large families going home for the afternoon, so instead she sinks into the sofa.

She thinks about Magnus, the closest thing to a father that she can remember. And all the rest of the crew, who will tell them why she won’t be there on time for her shift? Will word of mouth get around?

And her stepsisters. Eloise doesn’t worry too much about them, even without Eloise’s wages they will get by okay. In all honesty, Eloise has always believed that she’s a bit of a black sheep, with curly hair instead of straight and blue eyes instead of brown. Her mother passes more for Marlowe and Cova’s mother than she does for Eloise. Maybe it’ll even be better this way.

And Jenny-Grace. Eloise winces internally. She won’t be surprised if she doesn’t show up to say goodbye, it must be uncomfortable to say goodbye to someone you want dead, if only to keep your brother alive. But Eloise understood, she would choose the life of her sisters over her best friend, because at the end of the day, Eloise was Marlowe and Cova’s protector. And Jenny-Grace was August’s.

The door to the luxurious room swings open, two distraught sisters streaming in followed closely by their stepmother.

“El!” The girls both shriek, grabbing her shoulders.

“What were you thinking?” Marlowe wails “You didn’t get called!”

“You’ve gotta tell them you’ve made a mistake!” Cova cries, her words jumbled from the stream of tears and snot, and the sobs wracking her body.

“Shhhh. It’s gonna be okay.” Eloise says, pulling them both into a tight squeeze. “I’m just going on a little trip. You know I’m super strong, I’ll be back before you know it.” Eloise lies, not wanting to tell them about her decision to sacrifice herself in exchange for August’s survival.

“But it’s so dangerous! What if you… what if you…” Marlowe blubs into her dress.

“You saw that little girl up there? Florence?” Eloise says, pushing the two girls back so they could see her face. “She’s your age, Marly. Wouldn’t you’ve liked it if someone took your place? You saw the way no one volunteered for her! She’s just the same as you, just as deserving of life as you.” She reasons. Marlowe just shakes her head strongly.

“But you’re deserving of life too!” She whispers hoarsely. Eloise does her best to smile.

“Yes, and I will come back. Go on now, you two. That Peacekeeper needs you to leave.” She deflects, the Peacekeeper who appeared at the door now asking them to leave. Hesitantly, the girls oblige, leaving the room with shouts of ‘I love you!’ and ‘Please stay safe!’

Defying the Peacekeeper, her Mother stays behind, pulling Eloise into a quick, tight hug.

“Stay safe.” She whispers, not a tear in her eye. “I love you.”

Eloise studies her, the confusion must be written all over her features. Surely her mother, too fragile for even the mundane, should be breaking down at an event like this? Eloise’s eyes widen.

“You knew.” She gasps. “Forfeiting the errands. The hair. The makeup. How did you know? I didn’t even know!”

Her mother just shakes her head, lost for words as always. The Peacekeeper is tugging at her shoulder, demanding she leave. Her mother blows her a kiss before disappearing out the door, pushed by the Peacekeeper.

Other than Jenny-Grace, who wasn’t going to come, and The Wayfarer’s crew, who were currently out at sea, there was no one left to say goodbye to Eloise. She sits back down on the couch, letting her body sink into the squishy pillows. I wonder if I lay here, I’ll sink all the way in and stay there forever, Eloise thinks idly, before surprisingly, the door swings open again.

Annie, Noah, Vera, Jasper and Mako flood into the room. Eloise springs up.

“What are you guys doing here?” She exclaims.

“We’re here to give you some last-minute advice.” Annie says, hands on her hips “Why’d you not tell us you were going to volunteer?”

Eloise lets out a nervous laugh. “I didn’t know I was going to.” She croaks. Annie’s eyebrows furrow and she quickly pulls her into a tight hug, the others following suit until they are all hugging each other. Eloise had never thought about her classmates as friends before, but right at this moment, she felt like she was going to miss them terribly.

“Get to the Cornucopia first.’ Vera sniffs “You’re fast.”

“Yeah,” Noah agrees, “find a trident. Or a spear.”

“Get water!” Annie adds.

They all start bombarding Eloise with advice, even as three Peacekeepers start forcefully dragging them out.

“Think of us when you’re on TV!” Jasper calls, halfway out the door.

“Don’t die!” Annie calls, already out in the hallway being carried by a Peacekeeper.

Eloise laughs, not necessarily a happy one, but a laugh nonetheless. Don’t die, she thinks to herself. If only it was that easy.

She found herself thinking once again about Jenny-Grace. Sweet, lovely Jenny-Grace, who always sneaks peppermints into kind customers’ brown bags, and spends hour after hour patiently waiting while Eloise runs around doing god knows what. Sweet lovely Jenny-Grace who always wears yellow and smells like coconut and the sea and freshly baked bread. Eloise’s face turns stony as she thinks about how she must feel, watching her beloved little brother sent off to death. She couldn’t imagine seeing Cova or Marlowe like that, and Eloise knew more than ever why she needed to do this.

Her solitude is interrupted by another group of Peacekeepers entering the chamber. They wordlessly guide her out of the room and down a different hallway. Eloise squints as sunlight hits her eyeballs, and finds herself being led towards the Capitol train station.

Realising with a pang in her chest that this is the last time she will ever be in District 4 again, Eloise lets her eyes drink in the scenery. The smell of salt and summer flowers, and the warm, albeit weak, sun on her back.

As they enter the station, Eloise is shocked to see the eyes of a thousand camera lenses clicking and flashing in her face. Trying not to be disoriented by the shouts and whistles, Eloise does her best to smile as she’s escorted onto the flashest train she’s ever seen.

Inside, Anemone Kale sits on a plush blue sofa, but Eloise doesn’t have time to look around before a familiar mop of dark curls clamber aboard after her. August’s eyes are glazed, and Eloise wastes no time crossing over to him and wrapping him up in a bone-crushing hug.

“Hey, hey. Don’t worry, don’t worry.” She soothes, already feeling the tears soaking into her shoulder. “You’re gonna be fine, okay? I’m going to keep you alive. I’ll keep you alive.” She repeats these whispered words, hugging her best friend’s brother until he takes a deep breath and steps away.

“You can’t… you can’t do that,” He whispers, averting her eyes. Eloise understands it’s one thing to politely refuse a cup of tea, and another to refuse your own survival out of politeness. You can’t do it.

“Yes, I can.” She insists. “I’ll keep you alive until the very end.” 

“What if… we’re the final two?” August whispers with a shudder. Eloise shakes her head.

“Then I’ll die. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” She says, resolutely. If not to convince herself, then to reassure August.

“Children, why don’t you go to your rooms and have some downtime, hm?” Anemone interjects awkwardly, obviously overhearing their conversation. “I’ll call you both for supper in a few hours, and you can meet your mentors! How exciting!” She gestures to a hall that must contain their rooms.

Eloise and August don’t share this excitement, shooting each other a look as they walk out of the luxurious main room in silence. Eloise gives August a shoulder squeeze before they disappear into their separate rooms.

Eloise walks into a space larger than her entire house and immediately beelines for the bathroom as a wave of nausea rolls through her. Quickly gathering up fistfuls of golden coils, Eloise collapses in front of the shiny toilet bowl just in time as she revisits her porridge. It doesn’t help that the train pulls out of the station halfway through, making her lurch and grab on tightly to the toilet.

After her body adjusts to the movement, she staggers over to the sink and washes her face and mouth, watching numbly as the precious powder her mother had lovingly applied just over an hour earlier washes away down the drain. Tears prick in her eyes. Why did she volunteer? She wasn’t Annie Cresta, she didn’t want to kill anyone! Looking into the gold-inlaid mirror, Eloise saw the face of her fantasy staring back at her, the one who sat in front of Panem and revelled in her victory.

Eloise hears a scream escape from her mouth at the sight, and stumbles back into the shower and ripping her dress off as fast as she could, shutting the door and blasting the water. Eloise had never taken a hot shower before, only ever bathing in metal tubs. But she had used the outdoor showers at the docks meant for blasting sand and grit from you with cold seawater, so finding the right button wasn’t difficult.

A rainbow of bottles and pots sit on shelves around the spacious shower, and Eloise finds herself studying them. Unlike at home, the Capitol seem to have bottles of different soaps for different purposes, instead of just one singular bar. Despite the life-threatening situation Eloise is currently in, girlish curiosity wins over and she begins reading their labels and lining up several bottles on the floor that sport different titles. She shuffles them around into the correct order according to the instructions on the back and begins washing her hair and scrubbing her body head to toe. Delightfully, she finds one of each that smells like coconut, and closing her eyes, Eloise can almost picture herself at home while her mother mixes ointments in the kitchen.

She steps out of the shower 45 minutes later, cleaner than she’s ever been. She wraps her wet hair up in one of the towels and another around her body while she rummages through the chest of drawers in the bedroom. It’s full of soft, fine clothes and that same girlish joy from before hijacks Eloise’s hands as she shuffles through them. If she is going to die in a matter of weeks, she might as well enjoy this luxury.

She chooses a soft white blouse and a pair of jeans. Jeans! Denim is unheard of in the districts, and the Capitolites don’t see much fashion in them. But Eloise finds them very comfortable. 

She sits on the side of the bed and looks out the window, running a coconut-scented lotion through her hair in an effort to remind herself of home. It smells more artificial than the stuff her mother makes, but Eloise doesn’t mind. Outside, the train seemed to be racing through a huge expanse of red dirt, cacti and lumps of rock are the only undulations on the surface. This is nothing like home, ELoise thinks, picturing the soft sand and expanses of water that rule her beloved District 4.

Eloise must’ve fallen asleep, because she wakes up to a sharp rapping on her door. “Dinner time! Hurry now!” Anemone’s insufferable voice pierces through the door.

Groaning, Eloise sits up from the uncomfortable tangle she had fallen asleep in. It must’ve been a few hours, because her hair is soft and dry and stars twinkle outside her window. Slipping her feet into the fluffy slippers provided for indoor use, Eloise shuffles down the hall and is welcomed by a deep mahogany table ladened with more food Eoise has even seen in her life.

Everyone else is already seated, and 4 pairs of eyes glanceup at her arrival. A curious pair of sea-green ones meet with hers, and the breath leaves Eloise’s lungs. Quickly avoiding his gaze and trying to suppress the rapid thuds of her heart, Eloise sits down with her head lowered. Distracting herself with spooning meat, vegetables and the fanciest bread onto her plate, Eloise is awestruck at the mountain of food available. This table could feed a large family for over a week!

Anemone doesn’t seem to register her shy demenour, smiling at Eloise’s polite ‘table manners’  as she takes small, unenthusiastic bites. She must be bored by now of starving children shovelling food in their face, Eloise thinks bitterly.

“It’s August, right? And… Eloise?” A velvety deep voice asks from across the table, and Eloise could feel eyes on her. It wasn’t really a question, more of a statement. Glancing up for the briefest amount of time, Eloise nods, and sees August doing the same.

“And you're a Career, huh? What’s your weapon of choice?” Finnick presses. Eloise fidgets slightly.

Eloise isn’t usually shy, but all she wants in this moment is for the Victor’s attention to leave her. “What? No! No, I’m not a… I’m not…” Eloise begins, but trails off when a flash of white catches her attention. August was cutting a slice of ham away, his wrist sporting a string of cowrie shells.

“August? Is that?” Eloise starts at the sight, and August’s dark eyes meet with hers in confusion. Eloise gestures to his wrist, and August’s eyes widen in understanding.

“Oh! Oh, yes it’s Jen’s.” The usually bubbly young boy says, devoid of his usual spark. His eyes seem to glaze over. “She gave it to me. For my token.”

Eloise (Who has now forgotten that a certain someone is across the table, unanswered) takes in a breath. August notices this, and he gives her a sad smile.

“She told me to send her love. And, and that she wanted to come say goodbye, but she- she-” August says, searching for the words.

Eloise smiles. “It would be too difficult,” She croaks. “I understand.” A weight seems to leave August’s frame at that, and he sits a little higher in his chair, his eyes less dark.

Sensing a silence, Anemone begins rambling on about the schedule of the next few days, spurring on their mentors, Finnick and Mags Flanagan, to begin coaching. The two of them ask various questions about weaponry, survival skills and other Games-related trivia. Finnick ends up taking the lead, but his rapid-fire questions seem to be aimed at Eloise, who finds herself often pinned under his intense stare.

Thankfully, August is all too happy to answer the questions for Eloise, generously raving about her abilities at the Academy and her jobs in the community.

“My grandmother loves her.” August says. “She says El always gives her the freshest bread. And she is so brave! You must’ve heard about the time when the Peacekeeprs caught her r-” 

“Want some more salmon, August?” Eloise interrupts quickly, shooting August a glare. He flushes, looking sheepish.

“Yup!” He squeaks. Finnick’s eyes roam over to her again, raising an eyebrow as if to say ‘Go on?’. Eloise averts her eyes again, shaking her head slightly. Damn it, August!

A swarm of Avoxes come out, clearing the messy table in a couple efficient seconds. Behind them, another group follows, arms carrying trays spilling over with various deserts. The two tribute’s eyes practically pop out of their head.

Awkwardness forgotten, Eloise eagerly joins August as he piles his plate high with slices of cakes, puddings, sweet sauces and fruits. A bowl of fruit sat near Anemone catches her eye, and she gingerly reaches over and plucks a piece from it, rolling it around in her hand.

Calling it a bowl of fruit is generous. In reality, it was a bowl full of fresh, pink peaches. Eloise slowly takes a bite, and is transported back to the narrow grass lawn behind her tiny house overgrown with various fruit trees. She pauses, her mouth about the soft flesh as she drinks in the scent for a long moment, her eyes looking up at Anemone.

“Are these from District 4?” She asks, holding up the fruit.

“Yes, they are.” Mags answers instead. Her voice is frail, but not the way Cressida’s is. Hers is delicate like a spindly sapling, whereas Mags’ is frail after a long life of courage and strength. Eloise meets her friendly gaze.

“Me and Finnick brought them from home. We didn’t want to leave them to rot. Aren’t they just the most delicious peaches you’ve ever had?” She smiles, taking one for herself. Eloise’s breath hitches.

𝟎𝟏 𝐀𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝟐𝟑𝟎𝟒

"Mother, do we have to do this? It’s our food; we shouldn't share it with other people. Especially not him, he was stinkin’ rich!" 13-year-old Eloise whined. Cressida stood at the kitchen table, gently filling an old Blue Eye beer crate with juicy pears, bunches of grapes, and nectarines from the orchard garden outside. She then filled a small wicker punnet with handfuls of sugar-snap peas, tying the peas' flowers into bunches along with other wildflowers from outside, and nestled them in between the fruit until the crate resembled a glorious gift basket.

"Yes, Petal. It is a kind thing to do. Their poor boy just got back from the games," she sighed with a smile, popping a pod of peas into Eloise’s pouting mouth.

"But they don’t need it!" Eloise insisted. Her mother frowned.

"How did you know that they don’t need it?" she asked. Eloise's brow furrowed.

"Because they can afford food easily! They don’t need us to give it to them!" she responded adamantly.

"Yes, maybe you’re right. They do already have food. But a gift is more than its contents; it’s showing the other person love, and that you care about them," Cressida hummed, settling a few jars of her coconut lotion in the crate too. "That little boy has been through an ordeal; wouldn’t you agree that the thing he needs most right now is some care?"

Little Eloise thought for a long moment and then nodded. "Yes, I understand. But what are they giving us in return?"

Her mother, finally finished, handed Eloise the punnet of peas while she carried the crate on her hip like a basket. Eloise opened the door, and they began walking away from the house.

"Nothing, dear. The kindest souls are those who perform good deeds without expecting anything in return, simply because kindness is their nature. Even when it goes unseen," she responded. "Does that make sense?"

Eloise nodded. They were heading somewhat out of town, and after 20 minutes of walking, the two girls reached the iron gates of the Victor's Village. Eloise was almost speechless by the gleaming white houses that lined the road stretching out ahead, and pictured herself returning from the Games to a house like that.

"Come on, Petal. We don’t want them to see us, remember? We’re not here to be attention-seekers; we’re just being generous," Cressida said. She had already placed the gifts in the gateway and started walking away. After another moment of awestruck staring, Eloise tore her eyes away and began to follow her mother back home. She had just turned the corner, out of sight of the Village when she heard a door open. Ducking behind a huge ivy bush that climbed the wrought iron fence, Eloise peered into the Village.

A young boy exited his house in the distance and seemed to notice the crates at the gate. Curiously, he began to walk over. He knelt down, inspecting the crate of fruit for a name, a note, anything. Not having found one, he looked up, confusion etched on his soft features as he glanced around for a sign of the kind gifter. He looked down at the crate again and plucked a peach out. Rolling the sweet fruit around in his hands, a small smile began to spread over his lips.

Eloise Thorne had never seen a boy like him before. Not like this. The boy’s tan skin was soaked in golden morning sunlight, a breezy white shirt hanging off him. His bronze hair was tousled, and Eloise felt like she could just reach out and touch it. It looked so feathery, falling into his eyes when the boy had looked around for the gifter. She could see his eyes, the softest shade of sea-green. Eloise had never seen eyes that colour before. Her heart skipped a beat at the happy expression that molded his features, his lips upturned at the corners as he studied the peach, his brow furrowed gently.

She had done this, Eloise realised. She had made this boy smile like that. Euphoria filled her body, and she gazed eagerly out at the boy, her eyes drinking in every inch of his pretty face.

Butterflies tried to flutter up her throat when the beautiful boy looked up once again, searching for the gifter. She jumped back out of fright when his eyes landed on the bush, and with one look back at Finnick, she sprinted down the road and after her mother.

Every month after that, Eloise took it upon herself to fill an empty Blue Eye crate with whatever fruit was in season in her garden. She picked bunches of flowers, jars of jam, handfuls of carefully selected seashells. Her mother watched on fondly, knowing full well why her silly daughter was so eager every month to carry out her delivery.

"It’s just a nice thing to do!" 15-year-old Eloise had protested once, Cressida laughing at the oblivious girl.

She never let the gorgeous Victor see her, of course. She sneaked over to the Victor’s Village ridiculously early on the morning of the 1st, 2nd, or 3rd of each month to drop off her delivery before her morning swim, sometimes pausing for a moment behind the bush to try and glimpse him.

Finnick would always try to catch a glimpse of his “Blue-Eyed Gifter” too, waking up early at the beginning of the month and hurrying outside. But every time, he was only greeted by a crate full of thoughtful gifts, the closest thing to a name in sight being the large Blue Eye label printed onto the wood.

Eloise never admitted it to herself, but her surge of admiration for the young Victor led her to take on her intense lifestyle. She begged and begged Remus and her mother to let her drop out of regular school to attend the combat academy. Her parents were at first horrified at the idea.

"Why would you throw away your education for fight training? You’re not going into the games!" Her mother had whispered hoarsely, her hands gripping the table.

"Mother, please! I’ll study at home and at work; I’m smart! But I want to be strong so I can work a proper job here in District 4!" She had begged. Remus scoffed.

"We’ve already let you take up those shifts at the grocer and that savage job at the docks. Why should we do anything for ya?"

Eloise frowned. "Let me? I give you all the money from those jobs!"

Magnus, darling Magnus, had started teaching Eloise combat in secret a few weeks back, and it became apparent she had a talent for it. He had suggested attending the Academy, and Eloise was set on it. Think about all the Victors that came from here! Eloise had daydreamed.

Every reaping, Eloise caught sight of the golden boy in broad daylight, and every year she wished for his sea-green gaze to notice her. Every lesson at the Academy she hoped he would be there to lead a lesson, but was always disappointed by Marino Bay or Rio Fathom instead. Every month, she fantasized about leaving a note with the delivery, a name, or a place to meet, before blushing out of embarrassment and deciding against it.

Eloise has never acknowledged to herself that she has a crush on Finnick Odair.

𝟎𝟒 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟐𝟑𝟎𝟖

Right now, a boy with golden hair sits across the table from Eloise, watching her intently as she studies the fruit in her hands.

“Yes, they’re very delicious.” She mumbles. Could these be the ones I dropped off yesterday?

They all finish eating in comfortable conversation, August now fervently asking questions about survival skills to Finnick, who responds with equal enthusiasm. After everyone is stuffed to point of discomfort, Anemone tutting dissapointedly, Mags instructs them all to go down to the television where they will watch the reapings. Eloise feels nerves bubble up as they begin to move to the long, crescent shaped couch. These were the kids she was going to have to kill.

August and Eloise fill a large bowl with popcorn, cookies and slices to nibble on as the holographic television powers on. They sit next to eat other, watching intently as Ceasar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith open the program, excitedly revelling at what an amazing Hunger Games that had before them this year.

The begin showing the reapings switching to a shot of the glistening town square of District 1. Naturally, two 18-year-olds volunteered, a tan girl called Starla and a muscular boy named Nikolai.

“Careers.” Finnick says, “They are going to be your biggest competition, unless you ally with them.” He shoots a quick glance at Eloise, who realises with a jolt he thinks she is a Career too. And, well, she is, really. But not like them. They have spent their whole lives preparing to kill, she has spent her whole life preparing to survive.

District 2 is next, and unsurprisingly two more Career volunteers. What is surprising, however, is the 14-year-old girl who was lightning-fast to put her hand up. Once up on the stage, the cameras zoom in on the young girl.

“Woah,” August breathes.

She is gorgeous. Possibly the prettiest girl Eloise has ever seen. Unlike the tan skin of District 4, this girl has pale skin and bleached, ice-white hair which she wears cropped around shoulder-length. Like Eloise, her pin-straight hair was put up in a loose half-up half-down style, and the cameras manage to pick up the menacing line of silver earrings adorning her ears. She has dark eyeliner on, and she looks ready to kill. For a 14-year-old, she’s unbeliveably fit. She must’ve been training her whole life.

Speaking into the microphone, she reveals her name to be Minthe Vercoe, and the 17-year-old next to her is Bennett.

Everyone in the room is silent, all of them knowing that that girl, despite her ridiculous age, would be the biggest threat. But Finnick obviously doesn’t do well with defeat, and pipes up.

“Don’t worry about her. From what I’ve heard, you are plenty strong enough to hold your own against whatever she’s got, Eloise.” Eloise blushes at that remark, and shakes her head softly. She tries to restrain the butterflies in her stomach that begin to dance at the sound of her name on his lips.

From District 3, an uninspiring duo of 15-year-old Clarke and 16-year old Wyatt. And then it is District 4.

Eloise watches as Florence Bay is reaped, and she watches her very own hand shoot up in the air. Eloise has never seen herself on video before, and is secretly pleased to see how put-together she looked walking up to the stage. She sure didn’t feel it in the moment.

She sees herself introduce her name, surprised again to hear how steady her voice was. She can see her arms behind her back, and knows the way their fingers must be twisted.

“For a second there I though your fingers were going to drop off!” Finnick says from along the couch. Eloise whips around to lock eyes with him, a smirk playing on his features, and unbelievably a laugh slips out of her mouth.

“You saw that?” She winces with a giggle. Finnick nods, seemingly pleased to of finally made her react for the first time all day.

“I did. Although I was quite distracted by old Marino almost passing out from relief. Thanks for saving Flo, by the way.” He grins with a wink. The dancing butterflies in Eloise’s stomach have started a rave.

The TV shows August’s name being called, the camera panning to the nervous young boy walking to the stage. Thankfully, the camera focusing on August takes the attention off of her, where on the side of the screen you can just make out the way she sways slightly from shock. Caesar and Claudius ‘ooo’ and ‘aww’ when the two Tributes hug at the end, and Finnick and Mags comment on how this was a good start as the program continues on. Eloise actually agrees with them, to anyone else she must look like any other Career tribute.

A 12 and a 15-year-old are reaped from District 5, and a 17 and a 13-year old from 6. None of them look particularly menacing.

But from Dsitrict 7, a little 13-year-old girl named Bronwyn captures Eloise’ attention, reminding her painfully of Cova. Her District partner, a handsome 17-year-old boy named Kam.

District 8 hosts a pair of jittery tributes, wheras District 9 reaps two tough looking lumberjacks. A girl the same age as Eloise called Ivy, and a 16-year-old boy.

Out of the remaining 3 Districts, 6 underwhelming kids are reaped, obviously there due to tesserae withdrawal. Eloise feels pity stir in her stomach at the sight of the malnourished children, but pushes it down. If she wants to save August, she has to think like a Career. And an Career would only see those little mites as easy pickings.

Anemone clicks off the TV. “How thrilling! I’m going to head to bed now, it’s awfully late. Kids, I’ll fetch you for breakfast tomorrow. Get some rest now!” She sings, standing up and shuffling off in her mermaid-shaped dress. Eloise rolls her eyes dramatically, and from the loud snort across the sofa, Finnick must’ve seen it.

“Well. How do you feel about that lot?” He asks the two tributes from his relaxed sprawl at the end of the couch. “I think you two have a good shot! Pick your allies carefully and listen to me and Mags, and odds are you can come back alive.” He says, his sea-green eyes once again subtly looking at Eloise

The butterflies turn to black, goopy mush in her stomach. “I’m not coming back.” Eloise shoots back tersely, harsher than she meant to. She stands up abruptly. “August is. I’m going to bed.”

Eloise escapes from the now stifling room, chased by three pairs of curious eyes, flinging herself on the bed as soon as the door shuts. Embarrassment at her statement battles with the flustered feeling Finnick gave her in her mind. Why’d he keep looking at her? Why does she not know what to say around him? She hates herself like this, she’s usually so calm and in control. Red-faced, Eloise tries as hard as she can to push that boy from her mind.

She strips down to her undergarments and crawls into the cool sheets of the bed, but sleep does not find her. Eloise has spent the last 4 years of her life sleeping in a warm heap with her two sisters, and the feeling of sleeping alone in this air conditioned room is too much. She tries humming a lullaby to no avail. At one point she even jumps out of bed and does a short workout. Still nothing.

So Eloise fishes a tank top and pair of soft cotton shorts from her drawers. Slipping out of her bedroom, Eloise finds her legs taking her all the way down the train, right to the end where she discovers a smallish lounge room surrounded by windows. A plush, curved couch hems the end of the traincarriage, and Eloise slumps exhaustedly onto it, chin propped up on the back of the sofa and watches the train ride through the night. She studies the darkened landscape, trying to picture where on the big hand-drawn map at her old school they were.

Her thoughts inevitably wander back to Finnick. She wonders sleepily if he’s asleep right now. I wonder how he got his hair to look like that, Eloise thinks drowsily, sleep pulling her into a dreamscape of golden sunrays and sea-green waters.

© sunniskyies 2024, do not repost or translate my work

[desertwaterwitch]

I’ve done and made a fair bit in my craft. Well I say that as it’s a fair bit in my opinion. Probably nothing compared to others, but I’m a spoonie, sooo yeah.

I love water magick so much. And the salt water spray I made recently, it is so potent and works so well! I swear it’s the best thing I’ve ever “made” in three years. I keep it next to my bed and just spray it around my room whenever I feel I need it. I’ll have to make more soon because I’ve used a lot. Because of my depression, anxiety and illnesses, I will get a lot of negative energy around me. So the spray helps so much.

When I spray it I pretty much always say the same thing:

“I only want good energy and spirits in here, so if you’re negative in any way, get the hell out. I don’t want you here.”

I spray everywhere but I spray more in particular areas that I feel need it, on whatever day. A few hours ago before I got into bed, I did my black tourmaline ritual where I trace my door (don’t forget to trace your door handle and light switch) and window with it. Then I sprayed at my door, window, and even my open closet door which was interesting, but I’ve learned to trust my intuition. It doesn’t hurt to spray, so even if I was wrong, who cares? No risk.

Like I said, a lot of bad stuff has been going on and yesterday was just…gah. I even spritzed myself for some reason. But it did help as always!

I just use moon water (this one is full moon) and sea salt. Honestly I’d use table salt, but I have sea salt already for my diy piercing cleaner, so I go with that. It’s whatever I have. I cleanse the bottle using the night air (open my window), before putting anything into it. The air is such an amazing way to cleanse, and I did it for the first time a while ago because I was desperate. I have nothing lol. I just did it on a whim and thought, “hey, air!” It’s amazing for us spoonies 👋🏻 who just want to cleanse something and don’t have the damn energy. Also broom closet witches, and just any witch. It’s free and takes almost no effort.

I’ve learned that whatever water you feel is best, use it! I use sun water a lot and I love it. But when I was choosing what water to use, I felt strongly that I should use full moon water. I have a bunch of different waters in my mini fridge.

Some witches say you shouldn’t use plastic bottles, and for a long time I just said okay. But I didn’t have glass bottles. Glass is also more expensive. And me? No money. Spoonie, remember? So I will use plastic spray bottles unless I have glass on hand (when my mom decides to buy them because she likes the sprays I make in glass bottles) because it works for me and I have learned to trust what works. My advice is to not be paranoid about every little thing like I was and still am sometimes. It’s your craft and you can do whatever you want. And knowing that is really empowering to me.

[ughgoaway]

i hate matty healy- chapter 3

content warnings: no smut but mentions of it, smoking, swearing and a short chapter lol. word count- 1800-ish

a/n: this is a very small chapter just to fill the gap between 2 and 4!! this is a repost bc tumblr hates me so if the chapter seems familiar that's why! anyway here it is bye!!

prev chapter next chapter

Salt. Tequila. Lime. Salt. Tequila.  Lime. The sharp burn of alcohol was soothing your racing mind. You usually drink just to drink, to let loose and have some fun but not tonight. Tonight you are drinking just to forget. Forget him. Forget his hands. Forget his lips on yours. Forget the way he desperately thrust into you. So you forget. Or you try to, it's pretty difficult when you can feel his eyes burning into you like the tequila burns your throat. 

The red leather of the club seats sticks to your thighs, your short skirt not doing much to protect you from the hot leather. Ross starts to speak but you can't hear anything, your ears ringing; but not from the thumping bass. You desperately try to focus on your brother but all you can think and feel is him. Your thoughts are plagued by him, your heart is smashing against your chest and if you didn't know better you could swear he could hear it too. He's a ghost haunting you, his spirit infecting your head and leaving your mind reeling.

You weren't even really touching, his leg was mealy pressed against yours but it felt as if you were melting. You were simply a candle and he was the fire, he was melting you and you knew he wouldn't catch the wax you left behind. He didn't care, his heart wasn't racing. He wasn't thinking about this morning. He was just existing happily in the absence of you. Matty Healy can't have this power over you, he can't make your mind spin and your palms clammy at the feeling of his thigh against yours. You needed to get some semblance of power back so you scrambled up muttering something about going to dance, completely interrupting your brother who was still going on about something. You didn't care enough to know what.

You pushed your way through the myriad of sweaty bodies, fighting different hands that started to grab at you. It felt as if you were lost at sea. Waves of people pushing and pulling at you. You were already drowning in his murky mysterious waters, you couldn't take any more. The club began to feel too small. Colourful walls were closing in on you, pressure was building in your chest as you struggled to breathe. You were drowning. The force feels as if it could crack your ribs. Leaving the table was a mistake, it was your life raft. Suddenly your mind became focused on only getting outside for a smoke. Swimming through the people you eventually managed to get to the door, the cool metal of the handle shocking you compared to the muggy room you were currently in. 

A clang rang out as the heavy door bashed against the metal behind it, you weren't present enough to notice, just desperate to escape. Cold air rushed into your lungs. You could breathe again. The ice of the air cooling your scorching body. You held your arms over your chest, crossing them over and gripping into your shoulders hard enough to leave crescent marks. It was to protect yourself. You felt as if you were under attack. Under his attack. He was mercilessly beating his way into your mind and you couldn't stop him. 

Your mind flashed back to this morning when Ross came bounding into the bus unknowingly walking in on your and Matty's fucked up tryst. Before you could even process what was happening you shot up, desperately looking for the clothes you carelessly discarded not even an hour earlier. Matty stayed frozen on the bed wide-eyed and breathing raggedly. “Matthew Healy” you angrily whispered “I swear to whatever God there is if you don't get the fuck up and start getting dressed I will kill you before Ross even has a chance. Because trust me if you stay sat there like that, he will kill you.” this seemed to bring Matty back and he scrambled up and began searching the floor. 

“Boxers… boxers” Matty was rapidly whispering to himself, “Matty you weren't wearing any oh my god- can you hurry up?” For a reason unbeknownst to you Matty took this opportunity to bein teasing you “Oh yeah? I remember now sweetheart, god the look on your face when you realised was so hot. So desperate for me weren't you?” he drawled out smirking whilst slithering back into the jogging bottoms he had been wearing.

“Matty.” you said, the anger seeping through your voice making Matty stand up straight and stare into your eyes, “As far as I'm concerned nothing happened and you're delusional okay? We have never had sex, get it?” a scoff came from the curly-headed man. “Come on you're really just gonna forget all about this? I'm pretty sure from the way you were screaming my name you're going to be thinking about me for a long time. Also, you're already back to calling me Matty, can’t shake me off just yet can you love?” 

Your mouth opened ready for a witty retort but a loud knock filled the small room, “y/n?? You in there? I swear if you're still asleep-” The rest of the sentence was lost on you as all you focus on was the handle beginning to jiggle. Just as you were about to rush over and grab the door a tattooed arm shot out to stop you, “I locked it when I came in don't worry” Matty whispered close enough to your neck to send shivers down your spine. Before Matty could say anything about his effect on you, you shouted out “Yup! Im awake just getting dressed be out in 5!” 

“Okay, “Ross said and you heard his heavy footsteps trail away from the door, a sigh of relief left you but was quickly interrupted by his booming voice saying, “wheres Matty by the way? He's not in his bunk or the bathroom” by some grace of god you managed to say “oh yeah he said something earlier about going to do something, I don't know what I don't listen to Matthew if I can help it” a disgruntled scoff came from behind you and the man in question leaned even closer your ear, his breath tickling your neck before saying “to do something? Little does he know I was-” before he could finish his comment you gave him a quick hard slap to the arm. “Ow!” he remarked in annoyance, not caring about his volume. The glare you shot him had to be in the top 5 worst looks he's ever received from you, and that's saying something considering your complete and utter disdain for him. Luckily Ross had accepted your answer and had trudged to the kitchen, far enough away not to hear Matty's comment.

“Great going now how am I meant to get out? If I've gone out how am I on the bus? You really need to be better with your post-scandalous sex excuses babe” Smirking you began to respond, “One; definitely not your babe please never call me that ever again. Two:-” you pointed at the small window in the back left corner of the room. “No.” Matty said looking at you as if you had sprouted a second head, “yup!” you perkily responded. That's how at 9 am you had Matthew Healy wriggling through a tiny window off of his own tour bus, an achievement you wouldn't forget any time soon. Eventually, you heard him enter the bus, make some excuses and you came out into the kitchen and began talking with everyone. 

And that was it, you hadn't spoken more than 3 words to him since this morning, avoiding him like the plague and refusing to let him see how it has affected you. Because you don't even know how it's affected you. The feeling in your chest was not one you were familiar with. It was longing but not how it usually is. Longing wrapped in shame and guilt, leaving a dirty feeling inside your heart. The weight of it all pulls you down leaving you breathless and confused. He couldn't know the way your mind was spinning so you stayed away. Until now. 

Before he spoke you knew it was him, you back to the door but his presence always unlocked something in your mind, something you had always thought of as hatred but maybe it was something different. You couldn't entertain the idea it was anything else so you doubled down internally. You hated him. Just forget. 

Wordlessly he came up next to you, pulling a crumpled cigarette packet out of his jeans, stuffy and full of holes they looked as if he had been dragged through a bush backwards but god he looked good. That infuriated you, Matty really looks good to you. But he doesn't really, does he? No. No, he can't, it must be a post-sex connection thing. That must be it. He placed two cigarettes between his lips and lit them, handing one to you. You carefully took it trying to avoid any contact between the two of you not willing to feel the electric shock you know would come from touching him again. 

Smoke pooled above your head and you turned to look at him. His head was thrown back, his neck on show. The innocent act of smoking somehow felt filthy. Seeing his fingers come up to his lips, the way his cheeks hollowed as he sucked in the smoke. The light of it illuminated his soft features. His nose sloped down perfectly accentuating his plump lips. Rings covered his calloused fingers, collected over the years in various countries and markets- each one had a story. Filthy thoughts began to fill your mind but you shook them away and took a drag from your own cigarette, it had begun to fizzle away leaving your fingers almost burnt. You were too distracted to notice, leaving only a few puffs left for you desperately take.

His eyes met yours, dark brown almost black. Cold and empty eyes were what you were usually met with when you stared at Matty, but they were swimming with something new. You weren't simply looking at Matty, you were looking into him. Yet he was still indecipherable, just as you were to him. Wordlessly you had a conversation. Looks were exchanged that said “We both know what happened can't happen again. So it won't. I hate you and you hate me. Simple.” you knew what you were saying on the surface, but you also knew underneath that he was saying “it will happen again won't it?” a gentle nod from you is all it takes before Matty stamps out the remains of his cigarette with his heavy black boot and calmly walks back inside. Leaving you standing in the cold night, for once you were unsure where you stood with him. And that thought exhilarated you.

(note- this is a repost, tumblr deleted my old account so this is a new one! I'll add this note on each reposted chapter)

[danafeelingsick]

Novemetober 2023

@monthofsick

Prompt list | Masterlist | AO3 collection

Day 3: Bad news = Bad stomach

Word count: 1,3k~

CONTENT WARNINGS: descriptions of vomiting, alcohol mention (no one drinks it), character death, grieving, anxiety, angst-focused, major spoilers for the archon quest of 4.2 ‘Masquerade of the guilty’, can be read as romantic or platonic (i think they're cute so uwu)

Character description

Navia is the current president of the Spina di Rosula, an organization devoted to helping the people of Fontaine (kinda like a mafia, but a good one?)

Clorinde is the champion duelist of the court of Fontaine, and killed Navia's father :( They are on good terms now.

A/N: ehehe... i like navia quite a lot so she must suffer (she took me around 170 pulls, no joke). i had the idea to write this before i saw prompts, so it fit in nicely. i wanna add more to this.

“To the ones who couldn't be with us tonight, I propose a toast.”

Clorinde never thought herself to be an empathetic person. She was used to being taken as emotionless, cold, her line of work as a professional champion duelist demanded it of her. So, it was certainly a surprise when her eyes filled with tears, listening to Navia’s speech.

The young demoiselle invited her personally to that commemorative banquet, even though she had been in an errand to invite several others, her visit still meant a lot to Clorinde. After the primordial sea had claimed so many of Poisson's residents, she worried that the glint of hope in Navia's blue eyes would never come back.

Death had become part of Clorinde’s routine, and though an honorable duel and an unprecedented tragedy couldn't be compared, it was hard not to feel for someone who had experienced so much of it in so little time. They were the same, in a sense, choosing to hide their true emotions behind facades: Navia's a cheerful and bright-eyed leader, while Clorinde's a disaffected and calculating duelist, ready to cut down anyone who were to ask it of her.

“This one is for all of the lives lost here in Poisson. For Karina, Desyree, Jonville…”, Navia continued, her wine glass raised high, joined by several others. The emotion was raw in her voice, growing weaker after each name, until — “and Melus… and Silver.”

Her breath faltered, gaze falling away from the crowd, finding no solace in them. When Navia next spoke, her words trembled almost as much as her.

“May you rest in peace.”

The guests took their seats one by one, Clorinde being one of the last. Navia didn't move at first, standing there as front and center of the banquet, serving as the image of a new beginning for Poisson. Though something made her think the president’s heart simply wasn't in it. Something in the way she clutched the glass in her hand, petrified, not ready to let go of it.

Navia raised her head, an empty look on her face, quickly draining of it's color. Her eyes met Clorinde's from across the table, an unspoken truce shared in that brief moment. Her trembling lips moved, but the words that came out were barely above a whisper.

“Please excuse me…”, was what she could made out, before the demoiselle stiffly stepped away from the banquet.

The duelist eyed the rest of the guests as they gradually returned to their own conversations, either out of respect for the President's privacy, or disinterest for her well-being; she didn't think she could do the same.

Even after its reconstruction, the small fishing village didn't look all that different from what Clorinde remembered. That familiar scent of wet soil and fresh catch filled her nose as she went up the stairs of the great underwater ship, picking up hints of rust and salt on the way. All of those thoughts immediately fled her mind as she found Navia, standing there in front of the ship’s entrance, like an abandoned puppy in the rain.

Silently, she walked to her, noticing the young woman had both hands wrapped tight around herself, her breathing labored, her eyes downcast. The duelist stood in front of her, mouth half-opened with so many possibilities of what to say, and sure of none.

“T-Thank you for coming today… Clorinde. I-I know you must’ve been… busy”, Navia was the one to break the silence, her voice choked, the brim of her hat obscuring her face. Though her first instinct was to look presentable, that urge doesn't come now it’s her childhood friend in front of her.

“I wasn’t”, Clorinde responded flatly, not thinking about she came across with that placid tone. Sheepishly, she added: “I couldn't have missed it…”

“I’m glad you haven't”, Navia remarked, her voice still struggling to be heard. “I-I know it's selfish of me, but…”

“It is not. You invited me, so I owed you my company”, Clorinde told her objectively, her eyes affixed to her trembling lips.

Navia shook her head, a grimace flashing across her delicate features, her hands balling into fists. It was then that Clorinde noticed the tears pooling under her chin, hearing the small sobs finally slipping past her mouth.

“I wanted to invite all of them… Melus, and Silver… It is so selfish of me…”, she forced out, her eyes screwed shut. “I am… only here because—”

“Navia”, Clorinde stopped her there, taking a step forward. Though her hands reached out, she still hesitating to touch the woman crying in front of her. How many times would she need to apologize until Navia trusted her again? Until she felt worthy of being her friend again?

Navia could barely see Clorinde through the blur of tears. Her hand floated up to her mouth, hovering over it as her chest began to heave. The noise she makes is one of struggle, of her lungs whistling in her throat. Her stomach writhed, squeezed in by her tight bustier, making it nearly impossible to breathe in.

A whimper escapes her as Clorinde’s hands come to rest around her waist, firm yet gentle, keeping her up as panic slowly engulfs her. That is when Navia raises her eyes, panting heavily as she searches in Clorinde's face for some comfort, noting now that she had never seen her so mortified before. Color drains from the demoiselle's face and she gags, pressing her hand tightly to her mouth.

“Oh… god”, she choked out and a second after, her stomach lurched violently, mouth filling with bile.

Even though Navia tried to press her lips thin, that last line of defense breaks as vomit comes up forcefully, spraying through the cracks of her fingers and coating her hand. She widens her eyes, feeling it soak into the fabric of her glove, messily dripping over her cleavage.

Clorinde winces, some reaching her white buttoned shirt, though the surprise is quickly replaced by empathy as she hears Navia’s sobbing interleaving her gagging. A thick yellow soup cascaded down her chin, no doubt what had become of the Poissonchant Pie that had been served during the banquet, now ruining the front of her dress.

It breaks her heart to see her friend in such a pitiful state, and she gently guides Navia to a kneeling position, her hand firmly on her back. She does so in time, as the demoiselle whimpers and heaves forward, vomit splashing onto the floor in front of her.

“Shh… It’s alright”, though words were never Clorinde’s forte, she tries to comfort her, keeping her voice a low and warmer tone. “I need you to breathe now, can you do that?”

Navia nods weakly, pushing through the nausea as she sucks in a greedy gasp. Clorinde busies herself with gathering the demoiselle's hair away from her face, trying not to focus too much on how intimate the whole situation had become.

“Good, you’re doing good… breathe”, she keeps telling her, running her gloved hand up and down her back. “It’s alright now, you don’t need to cry.”

Though Navia knows it, crying is almost a disservice to the heroes who sacrificed themselves, she can't help it. The woman leans forward, still trying to breathe, though her stomach make it easy. The organ lurched sickeningly, nausea still hanging above her head like a rain cloud.

She purses her lips, coughing violently until she chokes out a thick wave of undigested seafood, falling to the floor with a wet plop. Clorinde can't help the scowl that flashes across her face, though hopefully Navia doesn't see it, her vision growing dark, her chest tightening with each heave.

“There you go, it's alright…”, she repeats, trying to keep the whole situation under control, even as lending comfort to a grieving friend is something she can't recall happening before. The thought crosses her mind, thinking of her father, but she refuses to acknowledge it.

Navia sits back, sniffling, her hand cupped under her chin.

“Come on, let me take you inside”, Clorinde offered, both hands around the woman's shoulder as she helped her stand. “You need to change out of those clothes.”

Navia simply nods, unable to look her in the eyes.

[pigeonflavouredcake]

I'm procrastinating my grimoire section on baneful magic so I wrote about salt instead

Salt is another incredibly common tool used by practitioners, second only to candles. Salt is often referred to as a pure element by practitioners due to the harvesting process. This makes salt the basis for many spells and rituals, using it to cleanse vessels, represent earth or given as offerings. Because it doesn’t go off or get mouldy it is a great tool to have in your arsenal.

Types of Salt

Black Salt: There are two types of black salt, witches black salt; a mixture made by the practitioner using their choice of salt and ash from coal or incense, this type of salt is inedible and is an option for banishment spells and baneful magic. The other type is kala namak or Himalayan black salt; a kind of rock salt with a dark red/purple hue harvested in northern India and Pakistan around the Himalayas. Kala namak is composed of sodium chloride, iron sulphide which gives the product its purple colour and hydrogen sulphide which gives it its strong smell and savoury taste. (Krishna, K. 2021) 

In cooking, kala namak can be used to replace regular table salt. The hydrogen sulphide can result in an eggy flavour so it is best used sparingly in savoury dishes. You can find it online or from Asian food or health food markets.

Pink Salt: Pink salt or Himalayan salt is a type of rock salt mined in Pakistan near the foothills of the Himalayas. It gets its pink colour from the trace minerals of potassium, magnesium and calcium. Like regular table salt, pink salt contains 98% sodium, because the additional trace minerals are so small there are no proven health benefits to using pink salt over table salt. (Leonard, J. 2018.)

In cooking, pink salt can be used in replacement for regular table salt but due to the larger surface area of the granule compared to table salt granules I recommend using slightly less than required. Pink salt typically has a stronger flavour with a slight metallic after taste. It is often used in love spells because of its pink colour. You can find it in your local supermarket in the 'continental' section. 

Red Salt: Red salt, also called Alaea salt or Hawaiian red salt, is a bright red and unrefined sea salt rich in iron oxide it gets from being rolled in alaea clay found in the Waimea mountains of Hawai'i. Alaea salt is used in traditional Hawaiian practices for blessings, purifying and healing, the religious/spiritual use of Alaea salt is exclusive to Hawaiian culture. Because Alaea salt doesn’t meet U.S food grade requirements it is not commercially sold. (University of Hawai’i)  

Rock Salt: Rock salt (not edible) is typically produced through blast or drill mining; the process is done in stages, first a cut is made in the face of the rock to allow space for drilling and blasting, the next stage, holes are drilled into the face that are then filled with explosives and fired. After the blast the resulting roof is scaled to remove any potential loose debris. The fragments of salt are then hauled on to trucks to be transported to a crushing plant. When they are crushed they’re mixed with anticaking agent to prevent the salt from recrystallizing, it is then stored and shipped. (Irish Salt Mining)  

The salt produced is not safe for consumption and is instead used to grit and de-ice surfaces in the winter, it can also be used for grounding and protective spells like sprinkling it at your front door. You can find it in your local supermarket or hardware store under rock salt, road salt or de-icing salt. 

Sea Salt: Sea salt is the name given to salt harvested from sea water via evaporation. Depending on the climate of the company’s farm, the evaporation process can either be man made or entirely solar based, sea water is collected, filtered for impurities and left under a heat source to reduce the water level and saturate the brine, the brine is then moved to be crystalised where more heat is applied, as salt crystals star forming, they’re harvest and separated, some are then processed with an anticaking agent before being packed and shipped, some are left alone. (Cornish Sea salt Co.)

Sea salt production has been around since the 5th Century BC, being mentioned in the Buddhist scripture, Vinaya Pitaka. (Prakash, O. 2005. p 479) 

The religious use of sea salt varies widely depending on the culture but in general neo-pagan practices sea salt is often given as an offering to the gods. In cooking, sea salt and table salt can be used interchangeably as they have the same nutritional value.

Table Salt: Table salt is your standard refined salt that is typically mined. Table salt production requires turning salt from chunks, to flakes and then finally to granules followed by anti-caking agent to prevent it from recrystallizing.

The standard use in cooking is to reduce the sweetness of dishes, salt also helps create a stronger flavour by decreasing the water content as you cook, concentrating the flavour.

Everything is great in moderation so take care of how much salt you consume on a regular basis. The NHS suggests adults should be eating no more than 6g (1 teaspoon) of salt per day, a diet high in salt correlates to high blood pressure and increases risks of heart disease and strokes. (NHS. 2021)

---------------------------------------------------------

References

Cornish Seasalt Co. (DNA). How is Sea Salt Made?. Cornish Seasalt Co. cornishseasalt.co.uk [Webpage]

Irish Salt Mining & Exploration Company LTD. (DNA). Process. Irish Salt Mining & Exploration Company LTD. irishsaltmining.com [Webpage]

Krishna, K. (2021). Kala Namak/Black Salt: How It Is Made, Nutritional Values, Benefits for Health, Skin and Recipes. NetMeds. Netmeds.com [Webpage]

Leonard, J. Olsen, N. (2018). Does Pink Himalayan Salt Have any Health Benefits?. Medical News Today. medicalnewstoday.com [Web Article]

NHS. (2021). Salt: The Facts. nhs.co.uk [Webpage]

Prakash, O. (2005). Cultural History of India: Food and Drinks (800 B.C. to 300 B.C.). New Age International. India [Book]

University of Hawai’i. (DNA). Exploring our Fluid Earth. Teaching Science as Inquiry: Traditional ways of Knowing: Salt Harvesting. University of Hawai’i. manoa.hawaii.edu [Webpage]

[phoenix-downer]

With A Smile Chapter 1

~2235 words. Sora/Kairi. Starts during the end of KH3 and moves into KH4. Sora POV. Angst, Romance, Fluff.

This story is dedicated to @tamtam88​​, and the art is by her as well! Thank you again for drawing such a beautiful piece and providing such wonderful inspiration 🥺 ❤️  

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 

Summary: Sora and Kairi make their final stop on their world tour: home. Before he disappears, he gives her a special gift to remember him by, a paopu hair clip with a deeper connection to his memories than either of them realize. 

Sora had taken Kairi to lots of worlds. All the things he wanted to see and do with her, all the experiences he wanted to share before he was gone. But he couldn’t delay the inevitable forever, and so at long last he took her to the one place he both loved and dreaded. He sensed Destiny Islands before he saw it: the sea-salt lingering in the air, the hot tropical sun beating down on his skin, the crash of the surf nearby. 

“Oh, we’re home,” Kairi noted as they fully materialized, a tinge of sadness in her voice. She glanced at their surroundings. They were on the Main Island a little ways away from the Town Square, hidden behind a few scraggly bushes. The din of the yearly Ocean Festival drifted to their ears, and the smells of fried festival food, sweet candied fruit, and slow-cooked fish wafted towards them.

She released his hand and wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Does this mean…?”

He fumbled with the zipper on his jacket. “Yeah. I don’t know how much longer I have. But I promise I’ll make it through the festival and then to the Play Island. Everyone’s waiting for us.” 

He was fighting fate every second just to stay a little bit longer. To remain just a little further into the future. And while he was fighting a losing battle, he still felt like he’d won. Being with Kairi was his personal triumph, his “reward” as Xigbar had so crudely put it.

Kairi wasn’t a reward, she was his most beloved person. And being with her? No reward could possibly compare. So fate would just have to wait a little longer until he was ready to say goodbye.

He looked at her and knew he never would be. 

A few moments passed like this until at last she met his gaze and smiled. “Then I promise I’ll be brave until then.” 

“Kairi…” There were tears behind that smile, an ocean of pain behind those big blue eyes. Her voice might be playful and lilting, but only so she could hide the tremor and terror in it.

She shook her head. “I can cry when you’re gone. But for now, I want to smile and enjoy the time we have left. What good is it if I spend the whole time you’re still here blubbering?” 

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’d like to be able to comfort you at least.” That was what a guy was supposed to do for the girl he was going out with, right? And he hated seeing Kairi cry. Especially when it was all his fault. He wanted to fix things, not make them worse. 

She hummed softly, then clasped her hands behind her back in that playful Kairi way he loved. “Then let’s make some memories now that will comfort me later.” 

He nodded. “Okay.” 

She found his hand, and he still felt giddy holding her hand like this. It was so small and soft and gentle, so warm and reassuring. He’d even dreamed about this, and now that his dream was a reality, he couldn’t get enough of it. 

She led him to the Ocean Festival, to the nearest food stall. A cute little octopus mascot advertised the takoyaki for sale, and he treated them both to a set of the fried octopus treat. The breaded part was nice and hot, and the octopus was fresh and delicious, just the way he liked it. They thanked the stall owner (an old family friend) before settling down at a picnic table with a checkered tablecloth on it.

Kairi made it partway through her takoyaki when she frowned and set it down. “Sora, do you think this is your last meal?” 

Yes. “I can’t say I really thought about it,” was all he said out loud. 

Kairi’s lower lip trembled. “It is, isn’t it?” 

Now he was the one who couldn’t meet her eyes. Her pain was like a dagger to his heart. If he said something now, he might really lose it.

“Well,” she continued, her voice chipper again, “it’ll just have to be the best last meal ever. To tide you over until you can eat with me again.”

He smiled softly at that. That was Kairi for you, talking about when they would eat together again, not if. She’d never been one to let fate get in the way of what she wanted. He wished he could follow his heart the way she followed hers. He tried, he really did, but he had his moments of doubt. 

Like right now.

She was not so easily perturbed. She put her hands behind her back and tilted her head in that delightful Kairi way again, making her hair splash across her cheek. “Well?” she playfully prodded. “What do you say?” 

“Sounds good. A big meal to tide me over until I can eat with you again.”

He was rewarded with one of her smiles. “We’re gonna try every single food stall then! Make sure you get all your old favorites!” 

He laughed. “Alright, alright.” She pulled him to his feet, and together they picked up treats and goodies from every single food stall and returned to the trusty picnic table. She teased him and challenged him to eat every last crumb of food, which he did till he reached the point he couldn’t possibly eat another bite. 

She poked his stomach and giggled. “You sure about that? Sometimes I think you have a bottomless pit for a stomach.” 

“I’m a growing boy,” he said, mock seriously. “What did you expect? I’ve gotta get taller than Riku somehow.” 

She stilled, and he wondered if he’d said something wrong. “Kairi?” 

She smiled, whatever it was that was bothering her gone now. “You can eat all you want, but I don’t know if you’ll ever be taller than Riku.” 

He crossed his arms and raised his eyebrow, continuing their playful little game. “Wanna bet?”

She tapped her cheek and pretended to be deep in thought. “Hmmmm, I’ll bet you a date when we meet again.” 

“Deal.” That was a bet he’d be happy to lose. 

She rested her hand on her chin, her lips twitching. “But honestly, Sora, I don’t mind if you never grow any taller. You’re just the right size to make me feel perfectly safe when you hug me.”

His heart fluttered at that, and he felt his face burning. “Really?” 

“Really really.” 

“So…you like hugging me?” 

She giggled into her hand. “I really, really do.”

He grinned. “I like hugging you too.” 

“I’m glad you do.” 

They just looked at each other for a few moments like they were the only two people in existence. Gosh, he was gonna miss her. He had no idea where he was even gonna disappear to, but so long as he was Sora he would long for Kairi, that much he knew. 

“Kairi?” he asked, reaching for her hand so he could weave their fingers together.

She earnestly searched his face. “Yeah?” 

“I, um, I…I…” He wanted to get the words out before he disappeared. Let her know what was in his heart before he was gone. It was the least he could do.

She smiled and shook her head. “Not yet. It’s not time.” She gently tugged at his hand. “C’mon, let’s go look at the trinkets.” 

Once again, she led him to the stalls where old family friends were hawking their wares. A jewelry stall in particular caught his eye thanks to the little hair clip with a paopu fruit on display. Kairi was always tucking a strand of hair behind her ear because her hair tended to do its own thing when she moved around. Maybe this would be a nice gift for her. 

He gave her some munny and told her to pick something out for herself from the clothing stall next door, which bought him time to make his purchase. She returned with a breezy tropical wrap that was varying shades of blue and captured the ocean’s hues perfectly. He complimented her choice and how nice it looked with her eyes, and she thanked him for the compliment and for the gift.

“So, mister,” she said as they strolled idly among the stalls, “what did you send me away for?”

“This.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pink box. “I know it’s just a little thing, but I want you to have something to remember me by until I come home. It’s only fair when I still have your lucky charm.” He opened the box and handed her the paopu hair clip, and his hand flickered in and out of existence. Kairi’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but she smiled and took the gift from him. 

“It’s so pretty, thank you.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Could you help me put it on?”

“Sure.” He reached for the hair clip, his fingers trembling a little as he grasped it and undid the clasp. Very carefully, he lifted it and caught a slender lock of her hair, then gently clicked the hair clip into place. Smiling, he took a step back and examined his handiwork. “Kairi, you look beautiful.”

A faint blush dusted her cheeks, and then she smiled so freely and so warmly and so openly that it caught him completely by surprise. Heat crept up his cheeks, and his heart pounded. Was she always this beautiful, or had his feelings for her made her even lovelier to him? Either way, this memory would be etched into his heart forever. She’d asked him to make memories with her that would comfort her later, but he was pretty sure this moment would be a comfort to him too.

“Thank you, Sora,” she said sweetly, then rested a hand over her heart. “I’ll wear it when I come for you.” 

He tilted his head. “When you come for me?” 

She nodded. “When I come for you. I don’t care how long it takes. I will find you and I’ll bring you home.” 

He smiled. That sure was like Kairi, turning his declaration of protection on its head, telling him she’d come for him this time.

“Thank you, Kairi.” He reached for her hand, and together they enjoyed the rest of the festival. He never wanted this to end, but his time was growing short. He wanted to say goodbye to his parents before they went to the Play Island, and so she went with him for moral support. She was there, waiting patiently in the room a polite distance away, when he broke the news of his fate. And she stayed with him as he and his mother and father wept and embraced. He told them he’d be back soon, and he begged them to look after Kairi until then. 

“We will,” his parents promised, and she smiled and nodded. He wanted to ask Riku to watch over her too, but he knew his friend already understood. 

At last it was time to go to the Play Island. He simply opened a portal, and together he and Kairi went through it, reappearing at the paopu tree. 

The sun was sinking low in the sky. Soon it would be dusk, and then all the light would be gone. His life would be gone too, and with it his time with Kairi. 

He was determined not to cry. Their friends were celebrating just a little ways away, and he wanted these final moments with Kairi to be happy ones. 

Together they sat on the paopu tree, and he smiled fondly remembering her boldness when she’d offered him the fruit. That boldness, that complete fearlessness in following her heart, had saved him. Had saved her too. 

He offered his hand, and she took it. He wanted to hold her as close as could be, but he couldn’t do that and look her in the eye or see her beautiful smile. So this was a good compromise. And besides, he wanted to watch the sunset with her, hand-in-hand, side-by-side. Just taking in every precious moment. Home was here and home was her, and soon this would all be nothing more than a memory.

The clouds passed and the sun sank lower and lower in the sky, setting the entire world on fire with its golden light. 

It was time. He smiled and gently squeezed her hand. “I love you,” he said. Funny how three simple words could express an eternity’s worth of feelings from deep within his heart. It felt so good to say them too, to share them with the person who meant more to him than anything.

Her eyes widened and her lips parted, as if his words had come as a surprise. But no, she wasn’t surprised, just overwhelmed. A single tear welled up out of her eye and ran down her cheek, shining brilliantly in the sunset. She smiled bigger than ever, so happy and sad at the same time.

Oh no, he’d made her cry. He hadn’t wanted to make her cry. But she’d been so brave for so long that she couldn’t help it. And that was okay. It was okay to cry. He just wanted to go out with a smile. 

And so he did. As he faded from this reality, her smiling face was the final thing he saw.

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A/N: Thank you all for reading! And a big thank you to Tam for collaborating with me ❤️ She provided the story idea and drew the art piece that inspired the moment where Kairi smiles and Sora is just blown away 🥺 ❤️ And then some of her other art inspired moments in the next chapter which will be posted tomorrow for Valentine’s Day 👀 ✨ 

I had a lot of fun working on this one and I hope you all enjoyed ❤️ See you tomorrow!

[focsle]

Could we hear some of the food Mary was writing about?

Sure!

She entertained captains on board when gamming with other ships, and that’s when the food bounty tended to come out. Often the foods were a mix of what was available to them (i.e. if they recently caught fish or found shellfish, got tropical fruit from a provisioning stop, etc.), and things other captains gave her as gifts that she saved for such occasions.

Captain Chatfield went out this forenoon, so that we only had two captains to dine with us, Captains Jernegan and Lester. Had a fish chowder, a large stuffed and baked fish, coffee, bread and butter and preserves, and a roll pudding. Had some huckleberry pies made for supper, but they did not stop.

Holidays were also an occasion for fancier food than usual. Here’s Christmas:

Minnie hung up her stocking last night. She was fearful that she should get nothing in it, as we could not go to the store, but she succeeded as well for eatables as if she had been at home. We had quite a Christmas dinner: roast chickens, stuffed, potatoes, turnips, onions, stewed cranberries, pickled beets and cucumbers, and a plum duff. For tea I had a tin of preserved grape opened and cut a loaf of fruitcake.

Everyone seemed to love her daughter Minnie, who was 5-9 years old over the course of the voyage. Whaling wives and—more rarely seen—their children, were definitely a domestic novelty.

We all passed a very pleasant day, Captain Winegar enjoying it very much; it reminded him so strongly of home. Minnie attracted much notice as usual. She is generally the center of attention with company. She is not afraid to speak, and her replies are generally to the point and usually interspersed with some salt remarks. The captain gave me a couple pounds of green tea, a couple tins of preserved pineapple, and a few shells. I forgot to mention that we carried him a little pig and gave him a piece of fresh pork. The cook gave Minnie a little china cup and saucer, which pleased her very much. For dinner we had a roast duck, potatoes, onions, some very nice biscuit, coffee, mince pie, and for dessert preserved peaches, pineapples, and quinces. For supper we had oysters, cold duck, biscuit, preserved pears, mince pie, doughnuts, and cookies, Captain Winegar doing the honors very well. We arrived home delighted with our visit.

Here’s Minnie celebrating her 8th birthday by presiding over a tea party with a bunch of whaling officers, that her mom prepared.

We set the table and called the officers down about half-past 7 P.M. Minnie was so happy she hardly knew what to do with herself, and I think we all enjoyed it pretty well. The officers all united in saying that they had not sat down to such a table since they left home. The treat consisted of a plate of sister Celia’s fruitcake, two loaves of cupcake frosted, two plates of currant jelly tarts, and a dish of preserved pineapple, also hot coffee, good and strong, with plenty of milk and white sugar. After we had finished there was ample supply left, which was sent into the steerage for boatsteerers, etc.

In addition to tea party leftovers being sent to the boatsteerers, foods were also made for the foremast hands as a special occasion too.

Luxuriated today in roast chickens for the cabin, and a pork sea pie for the forecastle, with occasional lunches of pineapple, bananas, and coconuts.

There were some struggles with her cooking ventures too, however:

This afternoon we killed two hens; Cynthia and Coopie. It made Minnie feel very sad to have Cynthia killed. I must not allow her to name her chickens for her friends; it makes her feel so badly when they are killed. […] I made our chickens into a pie today. The officers said it seemed like home. It was not baked well; the crust was not done. I should have more courage to make knickknacks if I could attend to the baking of them, but of course it would not do for me to go into the galley.

All in all the fare was quite fine compared to…food on whaleships in general.

[rosenongrata]

A Year in Time — Chapter III: March

⋯☆ Summary: A chapter for every month in the year featuring Zhongli x my dearly beloved OC (Hauteclaire).

⋯☆ A/N: yayyyy i finally updated :') writing has been evasive this week lol

Prompts: 💖 Spring 💖 Kites 💖 Garden

⋯☆ AO3 Link.

⋯☆ W.C.: ~1.1k

⋯☆ CW: Tooth-rotting fluff yet again! nothing else i can think of!

Zhongli never bothered to add Glaze Lilies to his small, quaint garden. He preferred adding both other local and foreign flowers to his little collection—instead of dredging up old memories.

While his "backyard" may be more than tiny, it's enough room for his line of flower pots on the stone around his home. His beloved garden overlooks the vast sea to the east, the blue waves sparkling under the newborn Springtime sun. He likes to believe it's quite a beautiful sight for his lovely flowers.

Currently, he crouches down next to one of the pots, replacing the dirt and planting new seeds for the upcoming warm seasons. He hums an antique tune to himself—one many have forgotten and left in the past. When he completes each pot, he rises to his full height with a proper posture.

Dusting his hands off, he then puts his old, black gloves back on—the Cor Lapis gems on the back glimmering under the sun. He sighs contentedly, crossing his arms as a smile curves his features.

"A lovely day…" He mutters to his flora, his words carried away by the sea-salted wind.

—

A while later into the afternoon, Zhongli cruises about the market in Chihu Rock—as he often does. Is this perhaps his favorite place in the harbor? It very well could be with its quaint landscape and its busy nature, often flooded with foot traffic. The type of traffic he doesn't mind adding to.

Today, he contemplates purchasing a nice kite for the wonderful breezy weather. For who? Well, himself, but he doesn't need to tell anyone that… He can get away with a white lie or two.

He has a mild fascination with kites—more so their designs rather than their purpose. Humans can be so creative, he thinks, a soft smile on his lips while he observes the myriad of colorfully painted kites that are on display. Some kites are more simple than others, but he's always had a preference for the intricate and detailed things in life.

He points to a mostly white kite—its design is more mature compared to the rest on the table with how the shimmering gold accents flow and dance. It has the visage of a dragon sweeping through a white sky…or at least that's what it looks like to him. He frowns a bit on the inside, he now hopes he doesn't come off as self-obsessed to anyone.

"We sure do run into each other a lot these days, Zhongli." A familiar voice of a woman shatters his thoughts, causing him to whirl around to face none other than his newest coworker.

"Ah, it seems we do, Hauteclaire." He nods in agreement, offering her a tiny and almost sheepish smile before turning back to the table of kites. "Did you need assistance with something?" He glances at her as she plots herself next to him.

"Hardly." Hauteclaire brushes him off, "I was thinking of buying a kite myself, actually… Not for me, mind you." She snorts, amused at the prospect that someone as old and cranky as herself could ever play with toys like these.

"I see. For who, then?" He asks before swiftly purchasing the kite he was intently looking at earlier.

"A kid I saved a while back. He's been adopted since we last saw each other, but I figured I'd give him something to remind him of me. And, well, something to play with, you know." She explains lackadaisically, although a tiny smirk plays at her rusty red-tinted lips.

It's nice to see her relax for once, Zhongli thinks to himself. He knows how hard she works, but it doesn't matter to him how much he can appreciate a sedulous person, he still has his concerns about her health. Although he also knows that she's the only person in the world who can come to her own conclusions. Just as he has.

"How about this…" He begins, catching her attention enough to pull her gaze toward him, "I'll give you this kite for the young child. If you first test it out with me?" He smiles when her own smirk falters, he doesn't regret his proposition even a little bit.

…He just wants to see her take a break like he has. Is that so much to ask for?

"…You're kidding me." She snorts, her lazy smirk quick to rise back to her face. "Yeah, sure, whatever. As long as I don't have to pay for it." To an untrained eye, she remains neutral, but to him, it's obvious how flustered she is right now.

"Perfect." He nods agreeably.

After using some of the leftover money he got from…other sources to pay for it, they end up in his tiny backyard to test out the gilded kite.

Glancing around, Hauteclaire strides up to the red-painted fence and plants her hands down on the wood. She has a soft look of amazement on her face—lips parting and eyes wistful—as she stares out to the vast sea that is Zhongli's next-door neighbor. A salty breeze wafts in, brushing through her thick brown locks. She sighs.

"The weather is ideal, don't you think?" His words derail her train of thought—he's good at being a nuisance like that. Or so she claims.

"Ahem. It is." She clears her throat, forcing her expression to return ice cold. "So, uh… How does a kite work?" She asks, voice lowering in embarrassment.

It's not her fault her homeland hardly had any wind or breeze to speak of. Or anything else, for that matter. It was always barren and cold there.

"Hmm, well… Watch and learn." He smiles as he walks up to her side behind the fence.

He lifts the kite into the sky, allowing it to drift with the strong yet chilly sea winds. He keeps a firm hold on the thick string as his honeyed gaze watches the toy dance in the blue sky. She gasps silently, her own gilded stare watching the kite now too.

"We didn't have toys like these in my homeland… Not that my parents would've ever bought me any." She muses softly, a tinge of embittered hate in her tone when she mentions her parents.

"Where are you from, dear Claire? You've never mentioned it." He asks, glancing at her.

"…None of your business, Zhongli." She scoffs, a small protruding pout on her lips.

"Secretive as ever…" He mumbles, his eyes tearing away to watch the kite again.

For the rest of the afternoon, they chat and have tea after flying the kite for quite some time.

And today was also the day that he learned that she likes her tea with a lot of sugar.

[theoddshq]

CREST SHEN (xiao zhan fc) the odds are in your favor! Please report to your nearest Capitol Agent to be prepped for the 74th Annual Hunger Games!

OOC

     Alias/Age/Pronouns/Timezone: Kim, 22, she/her, GMT+2 (currently +8)

Triggers: none. 

    If you had to describe your muse as a canon Hunger Games character, or mix, who would you compare them to and why? somewhere between a Finnick and a Haymitch - he definitely seems like a Finnick on the surface, all charms and smiles, until you dig deeper and all the veneer peels off, and you’re left with someone who never managed to fully leave the arena and has been coping by trying to forget about it rather than trying to enact any change outside of himself. 

     Anything else? all good, thank you! 

BASICS

[XIAO ZHAN, TRANS MAN, HE/HIM] The 74th Annual Hunger Games are upon us and here comes CREST SHEN, a DISTRICT FOUR MENTOR. Word around The Capitol is that they’re CHARMING and PERCEPTIVE but can also be EXTRAVAGANT and CARELESS. According to sources, they’re 32 and were once described as light glinting off golden rings, the bubble and fizz of champagne in a flute, forced laughter, standing alone on a stage. What a character! As we always say, may the odds be ever in their favor!

BIOGRAPHY

The eldest of five siblings, the boy who would come to be known as crest grew up between sea and shore. On some days, he helped his parents care for his little brothers and sisters, as well as two aging grandparents…but on others, he would leave their home and work their family trade : that of fishing and diving for delicate seafood and, most importantly, the precious abalone pearls capitol stylists would have sold a kidney for.

As the first link in a chain of luxury products destined for the heart of Panem, the Shen family fared better than most, though no one would’ve gone as far as to call them well-off. At any rate, their work put enough food on the table to feed nine hungry mouths, and in the four years between his coming of age and that fateful Reaping, he could have counted on the fingers of a single hand the number of tesserae he had to claim in order to support his siblings.

The income their trade brought home did not make the work any less grueling, though. Diving into the deep, day after day, was tough enough on him, young and spry as he was ; for the older members of his family, it was another ball game entirely. Every evening, as he chopped fish and rolled dough alongside his parents and watched his grandmother’s salt-cracked hands bleed as she set the plates on their children’s tables, he wondered what it would take to bring them a miracle.

As it turns out, it took an escort’s hand dipping into the glass sphere of the Reaping, moving along dozens of other names before plucking out a single scrap of white paper out of it. When the careers of District Four started to move in to volunteer in his place, the words escaped him before he could think them through. No, let me do it. There was his opportunity, the riskiest gamble he could take, but also the one that would yield the highest reward. if this was where fate had led him, he would not let it slip through his fingers.

Unlike a career-born tribute, he hadn’t prepared much of a strategy for the interviews and training phase, or a persona to present to the world…but as it turned out, he had more of an affinity for the cameras than he knew. While he was neither the strongest nor the most popular competitor, his friendly nature, humor and more-than-respectable performance in showcases earned him his fair share of sponsor attention, which he did his best to cultivate in the days leading up to the games. Crest, a childhood nickname earned by his knack for always catching the top of the waves, became the one he was known by. Time passed faster than he would have thought possible, though, and before long, he was on the podium, poised to run.

In a departure from the usual formula of survival-in-the-wilderness, the 59th Hunger Games took place in a seemingly-idyllic city, full of narrow, winding streets and nooks to hole up in (think the layout of santorini). This did mean, however, that there were nearly no supplies to be found outside of the cornucopia and a few select drop points, quickly forcing most of the tributes into confrontation for any hope of food. On top of it, various areas of the city seemed to fall victim to floods and landslides at random, making it extremely difficult to settle in one place to wait the competition out. Crest would later learn his arena was based on the ancient legend of the sunken city of Atlantis, a hit for the Capitol’s old-world enthusiasts and literary aficionados.

Starting out with the rest of the career pack to stock up on food and necessities at the Cornucopia, crest and his district partner, an eighteen-year-old girl named Maristela, betrayed the rest of the District One and Two tributes by stealing away in the dead of night with as many supplies as they could carry, then leading them in a merry chase around the arena until, wearied and starving, they were caught in a mudslide. The District Four pair eventually agreed to part ways for their own alliances, hoping they would not meet again before the end, for better or for worse.

While Maristela continued to take advantage of the unpredictable terrain by luring other tributes into traps, Crest observed that a single part of the city seemed immune to the disasters that struck it seemingly at random : its tallest tower, the centerpiece of the arena, under which the cornucopia had eventually sunk and disappeared. Making his way back, he invested it by killing off the couple of tributes that’d taken refuge inside and barricading every entrance but two, effectively turning the tower into the best defensive position he could find. While he spread his resources across various nearby caches, just in case his theory would not hold up, and often stalked out in search of his fellow tributes, the tower became his main haunt for resting and licking his wounds. Out on the big screen, his lording over the arena from atop his perch earned him a new nickname going forward, the Prince of the city.

Though he made a few alliances after Maristela for shelter or medical knowledge, all of them were short-lived, with Crest often choosing to betray those who’d chosen to trust him before they themselves could decide to turn on him. On her side, Maristela picked most of her adversaries off fair and square, but as they promised, did not attempt to seek him out until the two of them were the only ones left.

In a confrontation long-remembered, the Gamemakers forced them together one last time as the city crumbled away into the depths around them. Maristela was older and had superior experience with wielding weapons…but as they tumbled, wrestling, into the churning water, diver-born Crest gained the advantage. He remembered little of the ensuing struggle, only that he saw little of it and heard even less. their flailing made them sink all the faster, and he could only think to hold her underwater for as long as he could. At some point, she must have grabbed onto the arm choking her off and dug her teeth into it ; the immediate memory of pain blended in among all the others. The audience waited with baited breath for nearly a full three minutes before the boy broke the surface again, gasping for breath…and alone. ( He would remember the sound of that last cannon for the rest of his life. )

Crest woke up in a white room, so neat and devoid of life he thought for a moment he had died after all. It took his mentor, his escort and no fewer than three of his attendants assuring him he had indeed survived for him to believe them. He felt as battered as if he’d been tossed inside a barrel full of rocks, and the Capitol’s doctors kept him in observation for a couple more days after he woke up. Still, he’d lived - and he’d won. The capitol hailed him as a champion, and for a moment, their adoration worked to soothe him. Even so, he longed to leave, to reap the rewards of the choice he’d made.

When he went home after the games’ closing ceremony, to his parents’ overjoyed tears and his siblings’ embrace, he truly believed the hardest part was over. He held them close as usual, laughed off their concerns and tried to resume his life as if he’d never left in the first place.

He made it about two weeks before they found him out. The arena had left him with his life, but also a crippling fear of the depths. He could not stand to live in their new home, not when it squatted so close to the sea, nor help their parents dive as he used to despite his best efforts. The water closing in over his head sent him into a panic, and every night, he woke up in a cold sweat, expecting their home to cave in around him. not only that, but every time he tried to spend time with his siblings, their faces would morph into that of younger tributes, a ceaseless reminder of the blood on his hands. When an invitation from president Snow rolled around shortly after his victory tour, he found himself almost glad to leave district four behind. the capitol was garish and decadent, and he could barely begin to understand how its inhabitants’ mind worked…but after a year of struggling to take even a few steps out of victor’s village, the foreign land it offered was a relief. He could bear with the unwanted attention and the loneliness, he thought, if he could simply live again.

Just some eight months after the games, Crest featured in an exclusive interview. In it, he talked at length about the new opportunities his victory had afforded him, the way the Capitol had opened his eyes to his true potential, and concluded it with the announcement he’d be staying in the city for the foreseeable future.

His fans eagerly welcomed the news, and soon enough, he had more invitations on his hand than he knew what to do with. each party introduced him to vices he didn’t even know existed : liquors that painted the world in new colors and smoke that could dull pain, pills to kill his fear and make his heart beat again. He could not have told you whether he chose them or simply fell in, and perhaps it didn’t matter in the end. They allowed him to pass for a whole person, someone who could still quip and joke effortlessly ; someone who, if he could not be the boy his family knew, was more lively than a shell. standing in the limelight made him feel warm, and before long, crest found himself chasing after it. He changed his body first to try to erase the games, getting rid of nearly all his scars, then to keep up with the capitol’s trends. After all, he’d made his home there, for better or for worse. although he occasionally went back to visit his parents and siblings, he could never bring himself to stay for very long, both because of his old fears and the newer shame he felt at the betrayal of his own nature. The money he’d earned from his victory would keep them safe and sound, and that would have to be enough.

What choice did he have, after all? He’d dug his grave sixteen years ago ; the least he could do was lie in it.

WRITING SAMPLE

[REDACTED]

STATS

     Deceive - 2

     Fight - 1

     Lore (knowledge) - 2

     Notice - 3

     Physique - 1

     Provoke - 3

     Rapport - 3 

     Resourcefulness - 1

     Stealth - 2

     Will - 1

[gvfmarge]

Lighthouse of my Soul

(Ghost)Jake x Reader Coming soon!

“Could you be the lighthouse for my soul, could you be the guiding light, tell me everything’s alright? Could you be the one I love so?”

Some chapters will contain smut and difficult topics, MDNI 18+

Little sneak peak (this is unedited, apologies in advance):

Were you running away? From what? It didn’t matter. You felt like you had finally reached your destination. You felt the ocean was your new beginning. The Outer Banks had always been your comfort place, growing up vacationing here was always your favorite. It felt like home every time you visited, so it was a no brainer when you had been offered a temporary position at the local newspaper in Hatteras. You felt that you were going to finally make something of yourself. All the hard work you had put into studying and writing was going to pay off.

You had luckily stumbled upon a tiny cottage to rent. The owner explaining it had been built in 1874 and had weathered many storms and tribulations. It had originally been part of the life-saving station before they had built a newer building and eventually became the Coast Guard. The house had endured damage along the years from storms and each time had been repaired. When you stepped foot inside, you could feel the history. The floorboards squeaked with each step inside, taking a deep breath it smelled like sea salt and fresh air. Everything in the house was basically original. The dark hardwood floors showed signs of wear, with little scratches here and there and you could see the discoloration throughout the house where many footsteps had worn down the stain. The walls were fully covered in shiplap and had been sanded down and painted a beautiful light blue color. The kitchen was small, with only 3 overhead cabinets, a small older fridge and a stove. The living room was connected to the kitchen, you could barely see where the owners had taken out the wall to try and have somewhat of an open concept. Slowly inspecting each room, you came to realize just how small it was compared to the pictures you had viewed online. You realized you might not even have enough space for a couch and a table, but you would figure logistics out later. Walking up the steep rickety stairs you came upon a short hallway, at the end was a window stretching from the ceiling to the floor with an amazing view of the beach and ocean outside of the house, from the second floor it seemed you could see forever over the horizon. There are two bedrooms split by the hallway. Looking inside the room to your left, you noticed a small desk sitting underneath a window looking out to the ocean. On it, sat an empty white vase and a typewriter. It piqued your curiosity, the home came unfurnished and you were not made aware of anything left behind for you to use.

Walking over to it, you sat down in the tiny wooden chair and ran your fingers over the vintage keys. As soon as your fingertips met with the cold metal, you felt electricity flow through your hand, up your arm and down your spine. Goosebumps rose over your skin and you quickly pulled your hand away. The shock and stress of moving must be getting to you, you thought. You gazed out the window taking in the ocean waves. You were finally alone, it felt peaceful but somehow, you felt a longing in the house. There was something that you couldn’t quite place your finger on.

You felt a presence with you and quickly turned around to the entrance of the room. You could have sworn you felt eyes on you but there wasn’t a soul there. You slowly turned your body around again to face the window and your mind wondered back to the memories you had that led you here. Suddenly, a faint smell of tobacco burning filled the room. The sweet but heavy aroma seemed to swirl around your body. It was intoxicating but slightly overwhelming. You felt frozen for just a moment, not quite understanding what was happening. With another deep breath you slowly stood up and scanned the room for any sign of someone else. As quickly as the tobacco smell came, it was gone. You shrugged the smell off to the history of the cottage and made your way back downstairs to begin unpacking and making yourself finally feel at home.