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wife-of-all-dilfs · 23 days

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the five stages | f. odair

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summary: a journey back to a golden period of time of polaroid pictures, white knitted sweaters, and lively sea-green eyes. why? because in the present, those same pair of eyes are ruthlessly unrelenting and you have no other chance of their escape.

pairing: finnick odair x fem!reader

warnings: heavy angst, vomiting, implied smut, depression, maggots, hallucinations, relieving fluff, mild horror. I don’t want to spoil the story too much, so I won’t be adding any more warnings, sorry y’all. this could be very triggering so please read at your own discretion. some descriptions are quite graphic!

notes: I’m super proud of this one—it’s sorta based off “little talks” by of monsters and men and “on the nature of daylight” by max richer. this fic probably won’t get many views, so I’ll be incredibly grateful for any—if any at all—type of engagement! <33

word count: 8k

The bedroom was cold; dark; empty. Empty even though I still resided in it.

My alarm had gone off two hours ago, yet I hadn’t moved an inch. When I finally turned my head to the side, I found that the space beside me was vacant. Cold; dark; empty—I reached out my hand anyway.

Thirty minutes passed before I wrestled myself out of bed and started making breakfast downstairs. The otherwise warm and flavourful plate of fruit-filled yoghurt and scrambled eggs on toast left my mouth feeling dry and my throat lodged.

It used to be one of my favourite meals. At least, when he was around.

Dishes were piled in the sink, dirty and untouched. I sat on the couch, pondering whether today was the day I would finally get to cleaning them. It wasn’t. I couldn’t. We always did that together. I wondered—if I left them in the sink long enough, would he return? Even just for five minutes to help me put them away? One month and seventeen days had passed, and yet I still entertained this thought religiously.

I wasted an hour running circles round the same contemplations before deciding fresh air, as cliché as it was, might do me some good.

Grey clouds concealed the sun’s warm golden light when I stepped outside, but that was fine—I didn’t like anything golden anymore. But he would want me to leave the house at least once a day, so that’s what I would do. I would go down to the beach beside our—my house and feel the sand collect between my toes as I walked to the water’s edge.

But wasn’t that where he was when it happened? Wasn’t he in water? Didn’t those things pile on top of him? Didn’t they sink their fangs into his neck and tear at his flesh until he was blown to…

Bits of egg, yoghurt and stomach bile sat at my feet. My legs buckled, and I collapsed to the ground in a sandy, tear-stricken heap. Since my lower body had refused to cooperate any longer, it took me until midday to crawl back up the dune and to my front doorstep.

Fuck. I needed to rest.

“I need you to rest, sweetheart.”

“I told you, I’m fine,” I whined. “I’m not sick.”

Finnick placed a bucket on the ground beside the bed. The room smelled of lemon disinfectant—a joy I often found in being sick… That is, if I were sick, which I was not. I must have drunk spoiled milk or eaten something bad during breakfast. Nevertheless, Finnick was not having it.

“You’re throwing up everything you manage to get down, and you’re shivering like it’s the middle of winter,” he said adamantly, tucking the comforter up to my chest. “It’s summer, and you’re very much not fine.”

I sat up, ready to heatedly debate the subject, but the room began swirling, and my ears were hissing like a staticky television channel without a signal. A quiet whimper buzzed in my throat as I hunched forward. Damn him, I was sick.

The mattress dipped as Finnick sat beside me. His hand was on my back, rubbing it soothingly as he used his other hand to tuck away the curtain of hair concealing my face. I huffed, half in annoyance, half in an attempt to suppress the nausea rising in my throat, and then sunk back against the pillows.

“Not sick, she says,” he jested, smiling down at me. I rolled my eyes, though unable to hide the weak, betraying smile creeping across my lips. “Close your eyes, sweetheart,” he said, a gentle command. “I’ll see you when you fall asleep.”

The wooden flooring welcomed me with hard, cold arms as I hauled my sandy body through the front door. Images of fangs, bloody flesh, and panicked sea-green eyes flooded my mind.

More breakfast, more bile. No lemon disinfectant.

My knees were folded beneath my body; my body was hunched over my knees. I was sobbing now, so hard that I threw up again (was there even anything left in my stomach at this point?), creating a thick puddle of vomit and tears beneath me. Cries and gasps for air bounced around the house. To call me a mess would be an understatement. I was a disaster. A disaster wrapped up in an unmendable tragedy with a ragged, threadbare ribbon barely holding me together.

And in case I wasn’t aware of this fact, the floorboards were so shiny that they mirrored a reflection of myself. My hair was a being of its own, all wild and unkempt, and my face was another story entirely—a red, blotchy thing I wasn’t too interested in delving into.

But the most unsettling aspect had nothing to do with me, it was that there was someone else in the reflection. Two green balls of light were glowing above my head.

Dishevelled golden hair…

Dimpled cheeks…

My forehead was pressed to the floor as I screamed.

“I don’t want to make you sick as well,” I said, contrarily enjoying the feeling of Finnick’s skin warm against mine, hot blood flowing through his veins.

A day had passed since I first became unwell, and the sickness had continued to wreak havoc inside me.

We were both under the thick covers, our limbs tangled together as he held me atop his chest. (my body didn’t register the scorching summer temperatures. I actually felt as though my core temperature was a few degrees below freezing. Meanwhile, Finnick was characteristically toasty warm. It was perfect for me, but not so much for him, evident in the beads of sweat collecting on his forehead. Nevertheless, he made no complaints).

My body rose and fell with each breath he took. I was trying to inhale whenever he exhaled in a weak attempt to prevent the festering sickness in my body from entering his, and though it was a futile gesture, I did it anyway.

“In sickness and health, remember?” he said.

I smiled. “We’re not even married.”

“Yet, you mean,” he countered. “I plan on spending the rest of my life with you, sweetheart. You know that.”

My heart fluttered at the thought of spending an entire lifetime with him—waking up in each other’s embrace each morning, the warm sunlight peeking through the blinds of our bedroom; Finnick calling me “Mrs. Odair” or “My wife” at every opportunity because doing so made us both giggle like two moronic, love-struck teenagers; and being unable to prevent the deep smile lines on both our cheeks as we age, a constant display of our perpetual happiness.

“Sixty more years of having and holding you,” he continued with a gentle musing in his tone. “For better or for worse... For richer or for poorer.” He then stroked the side of my face and brushed away the sweaty strands of hair sticking to my forehead. “In sickness and in health…”

“…Until death do us part,” I finished, my voice slow with fatigue.

Two fingers sat beneath my chin and tilted my head upward. My eyes connected with Finnick’s. They were soft. Heartfelt.

“Not even then. I’ll love you beyond the grave,” he murmured. Then his lips were slowly curving into a pensive smile. “When we’re both ghosts and haunting the next owners of this house.”

I was now smiling, too. “I’d hoped you would say something like that.”

How could he lie like that? There was no we. There were no next owners. There was only me, alive and alone in a comatose house. And mind you, I was sane enough to know that it wasn’t actually his ghost haunting me, though I wish I weren’t because having that knowledge was even worse. It meant he was truly erased from existence.

“Go away,” I whispered to the reflection on the floor.

He didn’t. His vacant green eyes kept staring down at my crumpled figure.

I shot off the floor and spun around, hot tears streaming down my face. “Go away!” His face remained expressionless. He looked like himself, only colder. “You said sixty more years! You said we’d be together!” I mindlessly picked up and flung a small picture frame at him, only for it to pass through his body and shatter on the floor behind him. “Why did you lie to me?!” My voice was frayed with fury, though underlined with grief.

He said nothing, did nothing. All he did was watch.

My legs buckled, and I was on the floor again. I was whispering, half-sobbing, the same question over and over until the words slurred together. “Why’d you lie? Why’d y’lie?” The only time I stopped was when my tongue grew too heavy to move anymore.

To my surprise, he eventually came and sat beside me, remaining cold and silent—as I too had become.

Glass fragments from the picture frame were scattered across the floorboards. The photo within had fallen out and, ironically, drifted towards me. I didn’t bother acknowledging him as I moved onto my hands and knees and began crawling forward—my palms slicing open and blood seeping out—until the photo was in my hands. My shins had granules of glass pricking into them, but I couldn’t feel the pain; all I could do was stare at the memory in my hands.

The picture had been taken in District Thirteen, a day before he signed up for… the mission.

I was drifting in and out of sleep when a sudden bright flash lit up my eyelids.

“Oops.”

Heavy eyes fluttering open, I was met with a small camera pointing down at me, which was being held up by a lengthy muscular arm, which was connected to an even more muscular and broad shoulder, which was connected to—okay, sorry, I think you get it.

“Finnick!” I shrieked, pulling the covers over my naked figure.

He laughed, the vibrations rumbling deep within his chest, beneath my ear. A soft whirring sound accompanied the polaroid sliding out of the camera, its black film hiding the doubtless embarrassing picture beneath. He placed the film on the sheets beside him, letting the photo develop in darkness.

“I was supposed to cover the flash,” he said, still chuckling.

I rubbed my eyes, which were twinkling with little sparkles of light. “I think you blinded me.”

“Lucky you,” he jested. “You’re finally free from my repulsive exterior.”

I started to reach for the picture beside him—“You’re an idiot”—but then he was rolling us over until his arms were pillared on either side of my head and he was hovering above me.

His hair was a mess, a testament to the night before (and very early hours of the morning), and he was sporting a beautiful, lazy grin. “Yeah? Well, you’re engaged to an idiot,” he said, tilting his head in an arrogant manner. “So what does that make you?”

The sea-glass ring hugging my finger gleamed in the lamp’s dull light as I reached out to touch his face, my fingertips brushing along the edges of his pronounced jawline. Tangled strands of hair and a beaming smile were reflecting back at me in his eyes. No one had ever loved anyone as much as I loved Finnick—disregarding the one exception that was staring down at me.

“Blinded by love,” I whispered.

Brief yet poignant emotion trickled through his features, his eyes. Then, like a flick of a switch, he covered it up and lowered his face into my neck, groaning the words, “So corny.”

My fingers were tangled in his hair, holding him close to me. “Liar,” I laughed. “You loved it.”

“I love you, which is why I put up with your corniness,” he murmured into my skin.

Even after all this time, my heart still leapt whenever he said those three words, even when he was being a jerk about it. I kissed the top of his head. “I love you, too.”

We laid like this for a short while longer—Finnick keeping his face buried in the warmth of my neck, his arms curled beneath my body; me playing with the golden waves of his hair that were somehow softer than my own. He was so heavy on top of me that it was starting to become difficult to breathe, but in no universe would I ever tell him to get off. It was a blissful sort of suffocation.

A sort anyone would snap a picture of just to keep as a reminder of how beautiful it feels to be smothered with love. With that being said, the picture that lay awaiting beside me was brought back to mind.

“Oh no,” I moaned, picking it up and taking a short glance at the developed photo. I covered my face with my hands, repeating the words, “Oh no.”

The photo was plucked from my fingers, and Finnick began humming contentedly to himself.

In the photo, my face had been nuzzled into his bare, muscular chest, eyes closed in sleep-drunken serenity, hair thrown over my shoulder and spilling across the pillow. My hand rested on his contoured stomach with just enough of my upper arm and low light to conceal my breasts. Finnick had a delicate hand draped over my waist. He was gazing down at me with a smile that was just… full of pure love.

I had to admit—it was a beautiful picture. Despite my initial disapproval.

“Beautiful,” I heard him echo my thoughts, his eyes still scanning the photo. Then his brows furrowed, and his head slightly inched forward as though he had just noticed something peculiar in the picture. “Oh, and you are too, I guess.”

My head tilted back against the pillow with an abrupt laugh. I shook my head, looking back at him. “I hate you.”

“Liar,” he said, leaning in closer.

His lips were on mine for what must have been the millionth time in the past few hours. The bedside clock announced that breakfast was soon approaching, though it was clear neither of us would make an appearance within the next hour (or two).

“You love me,” he whispered as he slid inside me.

And I did.

I really did.

The muscles in my cheeks were straining due to how hard I was smiling.

It wasn’t my idea to keep a picture of us half-naked in the entryway of our home. He always was a bit unusual like that. Completely unashamed of who he was and how he acted. Sometimes a little too boisterously, but that’s what I loved so much about him—how confident he was in his love for me, so much so that nothing else mattered, no one else’s opinion.

God, I love him so much.

Love…?

Wait.

That’s not right.

Shouldn’t it be “loved”?

And why was I smiling? I didn’t have anything to smile about anymore. He was gone. Our wedding never occurred. Our faces never wrinkled with smile lines. Our clasped hands never weathered with age. He was gone.

The polaroid slipped from between my fingers. My hands were covered in glass and blood, blood that had painted a dark red splotch in the middle of the shiny film. Figures.

After a short while of staring blankly at the scattered debris decorating the floor, I finally found it in myself to start climbing back onto my feet. My straightened legs wobbled and ached beneath me with the little energy I had. That’s what happens when you can barely stomach food anymore: no energy, always sleeping, always swamped by nightmares or bittersweet memories—at this point, they were one and the same.

Not a strand of gold or a fleck of green was in sight when I glanced over my shoulder. For now, at least. He liked making an appearance once or twice a day.

Pieces of glass crunched beneath my bare, stinging feet as I made for the stairwell. A mess for another day, I reasoned. Just like the dishes. Sticky red footprints stamped each wooden step I ascended, growing less prominent as I reached the second floor.

After taking a right down a short hallway, the encompassing walls littered with magnificent seashells and dried ocean flora, I turned the knob to the furthest room and entered. The floor was landscaped with mountains of clothes which drenched the room in a familiar, all-consuming smell. The scent kind of reminded me of receiving a warm hug, albeit from someone you know you should let go of in more ways than one.

His hair, golden and tousled, caught my eye as I passed the wall of string-hung polaroids in our… sorry, my bedroom. His smile was all dimpled and brilliant, and he had his tanned arms wrapped around my middle. Just moments after the picture was taken, he had tackled me into the water and rightfully earned a smack on the back of the head. In turn, he did it again.

But before that, we were both looking into the camera with the most joyful expressions—huge grins, bright eyes. Frozen in time.

I never let myself look too long at that picture anymore. And I never, ever looked into his eyes. Green used to be my favourite colour. I didn’t have a favourite colour anymore. It was safe to say I didn’t have a favourite anything anymore; everything favourable was a reminder of him.

I picked up a white knitted sweater off the ground and tugged it over my head, staining it with splotches of dark red. Knowing him, he would wear it regardless—whatever was mine, was also his, and was equally the same in reverse, even things as grotesque as blood.

Well, he would have worn it, I should have said.

The sweater had been specifically tailored for him. I remembered how the soft sleeves hugged his arms so well that every fluid curve of his biceps was visible, similar to a building wave before it crested. On me, the sleeves swallowed my arms whole, which I liked to think in their own unique way had also been unintentionally tailored for me, like someone out there knew one day I would need some way to drown in him when he was gone.

Finnick’s fingers tugged at the silk ribbons, unwrapping the opulent gift box that sat on our dining table. Capitol devotees would send extravagant parcels weekly, turning up in abundance on our doorstep. Sometimes Finnick didn’t even bother opening them; sometimes we opened them together just to get a good laugh out of whatever ridiculous item was inside.

He never, though, opened the perfume-scented letters marked with lipstick stains.

“Oh,” I said in surprise as he lifted the lid. Inside was a folded piece of fabric, knitted and cream-white and intricate, though still simple. It was soft to the touch; thick enough to retain warmth. I held it up with two hands, admiring the hand-sewed threads of cotton. Whoever’s handiwork this was, it was nothing to laugh at.

Holding it up to Finnick’s torso, I smiled and said, “Try it on.”

“What?” He shook his head and smiled quizzically. “No.”

“Yes. I think it will look good on you.” I pressed it further against him with conviction. “Try it on.”

He tilted his head and exhaled deeply through his nose, giving me a begrudging, squinty-eyed look. From that, I already knew I had won him over, and watched as he snatched the sweater from my grasp and tugged his shirt off with one hand. I averted my eyes, feeling the tips of my ears flush with heat—we’d been together for over a year now; you would think I’d have grown accustomed to seeing him shirtless.

His head slipped through the neckline and he pulled the sweater down his body. I was right. It looked really good on him. Perfect, actually. The measurements were so precise that the fabric sloped off his shoulders like a compact mountain of snow. The thick-knitted collar dipped into a deep, uneven neckline that partly revealed his chest and made his neck look like a strong, contoured pillar. He looked at me expectantly, as though to ask, “Well?”

“It makes your neck and shoulders look really nice,” I blurted out, instantly cringing inside.

His expression contorted into something of amusement and surprise as he took a slow step towards me. “My neck and shoulders, huh?” he said, grinning devilishly. Oh, now I’d done it. Leave it to me to rocket Finnick Odair’s already atmospheric ego. “Anything else?”

I began backing away, but his prowling strides were so long that the space between us only shortened. When my backside hit the edge of the dining table, I knew I was done for.

“You know,” I began, avoiding his unrelenting stare. “I think it was just a momentary lapse of judgement.” He was closing in now, placing his hands on either side of my body to trap me in place. “It—It actually looks terrible on you,” I said, feigning sincerity and adding a little nod to help further my case.

His eyelids drooped as he gazed down at me, lips curving into that seductive smirk he had mastered long ago. “No takebacks,” he purred, voice low and gravelly. Dear God, I could only pray I wasn’t going to melt into a puddle on the floor. He always did this—took every opportunity to flirt and render me a stuttering, bashful mess. It was his favourite game to play. “This is now my new favourite shirt. All thanks to you, sweetheart.”

But, given the right timing and ever-wavering amount of confidence, I liked to play too.

I inhaled deeply, hoping my voice wouldn’t betray me. “Maybe you should take it off then,” I said, cocking my head to the side. “So you don’t ruin it.”

His mischievous expression revealed his next words before he even spoke them. “Maybe I will,” he said, and then he was tugging his sweater over his head, and I was tearing off my own. As his hands slipped beneath my thighs and lifted me onto our dining table, I prayed the wooden legs wouldn’t collapse under the weight of our next actions.

My fingertips ran over the soft, rippling patterns on the knitted sleeves, my arms crossed in a self-soothing manner. After that day, the sweater had become a sort of good luck charm—or so we agreed upon as we lay panting on the tabletop. He started wearing it to a multitude of events and parties in the Capitol (basically any place in which he needed a pick-me-up, a reminder of what he had to come home to, who he had to come home to).

He even wore it the day we got engaged.

So many happy memories were associated with this one white sweater. So many times, those cloud-soft sleeves were wrapped around my body, suffocating me in the scent of him—if nothing else, at least that remained.

The last time he had worn it was the day of the Reaping for the Quarter Quell; the last time our lives were ever semi-normal. I had fought tooth and nail to reach him before he was escorted onto the train, despite being ordered, “No goodbyes,” by one of the Peacekeepers. In modest terms, I had significantly decreased his chances of reproduction.

When I reached Finnick, he had brought me into a kiss so harsh and fervent that my lips were bruised the next day. He then yanked off his sweater, leaving his upper body completely exposed to everyone around us in complete disregard for his trauma-induced fear of doing so, and shoved it into my hands.

I had just stood there frozen in bewilderment, watching as he called out, “I love you, sweetheart!” Two Peacekeepers were forcing him onto the train, but he too fought for the last word. “Don’t forget—I’m always with you!”

That statement had never been truer than it was now. For better or for worse.

My vision unblurred as I returned to reality. Dismal, grey light was peeking through the shutters that formed the balcony doors, the daylight hours seeming to tick away at a snail’s pace. I used to wish for the days to be longer, for time to move slower, so I could savour the moments I had of happiness and sunlight which used to be plentiful.

Why do wishes only come true when you grow to desire nothing but the opposite?

Slothfully, I crawled onto the unmade king-size bed, my limbs crumpling and balling to my chest as the side of my head hit the pillow. The imprint on the mattress beneath my body didn’t match my own. It was much larger and broader. How long would it take for the springs to forget his body weight and recoil back into place as though he never existed at all?

I inhaled the sweater’s scent with every breath I took (and I tried not to wonder how long it would take for his scent to disappear as well) and hugged my arms around my waist. No pain was worse than the fleeting moments I forgot the embrace was my own and not his.

Hours passed, and so did the evening. A beautiful orange sunset hadn’t slipped through the shutter’s cracks because the clouds never dissipated. Night-time brought no consolation either. Not even the stars or moon made an appearance. Everything that once gave me a shred of optimism was hidden behind a veil of gloom.

I knew tomorrow wouldn’t be any different—the weather, my mood, his absence. Because the end of autumn was closing in, and the days were becoming bleaker. Trees would start shedding their leaves; the leaves would start to die.

I hoped I would too.

I was still curled up on my side, my body aching with stiffness, when my face began scrunching into this ugly, twisted mess of despair. My tears were slow yet heavy, synonymous with the day I had incurred.

But then something strange happened.

Someone called my name.

No. That couldn’t be right. I was the only one who occupied a house in the Victor’s Village; the others had either relocated after the war or were… dead.

But there it was again—my name, distant and eerie, yet spoken with a tone people often used to beckon over and aid a frightened, injured animal. My vision blurred, both from tears and concentration on the voice.

“Hey.”

I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment my surroundings transformed into a kitchen, just that they had and that I was no longer in my bed but standing upright.

Ahead of me, in the distance, the sun was beating down on the crystalline water, and white frothy waves were cresting on the smooth, golden sand. It was a perfect day; not a cloud was in sight. The only blemish that smeared the blue sky was the reflection staring back at me from the window I gazed out of.

In my hands was a soup bowl and a damp dishrag.

“Sweetheart?” That once distant voice, concerned and beckoning, was standing right beside me.

Blinking, I snapped out of my daze and turned away from the window.

He stood tall beside me, despite being half hunched over the kitchen sink and scrubbing the last of the few dirty dishes stacked neatly on the bench top. His head was turned towards me, his enamoured sea-green eyes peering into my own as though he was searching behind them for what troubled me.

“Hey,” he spoke softly, standing up straight. His touch was warm and gentle as he reached for my hand, leaving soapy bubbles on my palm and fingers. “Where’d you go?”

Three odd things seemed to occur at once: first, I flinched away from his touch, overwhelmed by its paradoxical unfamiliar familiarity; second, I felt an inexpressible relief from seeing him standing before me, seeing his cheeks painted with a soft pink hue as though blood-red roses were hidden just beneath his skin.

The third was an onset of disorientation. I couldn’t tell you why I felt disorientated standing in my own kitchen with the love of my life, just, simply, that I did. There was an answer—it was close by, right under my nose, yet unreachable. We did this every day, didn’t we? We would eat meals together and then wash up together. So, why did I feel so unsettled?

I shook my head, dispelling the confusion that muddled my brain. “Sorry,” I whispered. “I don’t know what happened.” I laughed uneasily, without a hint of mirth.

He laughed too, not to poke fun or because he found my obvious turmoil amusing, but rather to comfort me, so I would feel less alone in my unease. “It’s alright,” he said gently.

Neither of us addressed what had happened; we simply resumed our routine of washing and drying in domestic silence. And as seconds turned to minutes, and as the sky remained sunny, I found myself smiling. All that mattered was that he was standing beside me and that the sun was beaming in the sky. So, I kept smiling.

After I finished drying the last dish, we began placing the plates, bowls, and an abundance of cutlery in their assigned drawers and cupboards, weaving past each other and giggling anytime we got in one another’s path. I was carrying a stack of white plates, eyeing the high cupboard they needed to go in, but before I could even attempt straining onto my toes, the plates were out of my hands and taken into another much larger pair.

The smell of sea salt and expensive cologne wafted from behind me as he towered over my shorter frame and placed the plates in the cupboard.

“I could have done that,” I said, smiling as I turned around to face him.

He had a playful glint in his eye. “Yeah, right. What are you, like, four feet tall?” he joked.

It was an extreme exaggeration since I was no way near that height, but I suppose everyone was miniature in comparison to him, being over six feet tall and all. I feigned open-mouthed offence, to which he gave the side of my head a quick, playful kiss of apology.

He then leaned against the counter with crossed arms. “Plus, when was the last time you actually put these dishes away? I’m surprised you even remember where they go.” He was grinning at me in a teasing manner, but every ounce of humour had drained from my body.

My eyes drifted to the floor.

Well, that was the question, wasn’t it—when was the last time I put the dishes away?

I couldn’t remember. In fact, I couldn’t remember what had happened this morning or the day before. Hell, I couldn’t even remember what we were doing before the dishes.

To be standing in a room, in a place you call home, and have a sense that nothing is in its right place, even though that is where everything has always been, is a disconcerting feeling beyond belief. To be perplexed by your own state of being—your existence—is even worse. I could almost describe it as a nauseating bout of vertigo.

My hands found the counter’s edge behind me, and I exhaled a shaky breath.

He stepped in front of me, one large and gentle hand reaching up to cup my jaw. “Are you okay?” he asked, his forehead wrinkling with shallow worry lines as he inspected my face. I hated that. I hated that I worried him so much. Sure, partners were supposed to lean on each other for support in a relationship (as he too did with me when needed), but I always felt so guilty doing so. Hadn’t he already suffered enough… pain in his lifetime? Who was I to cause him any more?

A sunbeam suffused the room, oozing across his face. The illumination lightened his eyes into a refreshing mint green, though, in contradiction, unearthed a pain that had been previously been concealed. Pain from what, I wasn’t sure. From concern regarding my unusual behaviour? Maybe a thought that was troubling him? Or perhaps he too was enduring a spell of confusion and had an inexplicable feeling that he was out of place.

Whatever his pain regarded, seeing it had rattled the deepest structures in which held my mind together.

It was then that I suddenly realised I hadn’t answered his question, so I gave him a wan “I’m-not-too-sure-myself” smile and then began slinking back to the sink window.

He followed behind me. I could feel him staring into the back of my head, could feel his brows draw together and his lips pull into a tight line, patiently waiting for a further explanation, though I wasn’t sure I could offer him one.

I hadn’t noticed before, but on the windowsill was a small picture frame containing a polaroid picture of us in bed—I was lying on his chest, half-naked and asleep, and he was looking down at me, smiling fondly yet with a sort of mischievous knowability. Running down the middle of the protective glass was a small, jagged crack.

I plucked the frame from the windowsill, inspecting the picture in my two hands. It seemed to uncover a place in my mind—once clouded by disorientation—I’d forgotten. Whether this place was real or imaginary was beyond me, but the fear I felt upon its recollection was incandescently genuine.

“Do you think,” I spoke tentatively, “people can have nightmares while they’re wide awake?” My thumb ran over the crack.

I might have heard him inhale a quiet, sharp breath, but it also could have just been the waves breaking on the distant shore. “Like a flashback?” he asked, an unidentifiable unease in his tone.

“No, not exactly.” I searched my brain for the right words, the right way to tell him how I was feeling, but it was difficult when I could only conjure vague fragments. And it was all I could do to tell it to him elliptically, as I knew saying the words in any other manner would shatter my heart.

“I had this vision,” I began, my words apprehensively staccato, “where I was somewhere else.” My eyes flickered over the picture. “Somewhere… bad. Everything was grey and heavy, and I was alone. Sometimes you were there, but you—you weren’t really you anymore.” I paused and looked up to find him staring at me in the reflection of the window. He looked pained; it was then suddenly hard to recollect a time when he didn’t. My throat started to constrict. “You were gone and…” my voice quietened to a broken wisp of wind, “you were haunting me.”

The room was silent.

He said nothing in response

The transparency of his reflection in the glass was so familiar—so haunting—and it was like another forgotten matter had been dredged from the depths of my mind. Stinging tears brimmed my waterline, and, due to my inability to bear the sight of his translucent appearance, I forced myself to turn around.

I glanced up at him, smiling weakly as I whispered, “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head as if my need to apologise was nonsensical (even I was unsure of what I was apologising for), and he then pulled me into a tight embrace. His chin rested atop my head; my face was buried in his chest, and his arms held me like I was some dilapidated structure that relied on his support to remain upright. Part of me knew this sentiment was correct.

I expected his next words to be ones of consolation or reassurance, maybe an “I’m right here, sweetheart” or an “I’ll never leave you”. Instead, I felt his head turn and heard him say, “Think it’s going to storm?”

With a sniffle, I turned my head towards the window. The arms wrapped around my body tightened as if he somehow knew I would need the extra support. Because when I saw the wall of dark, opaque clouds rolling through the sky towards us, an unshakeable dread zapped through my heart.

My hands clung to the fabric of his cream-white sweater, which then brought to my attention that an inexplicable tingling sensation was spreading down the fingers of my right hand, numbing them.

Lightning flashed on the horizon, and the once serene waves began cresting violently on the shoreline. The dread grew.

Before my attention could drift too far, my name was called again.

I looked up to find those green eyes gazing down at me, swelling with tears. He was crying. Why was he crying? And why was his hair wet? His usually golden strands had darkened to a deep brown and were drenched with cold water that dripped onto my cheeks, and his hair was swept haphazardly across his forehead, a reflection of someone who had just endured an intense storm or had just been fighting for his life against a swarm of—of—

No.

My own eyes began to burn.

“It’s killing me to see you this way,” he spoke, every second word breaking and wavering in volume.

The world seemed to tilt on an axis. Return did the disorientation, ravaging my mind more violently now. “What do you”—My chest was rising and falling with heavy breaths—“What? What do you mean?” My lower lip was quivering, and my eyebrows were scrunched together in confusion. His words replayed in my head: It’s killing me to see you this way.

It’s killing me.

His hair was dripping—no longer with water, but with a thick, red substance that both dripped down and clotted on his skin. He didn’t look pained anymore; he looked like he was in pain.

It’s killing me.

But that can’t be right, can it?

It’s killing me.

Why?

It’s killing me.

Becausemy Finnickwas already dead.

I staggered backwards and out of his, no, this imposter’s arms. He stared at me as blood streamed down his forehead, pouring over his eyelashes and down his cheeks. I was going to be sick. This had to be some sort of cruel joke, a newly invented punishment from Snow. But that wasn’t right either: Snow was dead too.

“F…Fi…” I tried saying his name, my top teeth prodding the inside of my bottom lip, but I couldn’t make a sound.

He took a step towards me, and I almost stumbled onto the floor. “Remember what I told you?” he asked, though it sounded more like an urge.

I frantically shook my head. No, I didn’t remember. I didn’t want to remember anything.

Something dark and mountainous appeared in my peripheral vision, and an odious smell singed my nostrils. My head snapped to the left. Stacks upon stacks of plates and bowls mounded the kitchen sink, each crawling with maggots that were falling to the floor in white, wriggling heaps.

Nausea boiled in my stomach; horror brimmed my eyes.

I quickly turned away, my eyes meeting green again. His face was no longer stained with blood, and his hair was dry, shiny, and golden with life. I was as speechless as my face was drained of blood.

He took one more step toward me, but this time I didn’t back away, either frozen with fear or desperation for one last experience of closeness with him. My heart thrummed as he reached out to cup my face. It isn’t him, it isn’t him, it isn’t him, I repeated madly in my head. Oh, but it felt so much like him when his warm hand met my skin.

“I told you I’m always with you, sweetheart,” he murmured. And I knew engaging with him, in whatever form he took, affirmed my mental unwellness, but I couldn’t stop from leaning into his touch anyway. “Remember that.”

My cheeks were wet with tears. “I love—”

A bolt of lightning flashed, and thunder boomed throughout the house.

I was back in my bed.

My eyelids were heavy with sleep as they fluttered open. I felt detached, destabilised, and unsure of my existence in the world for I wasn’t sure which of the twoI was currently in. Real or fake?

A few minutes went by before I managed to get a grip on reality, which, in fact, was the real one. The Somewhere Bad. I pinched the corners of my eyes, not only finding them damp with fresh tears but also realising that my right hand—previously tucked beneath my head—was numb.

None of it had been real…

The entire time, my body was trying to alert me, to save me from the inescapable heartache I would feel upon waking. He hadn’t held me in his arms. He hadn’t cupped my cheek nor helped me wash the dishes. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t anywhere (not even in his own marked grave because there was nothing left of him to be buried).

Even despite seeing the familiar tall outline standing in the doorway, his features illuminated with each flash of lightning, I knew it wasn’t really him.

Rain was pummelling the roof, almost loud enough to subdue the perpetual rumbling of thunder (apart from the one sky-splitting thunderclap that had woken me). In another time, I would’ve been scared—of the raging storm, of my phantom lover who was watching from the shadows of our bedroom. But not now.

In recent months, I had found that no emotion, not even fear, surpassed the soul-crushing realisation that you have irretrievably lost the one thing you lived for.

On a defeated whim, and for the first time since his death, I let the singular, weighted word breeze past my lips.

“Finnick.”

It was a trembling plea, a desperate beckon.

And he indulged.

His footsteps were silent as he walked towards the bed. I couldn’t see his legs from my position, prompting me to wonder if he even had legs at all. Or did he only have legs when I could see them? That would then insinuate that if I couldn’t see him at all, he didn’t exist.

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? In my case, the answer was simple: no, it didn’t.

It wasn’t really Finnick. It wasn’t even his ghost. It was my mind.

He reached the bed’s edge, and I scooted over to my side of the mattress, allowing him enough space to lie down on his. His weight neither dipped nor shook the bed as he laid down and turned on his side to face me. His eyes were sad, and I’m sure mine were too. We stared at each other for a long, long time, long enough for my fatigued body to start playing tricks on me.

If I focused hard enough, I thought I could hear the sound of his breathing (the wind was picking up outside), feel the warmth of his skin spreading onto the sheets (the remnants of my own body heat were left behind each time I moved), and smell the musky scent of cologne and sea-salted hair (the sleeves of his sweater were tucked beneath my nose).

Maybe for a moment—just one sickly, self-indulgent moment—I could pretend it was really him.

I inhaled deeply through my nose. “You really weren’t kidding when you said you would haunt the next owner of this house,” I whispered as light-heartedly as I could, my voice obscured by the heavy rain pouring onto the roof.

He smiled, and it was one of the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful things I had ever seen. I think I might have given him one in return, though I couldn’t be too sure because the concept of smiling had become so foreign. The last time I was truly happy was… the last night we spent together. In each other’s arms, safe and warm and together.

And then he was gone. Just like that.

Cressida, whom I had only spoken to once in Thirteen when the war ended, was the one to tell me how it happened. Katniss was too personal, too close to him; Peeta’s instability rendered conversation futile. So, I had asked Cressida to tell me every detail—every expression on his face, every word he screamed. I don’t know why. Maybe it was so I could cling onto those last few minutes where he was still alive and breathing, despite dying and bleeding; or so I could replay the moment over and over in my head, as if somehow, someway, I could change his fate.

“He talked about you all the time,” she had told me. “Actually, I don’t think he ever spoke of anything but you. No one minded, though. While we were out there, no one ever really smiled, but every time your name was mentioned, Finnick would get this great big grin on his face, and it was impossible not to look at him and start smiling as well.

So, we all started asking questions about you: ‘What colour is her hair? Her eyes? Where did you meet? What are her hobbies?’—just to see him smile… A week passed, and it was like we all knew you inside out. It was all we could do to hang on to some shred of happiness, even if it meant talking about a girl who, to all of us, was a stranger.”

I was inconsolable after that.

She kept talking, but my sobs had drowned out most of her words, so much that I had asked her to retell me everything later in the day, despite inducing the same outcome. So, she told it to me again, just as she did the day after that and the day after that and so on until I returned home to District Four.

“He also spoke about how you never felt comfortable living in the Victors Village. He had this idea that the two of you would move somewhere far away, outside the borders of District Four, though he emphasised remaining by the sea was very important—something about how you looked while swimming during sunset and the water was all sparkly around you.”

At this point, she had been holding my hand, knowing full well how debilitating it was for me to hear. Then she had spoken with a quiet incredulity and a facial expression to match, as though she’d never encountered a love like ours before. “He wanted to build a house for you…”

He wanted to build a house for you.

And now he never would. Our love was too ephemeral for that to happen; destined to remain history; to be a memory.

Finnick's eyes stared into mine, the green hue now a dark grey from the overshadowing dimness of the room.

“I would’ve gone anywhere with you,” I whispered to him, placing my hand on the sheets between us. “I would’ve travelled thousands of miles away from this place. Would’ve lived in solitary, just the two of us, for the rest of our lives.” A warm tear tickled the bridge of my nose. His eyebrows scrunched together in shared anguish. “God, Finn, I miss you,” my voice broke. “I miss you so much.”

I contemplated crying, sobbing, screaming, or begging for him to come back, but I was just too tired. All my energy had been spent on grievance throughout the following day, and my eyes were growing heavier by the second as my body was sinking further into a state of relaxation.

Between slow blinks, I watched Finnick’s large hand move to rest atop my own, and at that point, I knew sleep would soon catch me because I swear I could feel his warm touch.

Images flashed through my mind—incomprehensible and melting together, yet somehow still graspable.

Sky blue water rippling with calm waves, the surface glittering in the setting sun. A white stonewall cottage fronted by soft, white sand and tall palm trees. Two plates of fruit-filled yoghurt and scrambled eggs on toast. Three pairs of footprints in the sand, one larger, one smaller, and another between them so delicately tiny I could fit them into the palm of my hand.

Sea-green eyes above me. Golden hair tangled between my fingers. Finnick standing in the wooden doorway of our white stonewall cottage wearing a cream-white sweater and rolled-up slacks. Finnick grinning deeply and then throwing his head back with laughter. Finnick standing in front of our bed, taking my hand in his and guiding me towards him. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick.

Finnick holding our child.

I was between worlds now, both indistinguishable from the other. My eyelids were drooping, and I was quickly growing insensate. Just before my eyes closed completely, I saw Finnick’s—he who wasn’t really my Finnick—lips move. It wasn’t in my bleak reality in which I heard him speak, but rather in my mind, and God, did his words offer the sweetest relief.

“I’ll see you when you fall asleep.”

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whalesforhands · 8 months

Text

instant ramen and friendship (satosugu x reader)

warnings: first year!SSS, satosugu ‘flirting’, gege if u hear me pls let me have my satosugu fluff, avid believer that gojo never ate any ‘instant’ food until geto

“I don’t eat peasant food.” Gojo Satoru’s crossing his arms as he stares at the pot of instant ramen Suguru and yourself were cooking.

“Then don’t eat.” Geto Suguru’s cold reply to the petulant classmate of his, stirring the contents within the boiling pot as you stood beside him, trying to fry the eggs as inconspicuously as you possibly can, nervously trying to tiptoe further away from the duo’s teetering on almost flirtatious argument.

Silence.

You peek over your shoulder only to see Gojo’s impertinent stare stuck on the back of Geto’s head, eyes narrowed in irritation with brows furrowed deep, shoulders hunching in as he tapped his foot against the ground.

You have to admit, their relationship… Has been improving lately.

From that moment the duo had come back from their mission together, Geto’s arm slung over Gojo’s shoulders whilst clutching his bandaged torso, effectively using the Six Eyes user as a crutch, hobbling to his side whenever his injury seemed to worsen slightly.

Or when Gojo would go and bother him by strutting into his room, demanding another ride on his flying cursed spirits or to show him around a peculiar area nearby.

“When you said you’d treat me for saving your life, this isn’t what I thought I’d be getting.”

“Oh, well.” He turns to look the sorcerer in the eye. “I’m so sorry, revered one. We’re just students on a measly allowance without the funds for an ultra high class luxury experience.”He ends with a roll of his eyes, huffing and tucking a strand of his free neck-length hair back.

“Ah, (last name)-san. Could you help me chop the green onions afterwards—.” You pause in your administrations with the knife, green onion already being halfway diced before you nearly nick yourself.

“Ah, I’m sorry. Please be careful.” His hand is immediately over yours, causing a restless shiver to go up your spine as you stiffen.

“It’ll be bad if you get hurt, won’t it?” Suguru is flashing you a sweet smile, one of care and concern for your well-being as you nod.

You stiffly waddle to the side as he leaves to go get more garlic seasoning, shaking your head to snap out of it.

You eyes surreptitiously take this chance to watch Gojo again, his body language… Somehow more telling than his ice cold, holier-than-thou attitude that hides an intrigued, hungry teenaged boy.

The way his eyes flicker to the boiling pot, to the fried eggs, the slight twitch of his nose as he takes another whiff of the air.

To even the way his feet seemed to nudge him forward ever so slightly, uncertain steps that didn’t know what to do. …does he want to help?

“Gojo-san.” You take a hesitant gulp, steeling your nerves for a prickly reply. “Is there anything you want to put in?”

“…”

“Cheese.”

——

Geto takes off the steaming lid, revealing the gorgeously placed in a neat manner, practically shining with promise of a gastronomical experience.

“And there you go. My special recipe.” Your eyes are lighting up at the sight, the aroma of the food doing little to sate your overpowering hunger as you watch.

“Pfft. I’ve seen it before. It’s just noodles in artificial—“

“That’s where you’re wrong, you pompous elite.” He has a proud smirk on his face. “This one’s got my special stock addition, green onions, spam, fried eggs and cheese.” A hand is proudly placed upon his hip as he closes his eyes, pleased and gratified at the result of his cooking prowess.

(Even if it was only instant ramen.)

Gojo narrows his eyes in suspicion. “There is no possible way something instant coul-“

“Just shut up and eat.”

Surprisingly, he listens. He picks his chopsticks up, muttering a quiet thanks for the food before taking a tentative slurp of his noodles, pausing in place as the broth seeped into his tongue and exploded in the most perfect, most wondrous blend of flavour in his mouth.

His eyes widen in pleasant surprise, oceanic eyes flickering between the steaming bowl of ramen and back to your two awaiting gazes.

He inhales his portion, akin to a wild beast that had been starved of prey for at least a year with the pace he was going at, you could even see how many gulps he took of the broth when he picked the rather sizeable bowl up to swallow it all down.

(It was less than 5. And Suguru made a rather large portion after noticing how much he and Satoru could eat combined.)

(“A-are you okay? You shouldn’t—“

“Let him choke, (last name)-san.”)

…

He gingerly places the bowl down, licking his lips to savour the remnants of the food.

“I want more.”

“Oh? Looks like someone’s missing a magic word.” Geto feints a pout, narrowed eyes with playful malice directed towards the spoilt teenager.

“…please.” Gojo’s averting his gaze, looking to the side as a noticeable blush is seen across his face.

“How unfortunate, that was the last pack.”

masterlist

Notes:

You are the only one who thinks their banter is flirtatious.

“Oiii, I’m back.” Ieiri calls out, kicking her loafers off as she tiredly drags herself into the common living area.

“Do you all want to grab a bite?” She’s staring at her phone as she continues in. “You can be invited too, rich boy.”

You pop out from the corner. “Ieiri…” You look frightened and stressed, a loud crash coming from the kitchen just as you flinch.

Another loud bang sounds out as you jump, the clash of pots and utensils sounding out as you practically block her passage into the warzone.

“Please do not step inside…”

“…you okay with crepes?”

“Sure…”

Gojo bought a carton full of that particular ramen brand after he squeezed it out of Geto. He asks you to help him with the stove when Suguru refuses to.

#geto x reader x gojo #jjk x reader #gojo satoru x reader #dyf au #gojo x reader #geto x reader #satosugu x reader #geto suguru x reader

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adoregojo · 5 months

Text

candy ˚ 𖧧 ₊

wowowowo a rin ficcc (kinda short tho) warnings ➥ kiss

"I brought you some candy."

the voice of your boyfriend rang you out. he steps in your shared apartment after he took his shoes off carrying a plastic bag with what it looks like some candy and other items you asked him to bring on his way home.

he takes off his black jacket hanging it besides your own, ruffling his dark green locks of snow as he walks up to you. you notice he was wearing you two rabbit matching socks, the same socks he claimed it looked ridiculous and he'll never be seen wearing them.

it was cold at this time of Tokyo yet rin was willing to freeze his butt just to get your needs, even if you told him that he can get it later he had a damn thick skull and refused to take any other objection from you.

you shifted to the side with your laptop for him to sit beside you, he quickly spread in hands in a silent request for you to warm it up for him. so you gently warped your hands in his, rubbing your warm hands against his freezing once than locking you two fingers together.

"you really didn't have to go all that way for some silly stuff." you said, pressing a little peck against the back of his hand.

"you said you were carving something sweet.." rin pulls his hands away from yours, not in a harsh way. but he fears you'll somehow will hear his rabid heart pounding.

rin didn't like the cold, but it was more that he hated how it made him feel. lonely and lost, abandoned with no light to guide him to end up dying slowly. what he hated the most that it was the opposite of you, you were warm, he felt the safest in your arms. like the light was holding him.

you, you were the bright light in his coldest winter night.

he placed the plastic bag on the table, you in a swift snatched the bag to see what's inside, you raised in brow when you got a grip of an unfamiliar candy. you twisted it around to check the brand.

but overall it didn't look that bad, and didn't matter that much as long as he brought you something. "aww, rinnie, you didn't have too." a teasing smile draw it way on your face.

"shut up.." rin muttered, he felt the tip of his ear getting slightly hot at your words. "I didn't find your favourite so I brought this." he brushed off the bashful remains.

"the cashier said each one has it own flavour."

"woah cool.." honestly it looked cool, the mixes colors between red and rainbows with a cute cartoon character as the logo.

you existentially opened it. you hummed in unsureness of what to pick of too many colors with different tastes, so you just closed your eyes and picked randomly. rin was grateful your eyes were fully closed to not witness the fond smile at your silly act.

"I'll take this one!" it was a yellow one, without thinking twice before you threw the candy in your mouth.

"how'd it taste?" rin asked as your face slowly turned into a grimaced expression. he almost let out a laugh. almost.

"mmm..it's probably banana..but it tastes more like a rotten one." it wasn't that bad but the taste just wasn't for you.

you thought maybe taking a different tast would cover over this one flavour.

"let's try this one-"

before you could your words, a pair of cold lips smashed into yours, your eyes widened and you couldn't process what was happening when the soft lips against yours didn't mercy you and you felt like you were gonna faint. as rin took advantage of your flabbergasted state to slide his tongue through your slightly parted lips.

you felt dizzy as he kept digging deeper until he could feel the shape of the candy. he didn't back off immediately, refusing to break the kiss just yet. he locked his mouth with yours and you felt like you couldn't run away when it felt so good. tangling your tongues and he tasted like the same candy yet something more sweet something heavenly you couldn't get your fingers on. your hand run on his chest, you didn't know if it was for him to continue or to back him away.

he was mindlessly devouring you like starved man and you could feel the lack of the air, you were too foggy to care and all you mind was about rin, and the warmth blooming in your chest.

feeling you were out of breath, rin breaks away resulting you two to part, drawing a streak of saliva. a remains from such a shameless kiss.

for a second you two faces are still close almost as if rin was holding himself back from kissing again you endlessly, at this closeness you could count his pretty under-lashes as you let out a few breath before rin shifted back to his position.

"you're right, they taste a little rotten. but they taste better now." rin said calmly, as if he did not just suck the life out of your mouth a second ago, you tried to get a grip of yourself. you wondered what the hell was that. it's not like it was bad, fuck no, that kiss made you feel like floating.

you glanced at your boyfriend to see his neck and ears burning hot, at leats your weren't the only one who was taken off by that.

hehe, people kissing.. have a nice day everyone :3

#blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #blue lock #rin x reader #itoshi rin x reader

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makeitmingi · 8 days

Text

The Cat and Dog Game [Chapter 36]

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: 3.4K

Chapter warning(s): Mentions of religion, previous death of another character.

When you woke up, Yunho was still fast asleep, cheek pressed against your chest as he slept comfortably. Even if your head was throbbing and your throat was calling desperately for water, you couldn't help but melt at how adorable he looked.

"Morning..." You whispered, brushing his messy fringe away from his face and kissing his head. He stirred slightly, letting out a small whine but went back to sleep.

"I'll be back." You told him and carefully slipped out of his hold, replacing it with your pillow.

"Mmm..." He grumbled but settled with burying his face into your pillow. You tip toed to the bathroom to take a shower and wash up.

After your shower, you went out to the living room, seeing that everyone was still sleeping. With everyone being drunk and going to bed, there was no one to clean up so the kitchen was messy.

"Let's do this." You first drank a big glass of water then coffee. Tying your apron around you, you put the first load of dishes into the dishwasher.

"What can I cook?" You looked through the leftovers from last night. It was mostly meat scraps.

In the end, you decided to make Khao Tom, a Thai rice soup dish. Since you had broth from cooking meat, you could flavour it with lemongrass, galangal, ginger, shallots, garlic and chilis. Then cook rice in it for a comforting hangover meal. And since there was leftover meat, you could shred it up to add to the dish.

"Oh, (y/n)... Good morning." Someone said to you as you were chopping up the aromatics for the dish.

"Good morning, Yeosang. I hope I didn't wake you." You chuckled.

"Not at all. Thank you for cooking despite being hungover. We could have ordered some hangover soup, you know?" He came over to see what you were doing.

"It's fine. I'm not that hungover. Besides, there's leftover food so I'm using that." You shrugged.

"Also, do you have spare toothbrushes?" He asked.

"Yeah, guest room bathroom, the cabinet below the sink. There's a whole basket of stuff there. Including spare towels." You informed. He nodded and walked to go wash up.

"Tofu, tofu..." You searched your fridge for tofu to add to the dish while the stock, rice and aromatics were bubbling away. But since you couldn't find any, you took out the greens that you had and chopped them up to add later.

"Hongjoong's gonna grumble." You laughed to yourself as you set aside the chopped vegetables.

"Jagiya..." Wooyoung groaned, stumbling into the kitchen like a zombie. He lazily threw his arms around you, hooking his chin on your shoulder.

"Head hurt?" You asked, hands coming up to gently rub his temples.

"Mhmm..." He melted from your touch. You continued to hold him with one arm around his waist, the other stirring the soup.

"Go wash up, I'll fix you some coffee." You cooed, patting his back. He nodded his head obediently and pulled himself away from the hold that you had on him.

"Use my bathroom but Yunho's sleeping so be quiet. Yeosang's using the guest bathroom." You instructed. He nodded and shuffled away. You made some hot coffee for him, knowing he and Jongho like hot coffee to chase their hangovers away. Soon, Yeosang came back out, fresh from his shower.

"That feels so much better. Anything I can help with?" He asked, pouring himself some coffee.

"Thanks but there's honestly not much to do, it's all done in one pot." You smiled.

"I'll help with clean up." He insisted, bringing whatever couldn't be put into the dishwasher to the sink to manually wash. While you were both in the kitchen, you just chatted.

"Wow, I didn't know you were so interested in all that nutritional values of food." You blinked.

"Yeah, the guys always make fun of my supplements. But you know it's important to take care and maximise what goes into your body." He said.

"I agree. Do you work out a lot then?" You asked.

"San and I go to the gym a lot. We like working out as a form of de-stressing I guess. For a period of time, we were even those hardcore gym people, we would go whenever we had any sort of free time." He laughed and your eyebrows raised in surprise.

"That sounds like a lot of dedication. No wonder you and San are so fit." You giggled. You stirred the pot and took a taste to check if the rice was cooked properly.

"Now we season with fish sauce, lime, more chili and white pepper." You went to retrieve what you needed and seasoned the rice soup.

"Here, give it a try." You let Yeosang try.

"It tastes good. The sourness and spiciness will help cure a hangover for sure." Yeosang said, taking a spoon and reaching in to eat another mouthful.

From the smell of your cooking, the boys soon woke up one by one, all whining and complaining from the hangover.

"Only Yunho's still asleep." You chuckled, giving Jongho a mug of coffee. Jongho bowed his head gratefully and yawned before taking a sip, sighing at the taste of the caffeine.

"Go wake him, I'll take over." Wooyoung patted your hip. You nodded and went to your room. Seonghwa was in your shower but you were surprised to see Yunho still sleeping but facing the other way and an asleep Mingi curled up against his bed. You were sure Mingi was still in the guest room earlier.

"M-Mingi?" You tilted your head at the two giants in your bed. Quickly, you covered your mouth to stop your loud laughter from escaping you.

"Yun? Wake up, Yun." You went to Yunho's side of the bed. Yunho slowly opened his eyes, staring up at you.

"Love? But, wait-" Yunho frowned. How could you be standing in front of him when he could feel you cuddling against his back?

"What- Mingi?" Yunho turned his head slightly and saw his best friend sleeping there instead of you. You laughed and reached over to cup his cheeks.

"When did Mingi come? When did you leave bed?" He hugged you and you leaned down to hug him back.

"I don't know. Last time I saw, he was still in the guest room but I guess somewhere along the way, he came over to sleep next to you instead. He can't resist his best friend." You giggled. Yunho scoffed and pulled you down so you fell on top of him.

"Yunho!" You slapped his chest.

"Shh, some people are trying to sleep." Mingi grumbled, finally detaching himself from Yunho to hug your pillow instead. Yunho rolled his eyes.

"Just wake up already. And what are you even doing here?" Yunho flicked Mingi's temple.

"Oww, my head hurts enough already. And... I don't even know how I got here." Mingi looked around, lost at how he came to your room.

"You two should get up soon, I cooked some food and made coffee. Have it while it's warm." You said to the two giants. Mingi saluted you but dove under the blanket.

"Yunho can shower first..." He murmured. Just then, Seonghwa emerged from the bathroom.

"Alright, I'll go." Yunho stood up, leaning over to give you a peck before entering the bathroom. You walked out to the kitchen with Seonghwa, seeing Wooyoung serving the other boys already. They were all spread out through the kitchen and living room, holding a bowl of hot rice soup.

"There's so much vegetables, (y/n) ah..." Hongjoon groaned as he stirred through the rice soup, seeing all the green in there. You laughed and shrugged innocently.

"My head feels like it weighs a ton." Seonghwa groaned, easily finding your medicine cabinet and taking some Tylenol.

"Here, stay hydrated." You gave him a vitamin water.

"I'll take coffee with syrup, please." Seonghwa ordered. Wooyoung and Jongho, who took their coffee black, booed at the oldest for putting syrup in his coffee.

"Shut up." Seonghwa scoffed. You made the coffee for Seonghwa anyway, anything to help him feel better.

"Here." Jongho handed you a bowl of rice soup after you gave Seonghwa his coffee.

"Not having any coriander with that, Hongjoong?" You teased as you added a mountain of coriander and spring onions to the top of your bowl. Hongjoong gave you a disgusted look, possessively holding his bowl away from you.

"This is so good, (y/n). It's so comforting and flavourful." San melted happily as he took a bite.

"Have more then, Sannie. It's called Khao Tom, it's a Thai dish that uses lime, chillis, fish sauce. Perfect for using up the leftover meat from last night too." You explained.

"(y/n)~" Yunho stumbled out of the room, draping himself over you tiredly. You put your spoon down and turned in your seat to hug him.

"Why? What's wrong?" You asked, rubbing the back of his neck. The others watched in amusement of how you babied Yunho.

"Nothing~ Just wanna hug you." He giggled and wrapped his arms around you to hug you tightly. You scoffed and patted his back before ushering him to the kitchen.

"Want coffee? Or hangover cure?" You offered.

"Coffee. I hate hangover cure." He scrunched his nose. Yunho made his iced Americano himself, sipping as he came over to where you were at the stove, scooping him a bowl of rice soup. He leaned over and took a whiff of the soup, letting out hums of excitement as the smell of the soup.

"Smells good." He clapped happily. Yunho gratefully took his bowl from you and put his own garnishes before taking the seat beside you by the counter.

"Where's Mingi? Still asleep?" Yeosang asked.

"No, I dragged him to the shower. If I can't stay in (y/n)'s bed, neither can he." Yunho scoffed. You choked at his words.

"You're such a child sometimes, Jeong Yunho." You shook your head, continuing to eat your food. Yunho merely grinned and gently pressed his forehead against your temple affectionately.

RINGGGGGGG

"Hang on. Oh, omma." Yunho excused himself and went to your room to speak to his mother.

"(y/n), your bed is so much more comfortable than Yunho's. I'm going to start sleeping over more." Mingi grinned.

"Get in line!" Seonghwa and Wooyoung barked, making Mingi's eyes widen. You rolled your eyes at how unnecessarily possessive the two were. Thankfully Yunho wasn't around to hear Mingi say that or he would not be pleased.

"You two are banned. I'm only allowing Jongho from now on. And Mingi, the mattress in my room is the same as the one in the guest room." You scoffed.

"Can I still sleep over then?" He grinned. Before you could reply, Yunho came out.

"Who is sleeping over?" Yunho slung his arm around you with a raised eyebrow. You nodded over to Mingi, who nodded in confirmation. Yunho didn't say anything but shot Mingi a glare.

"Anyway, why did your mum call?" You changed the subject.

"She asked if we were free for dinner tonight. Us, my parents and Gunho." Yunho asked.

"And by us, my omma means just me and (y/n). No one else." Yunho quickly added, seeing that San was going to open his mouth to say something. You laughed at San's pout.

"Sure, I'll be more than happy to have dinner with them." You smiled. Yunho nodded and took his phone out to send his mother a text, confirming both your attendance tonight, before sitting back down to continue eating his food. The other boys were kind enough to help you clean up in the mean time.

"You should all nurse your hangovers. Don't worry, I got it." You told them, waving them off from the kitchen.

"You already put us to bed and cooked for us. We can put away a few dishes." Hongjoong said. San and Jongho helped you bring the bags of trash down.

"Sit and rest. We got it, jagi." Wooyoung pushed you onto the couch and went to the kitchen.

"I told you not to call her that when Yunho's around." You heard Seonghwa scold the younger boys softly.

"I don't care, she was my jagi before she was his. Also, jagi, I'm sure you haven't broken the boyfriend news to Kyungmin, right?" Wooyoung leaned on the counter with a playful smirk.

"Don't you dare, Woo." You threatened.

"Ah, Kyungmin... Wooyoung's younger brother... I remember him." Yunho said with a fond smile.

"Oh yeah, he called you ahjusshi." Yeosang pointed out. San and Mingi snickered, hi-fiving each other while Yunho had a flat look on his face. Kyungmin was confident and sassy like Wooyoung, calling you his 'girlfriend' the entire time.

After the cleaning was done, Yunho and his friends went back to their own homes to rest from their hangovers. Plus, Yunho needed fresh clothes to change into. Your friends stayed with you longer.

"Thank goodness I'm not puffy from all the alcohol last night." You said to Seonghwa.

"Mhmm, how's your head?" He asked from your bed, sitting against your headboard and playing his nintendo switch.

"I'm fine. I took two painkillers just now." You yawned, coming over to lay next to Seonghwa. Wooyoung and Jongho had gone back to sleep the moment the others left.

"So, you and Yunho seem to be going good." Seonghwa said. You let out a small hum.

"Almost too good." You sighed.

"What do you mean?" Seonghwa asked.

"I... I'm not used to things going well, Hwa. I'm scared it all comes crashing down. Yunho's too good for me, he does so much for me and I have nothing to offer in return. I'm scared the more I let him in, the more burden he feels... Ah, I don't know!" You screamed into the blanket over your face.

"And don't say Yunho won't think it's a burden. I know that! It's my own personal guilt. It's not fair to him that he has to deal with so much of my issues." You cut him off.

"Do you feel comfortable enough to tell him everything then? Just get it out and talk to him about it." He questioned.

"He doesn't need to know yet. It won't change anything." You hugged Yunnie and Yuyu to your chest.

And as if he knew you were talking about him, Yunho texted you, asking if he could pick you up earlier to take you somewhere before the dinner with his family.

"When was the last time I had a family dinner?" You chuckled as you got up from bed.

"You had lunch with my parents last week! Without me!" Seonghwa scoffed, clearly bitter that he wasn't invited.

"Oh, that's true." You nodded with a shrug, ignoring his glare. You replied Yunho and put your phone aside to go get ready. Standing in front of your closet, you thought about what you should wear since this was officially your first meal with Yunho's family.

"How's this?" You asked, pulling out a white square neckline top with slightly puffed sleeves and a monochrome gingham skirt.

"Girly." Seonghwa replied. You squinted your eyes at him, not sure if that was a good or bad thing. But you didn't have time so you did your make up and changed.

"Here. Put this on top. Statement piece." He took out a dark maroon leather jacket.

"Thanks." You draped the jacket over your arm and went out to get your shoes. You wore suede oxford loafers.

"As usual, help yourselves to anything in the fridge. Help me say bye to Woo and Jong." You said, giving Seonghwa a hug. He wrapped his arms around you.

"Yes, mum." He teased. You rolled your eyes and he patted your back before you left. Yunho was already downstairs by your complex driveway, waiting for you. He looked up from his phone when he heard your approaching footsteps. Throwing his arms around you, he pulled you in for a kiss.

"You look nice." You smiled, helping him adjust the collar of his shirt.

"You too." He laughed. Yunho stepped aside to open the door for you and you slipped into the passenger seat. Once you were settled, he closed to door and went to the driver's seat.

"I hope it wasn't too sudden or rushed that I asked to meet you earlier." Yunho said as he started the car.

"Not at all." You shook your head.

"I'm surprised you haven't asked me why I asked to meet earlier or where we are going." He chuckled as he drove, one hand reaching over to hold yours.

"Because I know you'll tell me it's a secret or surprise and not tell me even if I ask." You scoffed, knowing Yunho well enough.

"Hmm, that's usually right but this time, I think I should tell you so you're not caught off guard. We're actually going to visit my grandmother. You introduced me to your mother, it's only fair that I do the same." Yunho smiled.

"Oh... Yunho..." You were conflicted on how to approach this subject, considering you don't handle your own grief well.

"It's okay, we'll just go then head to dinner. I wanna show her my pretty girlfriend." He chuckled. You nodded with a hum, rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb.

"We're here." Yunho stopped before a cemetary and parked the car. He held your hand and guided you up the steps.

"She's there." He held the gate open for you and walked forward.

"I only wish you told me earlier. I would have brought some offerings or flowers, especially since this is the first time I'm meeting her." You sighed as you walked to Yunho's grandmother's plot.

"It's okay, next time I'll tell you in advance." He smiled. You stood by his side when he stopped before the plot.

"Hi halmeoni." Yunho greeted with a small soft smile.

"Nice to meet you, Yunho's halmeoni. My name is (y/n)." You bowed your head respectfully.

"She forgot to add that she's my girlfriend, halmeoni. You always said my handsome face would get me a pretty girlfriend, you were right about that. She's amazing and cooks me a lot of delicious food like you did. You'll be happy to know I'm helpful in the kitchen now." Yunho grinned at you.

"Yun... Don't say that." Your cheeks heated up. But a part of you knew Yunho was trying to be all smiles for you just so he won't break down. You reached up to stroke the back of his neck.

"It's okay." You said gently, bringing him down to hug him. Even if he didn't sob, his hands gripped your waist a little tighter.

"I miss her..." He mumbled.

"I know. It doesn't get easier, it's okay." You comforted, letting him know that he didn't always have to put up a brave, happy front. Yunho's escaped tears wet the shoulder of your shirt slightly.

"Aww, I didn't want to cry today." Yunho pouted when he pulled away from your hug. You shook your head and wiped his tears.

"There's a church up the road. I'm not religious but can we go in and light a candle for her?" You asked.

"I would love that." Yunho kissed your head.

"We'll come back and visit, halmeoni. I'll bring some flowers and food next time, I promise." You smiled as you bowed. Yunho watched you with an affectionate smile, bowing to his grandmother before walking with you to the church up ahead.

You both stepped forward quietly and respectfully, lighting a candle for Yunho's grandmother using one of the lighting sticks. But then, you noticed him light another candle too.

"For your mom." Yunho explained before you could ask. You stiffened at the mention of her.

"Thank you." You smiled, looking at the candle dedicated to her. Yunho closed his eyes to say a little prayer for the both of them.

"I realised, you never told me your baptismal name." You said to Yunho as the both of you exited the church and began to walk back to his car.

"Oh, it's Stefano." He informed.

"After the first martyr, Santo Stefano?" You asked. Yunho's eyes widened at how you knew that but nodded his head.

"You always surprise me with the random pockets of information you have stored in there." Yunho chuckled, tapping the top of your head lightly and holding your hand. You laughed and stopped walking to look up at him. You wrapped your arms around his neck, tip toeing to give him a kiss.

Series masterlist

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petermorwood · 8 months

Text

Follow-up, as promised...

Further to this post, I went rummaging.

My stars, it turns out we've got some serious goodies at the back of the cupboard.

They've all been here long enough that @dduane and I will eat well this next week or so, but the first of them, mentioned often by Dracula Daily...

...“We left in pretty good time, and came after nightfall to Klausenburgh. (Cluj) Here I stopped for the night at the Hotel Royale (AFAIK, fictional) I had for dinner, or rather supper, a chicken done up some way with red pepper, which was very good but thirsty. (mem. get recipe for Mina.) I asked the waiter, and he said it was called “paprika hendl” and that, as it was a national dish, I should be able to get it anywhere along the Carpathians.”

...is this one.

This is a standard bung-it-in-the-microwave ready meal (3 mins / 700w, wait 3 mins, eat) but there's no reason why it can't be prettied up a bit.

Taste report: the flavour was creamy, buttery, paprika-y, and entirely pleasant (if there were more of these I would scoff them) and the Nockerl (mini dumplings) were properly al dente and excellent, but it was by no means "thirsty", by which I assume spicy-hot. Okay, it wasn't labelled as such, but it was even milder than any Paprikahendl I've eaten in a restaurant.

I suspect that, like most ready-meals of this kind, including curries and chili-con-carne, its spice level has been dialled down to Avoid Shocking The Customers, though TBH most German / Austrian dishes labelled Scharf, Feurig or Würzig (all meaning spicy or hot) have been lacking in the oomph department, at least for me. (Some haven't, which is always a pleasant surprise.)

I'm going to make my own Paprikahendl in the next while because I got some sweet and hot paprikas from Polonez in Dublin, and right now, DD is in the process of making Paprikaente, based on several Paprikahendl recipes and a couple of duck breasts found at the back of the freezer. I don't know if that's authentic or not, but it smells great and I don't care. :->

*****

I've suggested in another post why Jonathan Harker found this dish "thirsty".

It wasn't because he he had a wimpy English palate unaccustomed to spicy food - the Edwardian era was familiar with fiery curries from Raj India, and even featured cayenne pepper as a table condiment, complete with its own caddy and (often devil-topped) spoon...

My opinion was that Paprikahendl (Austrian) / Paprikás csirke (Hungarian) was a peasant dish, with the main part of the meal a big dish of noodles or dumplings. Those would be perked up with a sauce based on some elderly chicken which had stopped laying, well-spiced so a little could flavour a lot.

Those noodles have lots of names - nockerln on the packet I posted, also nokoldel, csipetke, spaetzle, tarhhonya and so on - and were what filled people up, with the meat accompaniment more of a relish or seasoning. In the same way, for instance, Yorkshire Pudding used to be served with gravy as a first course, so the second course of meat would go further.

Rice / bread / couscous/ pasta / mian / potatoes / fufu / polenta etc. did the same; many of these are served alongside rich, spicy, buttery etc. dishes and are now suggested as fire extinguishers for "over-hot" foods because the proportions of bland vs rich / spicy have shifted.

Back when, dinner would have been lots of name-the-regional-bland carbohydrate, along with a little bit of over-hot (or -garlicked or -herby or -smoked-bacon / sausagey) protein, which might have tasted excessive alone but would have given flavour to all that bland.

*****

Side-note: it's another possible reason, besides conspicuous consumption, for lots of spice in (rich people's) medieval dishes; in winter and spring, all that spice would have made smoked / salted / dried meat more interesting.

The business of "spices masked bad meat" is rubbish, and originated as recently as 1939 thanks to historian J.C. Drummond, who didn't know what "green" meant in food context. Green cheese = fresh cheese, green meat = un-aged meat.

Drummond assumed a recipe to change the flavour of "green venison" was to cover that it had gone off. It was in fact meant to tenderise it as if hung a few days in the cold store, but "medieval people were primitive" has always been more acceptable pop history than "medieval people were pretty smart".

*****

Harker, eating the chicken-and-sauce as The Meal (Stoker doesn't mention accompaniments or Bulk Carbs like noodles, spaetzle, etc. so you'll have to trust me), would have been like someone taking a swig of hot sauce or chomp of chilli pickle and then declaring the entire meal over-spiced or "thirsty", unaware of the proper proportions of What Goes With What.

A hotter, spicier, "thirstier" Paprikahendl would definitely go with a big mound of these little noodles, so I plan to see - and taste - how it'll work.

And how it'll look, too. :->

#food and drink #paprika hendl #paprikahendl #jonathan harker #dracula daily

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cammslush · 1 year

Note

Can I please request a Yandere Wanderer x Reader in which the Wanderer meets the reincarnation of his lover from when he was still Kabukimono

This is my first time doing a request like this, I hope it's up to your standards 🥲

-----

Content warning(s): Yandere themes, angst (death), mention of blood

Let me know if I missed anything

-----

Mortals. They all have the exact same fragility. They are born, they live, grow old, and then die.

"Promise me…? That you won't leave me or betray me like everyone else? Please…?"

There was this mortal that the kabukimono met. The same kind of mortal that would live, grow old, and eventually die all the same. The only, only difference between this mortal and the rest…was the fact that he couldn't help but feel some sort indescribable feeling of fondness towards them.

Such a precious mortal, but he doesn't even know the reason why. Is it the fact that they treated him with so much of their golden heart of kindness? Is it the fact that they were the one who stayed with him the longest amount of time? (Yes, he counted.)

That question he asked the mortal sounded so strange. They couldn't fully grasp the true meaning behind those words. They thought what he meant by "betray" was leaving him for someone else.

"Of course. I promise I will never leave your side!"

No one had any idea how absolutely elated he was to hear those words.

Eventually though, the expected occured.

As much as the poor, heartbroken kabukimono deluded himself into thinking:

"This must be one of your stupid pranks again. Either that, or you stayed up all night working at Mikage Furnace again…"

…Right?

But upon seeing how the mortal didn't open their eyes and tell him something along the lines of 'You saw right through me!' while flashing that adorably cheeky grin, he began to have his doubts.

"Hey…You said you wouldn't leave me, right?"

He shook the mortal's limp body. No matter how much he shook, their eyes never managed to open.

"But I, I love you so much! You…you can't do this to me…!"

A tiny stream of blood trickled down from the mortal's mouth.

"...Why…?"

Puppets do not have hearts.

So then, what exactly is this unbearable pain in his chest, where a human's heart is meant to be? Why does it hurt so much? Is he going to die too?

"...Why did you lie to me…?"

All he wanted was to do exactly as he saw humans do. Fall in love, marry, and finally live together forever, and ever, and ever, and ever, and ever, until the end of time…

He just wants to see that precious face every morning he wakes up, that charming smile that always lifts his spirits whenever something awful happens, that alluring voice that reminds him that you will always be right there…

Was that so much to ask?!

…..

….

…

Padisarahs grew beautifully with the vivid green blades of grass along the streets of Sumeru City. It was currently their blooming season, so Sumeru had received no shortage of tourists who wanted to take in the beautiful and enchanting scenery.

You were one of those tourists who hailed all the way from Inazuma, but besides sightseeing the pretty flowers and trees, you came for another reason.

You were told the cuisine in Sumeru are mainly focused on spice, mostly due to the fact that many plants in Sumeru have spices that can be cooked for extra flavour in a dish. In contrast, Inazuma's food are usually more to the comforting, bland-ish taste.

You just had to take this opportunity to try some of their food. That is what most tourists do when they visit an unfamiliar place, right? They say food is the most welcoming part of a nation.

"You can find lots of herbs and spices in the Grand Bazaar, maybe even the chance to sample some dishes if you're lucky enough. Go there and have some fun, maybe."

Conveniently, you had a Sumerian pen pal willing to share some interesting information.

"In fact, maybe I can meet you there. Don't get your hopes too high, though. The Grand Bazaar is an annoyingly crowded place."

This pen pal of yours is one of the people who sort of got you interested in seeing what Sumeru's spices are all about.

"But I wouldn't recommend you try too much. They kind of suck, in my opinion. There's so much of the spice flavour in every dish, you can't even taste anything else."

Yeah…they made you interested purely because they said they didn't like it.

"Still, do whatever you want. Knock yourself out."

So here you were, in the bustling Grand Bazaar!

Given that it's the Padisarah's blooming season, one could see the pretty petals all over the place. "But also, Padisarah buds can be processed into spices too, so you'll see a lot of people selling them at this time." That is what your knowledgeable pen pal told you.

Already you could smell the sharp, spicy scent that wafted throughout the whole underground market, but you could also feel every merchant smiling even while working hard to attract customers.

…Why does it feel like you've seen a similar sight before?

People working hard to the best of their abilities, trying to provide for their families, but they all still have such happy, friendly faces…

Why does it all look so nostalgic? So distant? …It's not like Inazuma doesn't have an atmosphere like this.

"Hey there, miss! Come over here!" A merchant called you over to his stall, hoping you would purchase some goods, "I haven't seen you around before. Are you a tourist? The Padisarah blooming season has provided lots of beloved Sumerian spices…"

Damn it, why didn't it ever cross his mind to suggest something like a stupid greeting signal so that he knows who exactly he's looking for?

It was all that Dendro Archon's idea for him to get a pen pal that he can talk to so that he doesn't "feel lonely" anymore or "become antisocial". He still has ability to socialize normally with other people, thank you very much. Isn't she the one who should leave her sanctuary once in a while instead?

It was all thanks to Nahida that now he…

"Where the hell are you, (Y/N)?"

…was now desperately trying to find a fragile mortal who could very well get lost in the huge marketplace. But don't get it twisted, Nahida. It's because he's pretty much responsible for the safety of the person he asked to come here.

No, no, it's definitely not because he has developed any sort of fondness.

Mortals. They all have the exact same fragility. They are born, they live, grow old, and then die.

Why should he care deeply about yet another measly human?

Your name was all he had to go off of, but he would sound like an undercover matra if he kept going around asking "Have you seen a person called (Y/N) nearby?", or "Hey, did you see anyone who looks like they have the name (Y/N) around here?"

"One portion of Biryani rice for take away, thank you," the Wanderer placed the needed Mora on the stall table before the owner even realized he was there, "With extra spices, too."

"Oh, coming right up!"

"Also, have you heard anyone named (Y/N) come by here?" Damn…he asked the question anyway.

A familiar voice appeared behind him,

"(Y/N)? That's my name,"

"...!"

The Wanderer almost fell to his knees with how hard his heart pounded against his chest upon seeing your face. He felt the need to pinch your soft cheek, just to make sure that you weren't just part of his delusional imagination. You're real?

Right…his heart. He does have a heart now. It's beating so hard, he might just faint.

"You are…"

The exact same look of confusion on that mortal's face back when they saw a homeless, barefeet kabukimono suddenly following them back to the Mikage Furnace. The exact same expression that just made him want to follow you wherever you went.

"Who are you?"

No one else wears a kimono like you. No one else speaks like you. No one else opens their mouth slightly agape in confusion like you. No other soul in Teyvat can capture your purity, your curiosity, the utter weight of your presence.

He couldn't stop staring at you. He suddenly found his memories rushing back again.

'Of course. I promise I will never leave your side!'

Yes, you didn't lie. You didn't betray him at all! You love him so much, don't you? After all this time, you finally came right back to find him, as if you couldn't get more precious.

"I'm your…"

You found arms slowly wrapped around your body in a tight embrace, as you stood frozen in place.

"...pen pal."

"O-Ohh…!" You didn't know this pen pal of yours likes hugs so much, "Hey, nice to finally meet you too!"

The Wanderer was physically unable to let you go, after you tried to leave his embrace by stepping back. His arms clung around your body so tightly, like he was a General Crab from Inazuma. "Um…I get that you might like hugs, but, we're in public…?"

No.

He must let everyone know that you belong to him. You belonged to him 400 years ago, and you still do right now.

Nahida, are you listening?

Even the gods don't have a say on whether his lifelong darling gets to live or die. Not anymore.

"I really missed you."

"...Huh?"

Now he can finally complete what had begun all the way back then! Fall in love, marry, and finally live together forever, and ever, and ever, and ever, and ever, until the end of time…

You said it yourself. You will never leave his side, right?

Stop trying to run away.

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere #yandere wanderer #yandere wanderer x reader

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multifandom-worlds · 7 months

Note

Hello, friend! 🥰

For the requests... What about Reader being a cook and letting Loki taste everything she creates? And he absolutely loves it. 🥰

Prepping Dinner for a God: Difficulty Level - Hard

Genre: fluff

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: Blizzards, knives (since you know, cooking and cutting things) and Loki being a little bitch when it comes to onions.

Authors note: I got so far away from the plot here, it's not even funny! I hope you enjoy though, my love!

Tagging: @simplyholl @holdmytesseract @lokiprompts @dryyoursaltyoceantears @buttercupcookies-blog @ladyofthestayingpower @sarahscribbles

The snow was falling heavily to the ground, one of the seasons many blizzards blowing outside. You and Loki were the only two in the compound that evening; the others were trapped in another city by the snow. You were humming quietly to yourself, listening to the water of Loki’s shower run. He took the absence of the other Avengers to get a workout in peace and quiet without his obnoxious brother always commenting on what he was “doing wrong.”

You hear his water turn off but not anything else as he suddenly appears behind you, his arms shaking around your midsection, wet hair dripping onto your shoulder. “Hello, dove. Something smells good in here.” He whispers in your ear, causing you to gasp and nearly drop the plate you grabbed from the cupboard. A soft green glow encompasses the dish, gently setting it on the counter beside you. “You really must be more careful. Tony would not be happy if you broke one of his plates.”

His voice was like silk in your ear. You shudder before regaining your composure. “I wouldn’t have dropped it if it weren’t for you startling me!” You retort, carefully turning in his arms to face him, frown on your lips. “I am not a trained assassin who can stay steady at anything; I’m a chef. I’m allowed to be startled! Especially when you sneak up on me like that!”

Loki drops his head onto your shoulder, a small sigh escaping his lips followed by an apology. “I’m sorry for startling you, Dove. I did not realize you were reaching for a plate.” He punctuates his apology with peppering soft kisses onto your shoulder. You can’t help but giggle as you fight from his grip to get back to cooking.

“Don’t you have any mischief to do so you can leave me alone to cook in peace and quiet?” You question, returning your attention to the cutting board before you. You pick up the knife and slide it through the kale before adding the cut kale to the pot of potatoes sitting on the stove beside you.

“What are you making on this frigid midgardian evening?” Loki questions, seeing the bizarre collection of ingredients on the counter before him. He lets go of your waist before taking up position beside you. “Do you need help with anything?”

You chuckle, brushing your hand against his, his cheeks every so pink at the action. “I’m making a dish my grandmother used to always make in the winter. It’s a Dutch comfort food of sorts. It’s called boerenkool. It’s basically mashed potatoes and kale with sausage. I thought, maybe it might be something you would like to eat. It’s nothing fancy like you would get back home, but you might like the flavours.”

Loki considered everything, looking at everything before him. She was correct; it was not at Asgardian dinner level - even the common folk would not eat such a dish. He was hesitant to try something so different from his usual pallet. He also did not want to offend the only person in the compound who chose to see him for who he was, not what he did. “I trust you, Dove.”

You smile before grabbing a large white onion and handing it to Loki. “Can you dice this for me? I need it as small as you can get it. If you don’t mind, I can do it myself if you don't want to, it’s no big deal. On second thought, I’ll do it myself; I’m sure you have no interest in such trivial things.” You go to take the onion back from his hand, but he moves his hand away.

“Dove, you think so low of me that I would not want to help you? You participate in all I enjoy; it’s only proper if I do the same for you. I am quite skilled with a knife; I’ll have you know!” Loki laughs, grabs the knife from in front of you and goes about dicing the onion. Within moments, the smell of the onion has Loki’s eyes watering. So it would appear that even God’s aren’t immune to chopping onions.

“Curse these forsaken things.” Loki curses, squeezing his eyes tight. You giggle, watching him struggle before taking the vegetarian sausage out of the sink where it had been thawing all afternoon. “How is this food and not a weapon of torture?”

You shake your head with a faint giggle before opening the package of sausage and dropping it into a pan to cook, keeping the heat low so the sausage cooks internally before browning on the outside. “You’re doing good, Loks. Once you’ve finished with those weapons of torture, if you want to throw the onion into the pot and turn it on, that would be great; thank you!”

Loki was all too eager to be rid of such vile things as he scraped the onions into the pot and turned it on, watching the burner ignite, and small flames dance below the pot. “I suggest washing your hands before you rub your eyes; it will worsen the stinging if you don't.” You offer, flipping the sausage, the aroma wafting around you. Loki watches you from the sink, a soft smile on his lips as you effortlessly bounce around. You were so comfortable in the kitchen, so happy to be cooking, and the rest of the Avengers take advantage of your love and demand you do so much for them.

“What are you looking at? Do I have something on my face?” You ask, brushing your hand down your cheek. Loki shakes his head, walking over to you, taking your hands and pulling you in for a kiss. Loki lets go of your hands, placing them on your hips, deepening the kiss while your hands twirl in his hair. He pulls away, forehead resting against yours. “I love you, Dove, you know that, right? I hate watching you cook for everyone and not get any recognition you deserve.”

Loki carefully lifts you onto the counter, slotting himself between your thighs, one hand resting comfortably on your upper thigh while the other holds your hand. “But Loki…what about dinner..?” You question, blushing as Loki peppers kisses up your bare arm. Loki slips his hand from your thigh to your hips and up to your waist, kissing your arm to your shoulder.

Loki clicks his tongue. “Dinner is fine, Dove. Let me indulge myself in dessert first.” He whispers in your ear, kissing down your jaw before peppering sweet kisses on your lips. You sigh, letting him lead you wherever he wants to take you, your arms draped over his shoulders, legs loosely wrapped around his waist.

The sound of water meeting flame pulls them back to reality. Loki backs up, removing the boiling potatoes from the heat before returning to help you off the counter.

"Maybe wait to indulge until after dinner," you chuckle, moving over to the stove to flip the sausages and drain the water from the potatoes. You take some milk and butter and add it to the potatoes before mashing. You take a small spoonful, handing it to Loki to taste test. “Taste it, see if it needs more butter or garlic. I can never get the flavour right, so I wonder what you think it needs.”

Loki took the spoon from your fingers before popping it in his mouth, licking the potato and kale mixture off the spoon. “Mmm, I rather like it, Dove. It’s nothing like I have tasted before. I don’t think it requires anything.” He returns the spoon to you so you can try a bite yourself. Your face scrunched; something was missing, and you didn’t know what. It never tasted like this when your grandmother made it. “Dove, why not change the recipe slightly and make it your own? You’re still honouring your grandmother because you are still making it. Try it, Dove, just today for you and me.”

You contemplate what Loki was proposing. A big part of your job is to experiment with food. Loki had never disliked anything you made in the past, or if he did, he never made it known. You gave it a shot and added several more spices you never would have: garlic, dried onion, salt and black pepper. Retaking a small spoonful, you again hand it to Loki to taste test. He moves it around his mouth some before swallowing. “That is divine, Dove. You did a great job.”

You decide not to try it, afraid you’ll be upset without yourself, so you turn your attention to the sausages, pulling them from the pan and placing them on a clean cutting board to cool down before you slice them. “Loki, could you please set the table? Or wherever you want to sit for dinner.” You ask, grabbing a serrated knife to cut your sausages.

Almost as soon as you had everything plated, the blizzard knocked out the power to the compound. You startle slightly until a calming ring of green light surrounds you. “I’ve got you, Dove. You’re safe with me.” Loki grabs the plates from you before kissing you and heading to the table. You follow quickly behind so you aren’t left in the dark. He had lit several candles on the table.

This dinner suddenly became much more romantic, but you weren’t complaining—anything for more time with your God.

#loki fanfic #loki marvel #loki god of mischief #loki laufeyson #loki fanfiction #loki of asgard #loki fluff

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sweetly-yours-and-mine · 11 months

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Ballet

Summary: You take Marc and his daughter out to the Royal Ballet, Marc takes you and his daughter out for ice cream. A continuation of the Tiramisu universe.

Pairing: singledad!Marc Spector x f!Reader

Word Count: 737

Maya’s dress is a gentle green, her hair curls down her back and around her head like a cloud. The colour matches with her father’s dress shirt. It’s the colour of a faded green t-shirt washed too many times, soft with love and preference.

Her eyes are glowing as she traces the movements on top of the stage, her hands clutching both arm rests. She only seems to be half in the seat between you and Marc.

The first time you met Maya, you took her to the ballet. An afternoon matinee production, shortened for younger audiences.

You’re not sure how much of it you’ve actually managed to watch, your eyes straying back to the girl beside you almost as if you couldn’t help it.

You’d be embarrassed, had you not caught Marc’s eye multiple times as well, had had him send you a teasing glance in your direction before the corner of his mouth turned up, the way his eyebrow would sometimes. Soon enough, he gave up on his poking fun, probably realising that the only reason why he’s caught you looking was because he’d been looking as well.

After the show is over, her heated palm in yours, you go for ice cream. Her laughter is a white dove in a blooming apple tree. Marc’s smile is a blooming apple tree.

Maya gets strawberry, Marc dark chocolate, you get tiramisu-flavoured ice cream.

Marc’s hand is soothing as it runs down the back of his daughter’s head. She’s sitting in his lap, and he turns to her, and asks, “Baby, you wanna give me a taste?”

Though she scrunches up her nose at the thought, after a moment’s hesitation she presses her cone onto his mouth like an unbalanced seesaw. Unbothered by the lack of coordination, he licks his lips and hums in delight.

Though he tries to wipe it all away with a napkin, there’s a smear underneath his bottom lip that he’s missed.

Before you’ve had the time to think about it, you reach out and wipe it away. There’s the synthetic smell of strawberry lingering on your hand. You quickly wipe away the ice cream with a napkin, not allowing yourself any time to think about it and pick up your spoon again.

Maya and Marc.

The two halves of your world now.

You look at them and smile, pressing sugar on the roof of your mouth with your tongue. Marc’s profile is facing you now and you take it in appreciatively. The attentive slope of his shoulders as he listens to his daughter go on about the ballet, about the positions she’d recognised from her own classes. The crooked angles of his nose. The engraved eye crinkles that sit pleasantly in your stomach like a duck in a pond.

Though you’d already seen it from the pictures, the two of their faces beside each other like this tugs at your lungs, pokes a hole in them with a thin needle. Their similarities rise to the surface one-by-one. Maya scrunches her nose in much the same way, she’s almost nailed the frown her grump of a father makes whenever something displeases her, like his bittersweet ice cream.

The goodness of Marc Spector, though always shining like a firefly, is only that much more apparent now, as he interacts with the sweet girl that’s shaped him into the beauty that he is now.

Though the seed of your relationship has taken deep roots remarkably quickly within your chest, you deem this a risk worth the payoff.

Marc seems as serious about you as you are about his little family.

It’s the wash of a cool ocean breeze, a summer wind spilling in from an open window like sunshine.

Turning away from her father and to you, Maya’s voice is meek as she speaks up, “Can you come to my ballet recital next month?”

Your ice cream’s flavour isn’t the way you’d hoped it would be. It was a poor imitation of the actual dessert.

Looking at Maya now, a stronger taste of coffee and mascarpone rises in your mouth. You reach forward and tuck a curl behind her ear, and it bounces back accordingly. You smile and say that you’d love to. That you don’t think The Royal Ballet could do an even better job.

Under the table, Marc’s foot comes forward and brushes against yours, intertwining with yours like a braid, a curl.

Thanks for reading, if you liked it, please consider leaving some feedback! I don't usually respond, but I obsess and re-read reblogs and comments constantly.

Masterlist here.

#marc spector #marc spector x reader #marc spector x you #marc spector x y/n #marc spector x female!reader #marc spector fluff #marc spector angst #marc spector fanfiction #marc spector fanfic #marc spector fic #marc spector x f!reader #marc spector imagine #moon knight fanfiction #moon knight #moon knight imagine #moon knight fic #oscar isaac

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canmom · 8 months

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Animation Night 72: Yamasong/Sam Koji Hale

The Blue Blazes detour is over. We're back to our home ground: weird obscure animated films.

Recently I found out about a site called Kanopy, which lets you use a local library card to access a pretty neat library of films. I don't know if it's per-library or universal, but in any case, the Kanopy I have access to is mostly old films and documentaries - but it does have a pretty fascinating animation section including a bunch of films that are completely new to me.

One of these films is Yamasong: March of the Hollows.

This is a puppet film from 2016. The premise as I understand it is a fantasy world full of turtle people and robots, that's currently destablised by a conflict between the mechanical Hollows and beasts called the Tricksters, threatening all the other strange species that inhabit the planet. It falls to a cyborg called Nani and a turtle called Shojun to try and resolve the conflict. I don't know how this film never crossed my radar because the designs are fantastic - of course a puppet film brings to mind Dark Crystal, but equally it's got that Moebius sorta flavour, have a taste...

youtube

In an interview, director Sam Koji Hale describes how he took inspiration from Tezuka's Pheonix and ukiyo-e artist Tsukioka Yoshitoshi alongside the usual suspects like Kon and Miyazaki, trying to bring together images from multiple cultures - omnipresent kami and Matryoshka dolls.

The concept began as a short film that appeared at a handful of film festivals, inspired by the music of Shoji Kameda and his On Ensemble. Although this was successful at festivals, not a lot of studios were keen to back a feature-length puppet movie. The break came when one Sultan Saeed Al Darmarki, the owner of puppet studio Dark Dunes Production from the UAE, met up with Hale and offered to back the film as its producer.

Although certain sources like Wikipedia call it stop motion, I believe that may be incorrect - I think this is genuinely a puppet film, with puppeteers manipulating the figures in real time, draped in green to allow digital compositing...

And besides Hale, the film brings together a bunch of other notable American puppeteers, notably Heather Henson (daughter of Jim Henson) and Toby Froud (behind the recent Dark Crystal reboot, whose parents worked on the original). Puppet animation is something I'd like to cover more on here, especially Strings (2004) which still sits in my memory from many many years ago.

More recently, Hale worked on a Chinese film called 12 Zodiac, in which a group of animals must unite to remind the Jade Emperor that they exist. It sounds fascinating, but unfortunately I have not been able to find any more information than that IMDB page. If anyone knows a way to see this movie, let me know!!

So, if that sounds interesting, I hope you'll join me in checking this one out. I'm really curious to see what I missed! Animation Night will be going live momentarily, and the film will begin in about 20 minutes (22:40 UK time) at our usual twitch.tv/canmom - hope to see you there!

#animation night #puppetry #yamasong march of the hollows #Youtube

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bunny-rambles · 2 years

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Dreaming of you

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characters; Albedo, gn reader

cw/tw; none, this is tooth rotting fluff, but let me know if I missed any potential warnings

word count; 1k

notes; for my love, happy birthday <3 I just had to write something for you, consider this a birthday gift for my favourite comfort character. I love him so much he deserves the world. And hopefully this breaks me out of writers block. Yeah anyway, this is for the birthday boy hehe. Oh, and thank you to green sheepish nerd (sorry it won’t let me tag your user ): ) for the idea of first snowfall

Please reblog if you like this!!

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Quiet.

The pages of old books being turned and the candlelight’s wick being melted away acted as your lullaby in the small library, your eyes beginning to glaze over as you read the same passage yet again. You weren’t sure how many times you had reread it at this point, or when the words started to blur together no matter how many times you blinked your bleary eyes.

“Struggling?” A voice asked beside you, flecks of gold beginning to come into view as your teacher leaned in closer to see what you were reading.

“A little…” You admitted quietly, shifting in closer to the softness that had appeared next to you. It was comforting, much more than the flickering flame next to you - even with the way it was enveloping you in the warm, orange glow.

“Let’s see…” He hummed quietly, leaning his chin over your shoulder to scan the information in front of him. You stiffened for a moment, but it was impossible not to melt into the touch. You cherished it, savouring the sensation like a cup of fragrant tea. His flavour was unique, an acquired taste. Too bitter for some, pleasantly sweet for others - but the concoction of ingredients to make such a taste was one of your growing favourites. The warmth it made you feel was addicting. You let out a soft sigh, letting your eyes flutter shut for a moment, praying to whatever god was listening to stop time. You wanted to live in this moment forever.

“…If you do this method successfully then…” Was he still talking? Oh. You hadn’t been listening. But you supposed it was too late to ask him to repeat himself. You nodded your head along with what he was saying, careful not to jostle him off your shoulder with the movement. If anything, he pressed against you further, his finger pointing at a specific word. His mouth was moving but you heard no sound. The world seemed to blur around you, with Albedo being in the centre of it.

The candle beside the two of you made him look like something straight out of a fairy tale. An enchanting prince, bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun. Your hair blew gently in the wind that had appeared as you stood on the edge of fantasy, a smile appearing on the elegant man beside you as he brushed it away from your eyes. There you were, hand in hand with the love of your life, in a place no one could reach. This peaceful realm that so lovingly created a masterpiece for you both to enjoy.

“You’re beautiful…” He whispered softly as his hand cradled your hot cheek, leaning in closer to your face as his cerulean eyes began to flutter shut. Your lips pursed, awaiting the action-

“Y/N?”

“Hm?” You sat up slightly, shaking your head slightly. The alchemist chuckled quietly to himself, flipping the book shut as he stood up properly.

“I think now’s a good time to end this session…” And with that he swiftly took the book, along with the others you had been reading, off the table and began putting them back.

“Master, let me help you with that.” You heard a telltale sigh of exasperation when you said that, a fond but tired smile forming on his lips. There was no reasoning with you when you called him that, just like there wasn’t with anything of his dedicated students. He just wished that your own relationship wouldn’t just stay with him as your teacher, and you as his student.

The two of you silently put the books in their places, completely ignoring how you practically fell asleep on his chest while he was explaining something to you. Oh, you hoped he didn’t think that he was boring you. You were just so comfortable, and it had been such a long day… From the corner of your eye, you could tell he was still smiling, so perhaps he wasn’t as mad as you previously thought he would be. When the books were cleared away, you noticed he was offering his arm to you - since when did Albedo become such a gentleman?

You must've looked as bewildered as you felt since he began to chuckle, stepping closer. “I don’t want you to fall since you can barely keep yourself up. Allow me to assist.” His reasoning seemed pretty solid, so you didn’t allow yourself to question the romantic gesture as you placed your hand on his arm.

You hadn’t even realised the pair of you had made your way outside until something cold lightly hit the tip of your nose. You raised your head slowly, your breath catching in your throat at the sight above you. It was as if small pieces of heaven were falling from the sky, blanketing the world in a thin veil of white. Mondstat had never looked more beautiful.

“Albedo, look!” You dropped all honorifics, forgetting common courtesy. For just a moment, it was just him. It wasn’t your teacher, or the famed chief alchemist. It was just Albedo. If you were being honest with yourself, you preferred that anyway. But when you looked towards him, he wasn’t looking at the scenery around him, but beside him instead.

In all his years of living, he had never seen anything more beautiful than your face as you gazed upon the wintery landscape before you. He was almost sure his heart stopped, if it wasn’t for the clouds of fog that were coming out of him from his shallow puffs of air. And then you smiled. His hands itched to reach into his bag for his sketchbook, but perhaps that wouldn’t even be able to capture your beauty.

“It’s night.” You said suddenly, your hand tightening around his arm.

“Mhm.”

“That means todays over, right?”

“Yeah.” He answered dumbly, not being able to form any thoughts other than one’s centred around you - his wonderful muse.

Your smile widened as you rested your head against his shoulder, squeezing his arm gently with your own that you had wrapped around it.

“Happy birthday, Albedo.”

#happy birthday albedo #albedo my beloved #albedo x reader #albedo x gn reader #albedo x yn #albedo x you #albedo kreideprinz #genshin x gn reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x gn reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x you #genshin x yn #genshin impact x you #genshin impact x yn

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thedansemacabres · 3 months

Note

Hello! As one Hellenic Polytheist to another, and since you have such a huge knowledge of wine and wine making, I was curious if you have any good wine suggestions that might also be good offerings? Unfortunately, do to medical reasons, I can't drink alcohol but I'd like to find some wines that I could use as offerings to Apollo and Ares. I'm sure they wouldn't fault me for grabbing any wine from the grocer, considering I cant actually drink it to see if it tastes any good, but if you have any suggestions I'd love to hear. Thank you and hope you're having a good day :D

Of course! I actually have many thoughts on this, so I'll provide a quick brief on wine in grocery stores:

Grocery store wine tends to be a nightmare to winemakers. The common person does not know what wines they want to purchase, or good wines to buy, and there's a large state of confusion--it does not help that grocery stores throw wines on a self without worry. I'll see Italian wine next to Spanish with completely different histories and flavour profiles, and the history behind it will not be explained. Especially when a Spanish cooking wine is put next to Prosecco... which is why so many winemakers are putting attention into modern, cute, and pretty labels. People buy labels most often instead of decent wine.

So, grocery store wine shopping!

Personally, I avoid any bottle under 10$. This is due to labour and environmental concerns. I do not think you need a full rant on the labour issues of Blackfoot wine, but it's certainly a topic.

Then, what to buy? I associate Ares with full, harsh reds (or even a nice rose...), and Apollon I believe is both a red, rose, and white wine sort. As a general rule, affordable and drinkable (usually food) wine tends to be Italian (DOCG - Denominazione di Origine Controllata e Garantita): Italian for “Controlled and Guaranteed Denomination of Origin” means that it was made under certain quality control constrictions. Besides, a 10$ Chianti is a perfect offering. The quality system on wine labels goes far beyond DOCG, but that's a different post or if anyone asks.

For Ares, I would recommend any wine that states itself as "tannic" "bold" "courageous" etc., and grapes like Cabernet Franc are famous for this. A Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon has similar traits, but it tends to be expensive. If the bottle is blue/green, that means the wine is meant to age, and bolder reds tend to do so. I also think he is definitely a rose guy, so I would gravitate towards rose that calls itself "floral" "light" "refreshing" "breezy" etc., especially one of my favourite grapes, Black Muscat. Chambourcin is also a great grape for him--the floral nature and dark purple hue is beautiful.

Apollon - I would gravitate towards more yellow/gold whites, such as an older Chardonnay or Orange (skin contact white wine) wines. I personally associate him with Traminette, though that one can be rare to find. These tend to be expensive, but noble rot wines I believe fit (often called botrytis wines, but these tend to be more expensive) or straw wines--wines made by grapes shrivelled in the sunlight--which will require some research to find if it's a straw wine if not directly stated. Straw wines are sweet wines, so let's go into that.

Sweet wines will be more "accurate" to the ancient world if you care for that. Sweet wines have hundreds of names depending on region, so here's a tldr;

French wine - demi-sec and above is sweet, especially doux.

Italian - completely opposite of French wine, it's extra-sec (off-sweet), sec (sweet), demi-sec (very sweet), and dolce (syrup sweet)

German - Germany has a whole different approach to sweet wines, with sweetness being a mark of quality; trocken, halbtrocken (half-dry), feinherb (off-dry), lieblich (semi-sweet), and suß (sweet.)

Or the bottle just says "sweet" or "residual sugar" level. This is the easiest.

I hope this helps and may you enjoy offering wines to the theoi!

#dragonis.txt #asks #anon #megwritesnstuff #vīnum #helpol #ares deity #apollon deity #apollo deity

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biblioklept-writes · 1 year

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The Foreign Queen (Part 2)

Aemond Targaryen x f!Desi!Reader

Summary: Prince Aemond spends time in your camp, curious about you proficiency in English and the people of Westeros.

Warnings: None for this part

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

You knew that you were being watched, by the keen eye of Prince Aemond himself, the royal curious about your knowledge. You should have known better than presenting each of the royal present in court with gifts that they would singularly admire, for suspicions arose, from the Prince himself.

Perhaps it had been a rash decision on your part, but now you saw the Prince and his knights mingle with your people, forming acquaintances and laying foundations for friendships that would surely come. You thought back to that day around a year ago when a yellow-haired man had washed up your shore, his blue-green eyes and yellow sickly hair being a shocking revelation to everyone in Bharat, for you had never seen such a strange looking man.

Now, you sat beside an even stranger looking man, one who had a deadly scar over his eye and had covered it with a leather patch. You imagined it must not have been comfortable, for leather bites, but it might have been for healing purposes. Such nasty scars would get infected easily. His open eye, the lilac orb glowing with curiosity, has hungrily soaked up any knowledge about Bharat and the Bharatiyas.

While you still struggled with a few sounds in this unfamiliar language, it had been far easier to learn than it had been with odia. Being around more people who spoke the new language was helping your tongue adapt faster.

“Can I be of some assistance, my Prince?” you asked the silver haired man.

“I would like to visit the marketplace with you once, my Princess,” he simply said.

“Right now?” You asked, surprised.

“Whenever you are finished,” He said, voice devoid of any emotion.

“You must give me an hour,” you politely asked.

Rapidly assigning the different demands to her team, she accompanied the young prince in his journey to the Bharat Market - as the locals had started calling it - on foot, stopping by every stall to examine the goods being sold. The crowd parted around the two royalties, giving them priority access to the items.

Prince Aemond lingered in the sandalwood stall, the scent earning a wicked interest from his one lilac eye. There was a limited collection, for the wood was bulky and it was expensive, most people only buying a sliver to experience the new commodity. You knew the effect it had on people, the calming, earthly scent was a popular fragrance agent back in Bharat and people used chandan as tikka on their foreheads and to offer it as they worshipped the Devas, Shiva and Krishna are both said to enjoy the offering of the cool, calming chandan.

“What is this wood called?” He asked in his quiet voice.

“We call it chandan,” you replied. “Or sandalwood,”

“Chandan,” Aemond tested the word, its sound endearing in his accent. It was surprising how much effort He had put in learning to speak Hindi, despite the fact most of her people were proficient in English. As she studied him with her dark gaze, she concluded that he would be a force to be reckoned with. He might have been missing an eye but his vision and mind were sharper than those who had both their eyes. He would make a formidable enemy, you thought.

Aemond moved on to the next exhibit, this one of the spices and herbs. His expression remained neutral but his brow relaxed a bit as he took in the menagerie of aromatic smells that just teased the sensations.

“What are these used for?” He quietly enquired.

“The spices serve many purposes,” You explain. “Most for flavouring the food, but some of them have medicinal properties and have use in healing. Peppers and chilis make for good weapons - those can momentarily blind the affected.”

“I see,” He acknowledged and then stopped by the weapons exhibit. The finery of silks and cotton did not seem to appeal to the warrior prince. “These blades are magnificent,” his quiet voice said. “Your craftsmen are incredible.”

“Care for a friendly-sparring, my Prince?” You boldly asked. You had noticed the gleam in his eye as he had admired the blades you had gifted the Royal family - and the current look in his lilac eye was a copy of that.

“Mhm,” He muttered and you reached for twin wootz blades, both yet to be named. Shashank, the blacksmith, bowed his head in respect and smiled.

A small clearing by the back of your camp seemed apt for the sword-fighting match. The soil was soft with you soldiers regularly training and practising there, and it was away from the public eye. You were dressed in a modest kurti and salwar, opting only to change your chappals for a pair of boots.

You threw up the blade and caught it, testing it and finding your balance point. Aemond did the same, admiring the wicked gleam of the blade as he tested the grip.

“Shall we begin?” You prompted.

Aemond merely nodded soundlessly and assumed a fighting stance. You followed, thinking about how your posture was the same despite living worlds apart.

The two of you moved in a circle, fleshing the other out, not yet going in for an attack. Once you returned to the point where you started, you lunged forward with your sword raised. The Targaryen Prince effectively blocked the attack by slashing his sword upwards, the two blades colliding with a loud clang. You stepped back whilst blocking his blade, the point of his sword too close to poking your beautiful eye out.

Amusement flickered in his one eye as he slashed his blade in a wide arc, and you jumped back to dodge the point. Then you brought down your sword with a force, a loud clang reverberating as the twin blades collided, both of you a little out of breath. The rest of the play fight passed in a blur of the adrenaline and dopamine rush, your memory predominated by his pretty lilac eyes and silky silver hair.

The end of the friendly fight was imprinted on your mind, with your legs set wide and the tip of your blade resting on his windpipe, whilst his rested right above your navel. If either of you pressed the blade deeper, it would draw blood, and with the way your heart thundered against your ribs, surely you would bleed to death in a matter of moments. His eye held you in place as you gazed into the depths of it, panting, coming down from the adrenaline high.

“It was a pleasure having this battle with you, Princess,” Aemond said, still not lowering his blade. You first took the pressure off his throat and he then followed. “I am honoured to have a skilled partner in battle.”

“I can say the same for you,” You said, now smiling. To your surprise, the stoic one-eyed prince returned you a small grin and then shook your hand. “I would be honoured to fight by your side or with you.”

“Haven’t you picked a side yet, Princess?” He asked, voice dropping to a chilly threat. “Am I allowing a Black spy in the capital? Or did I leave a potential enemy alive?”

“I will not be your enemy if you don’t give me a reason to,” You said, slightly raising your dark brow. “As for being a Black spy, I will inform you that I am not particularly fond of your half-sister or her husband.”

“Reputation precedes the Targaryens, then?” He asked. “Your words do not convince me of your loyalty, my Princess.”

“My Prince, then you must tell me how I can,” You said.

“Answer a couple of my questions, truthfully, and maybe I will put in a word of good faith for you,” He offered.

“As you deem fit, my Prince.”

“Who told you about us?” Aemond asked, not skirting about the issue.

“We had a strange man wash up on the shore, healed him, fed him.” You explained. “He spoke in an unfamiliar tongue and I had to learn from whatever he spoke. Eventually I got around to understanding his language and learned of these landmasses - Essos and Westeros - and the people, strange people who live there and how he escaped to get away from the war.”

“What did your strange man look like?” He asked.

“He had yellow hair and eerie blue eyes.” You answered. “I had never seen such a man before. Said his name was… La… n… minister?”

“Lannister?” Aemond asked, his gaze sharp and eyebrow raised. “Cerwyn Lannister?”

“Something like that,” You shrugged. “Strange man, strange language, strange name. He talks my ears off about his Kingdom of Rocks and how he missed them. Would you be so kind as to tell me more about that bastard?”

“Oh he’s a bastard alright,” Aemond said. “Gerold Lannister’s favourite bastard,”

“Bastard does mean a child born out of wedlock or an…” you thought for a moment. “Illegitimate child of either husband or the wife?”

“Mhm,” he nodded, seemingly deep in thought. His eye was toward you, the scarred side out of your vision. Aemond didn’t need to show his scar to be intimidating. The tight set of his sharp jaw and the seemingly permanent frown made him scary enough. “You can speak english fairly well,”

“I am a fast learner,” you said.

Aemond merely studied you for a long moment, then bowed. “I must leave for the Red Keep, my Princess.” He bid farewell. “If you wish to spar sometime, you are welcome in the Red Keep. I am certain I or Ser Criston would be able to make time for our esteemed guest.”

“Thank you, my Prince,” You said. This was the most talking you had ever heard him do, and you didn’t like how it unsettled you even more. His voice was nice enough, you could hear him talk for hours, yet it carried a certain threat and command to it - like a quiet predator purring after a successful hunt, like a lion roaring to scare his enemies. It was his keen eye that unsettled you the most - he paid attention to detail and made you feel bare and defenceless, like he had the power to see right through you and your head. You had always been a great liar, but lying to him was a mammoth task in itself. What if he could hear your thundering heart?

“Prince Aemond!” You ran. Aemond halted, and you caught up to him, standing with your chin held high under his sharp gaze. “We will be celebrating the onset of the harvesting season three days from now,” you told him. “We would be pleased to host you and your family, my Prince. It is an important festival for us: Baisakhi.”

“Certainly,” Aemond nodded. “Will that be all?”

You nodded at him, watching his silky silver hair dance behind him as he disappeared into the crowd by the stables.

Does anyone want me to make a taglist for this?

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #hotd #hotd fic #aemond x reader #aemond x desi!reader

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