#Pirates!Ghost AU

[pirates-ghost-au]

Mangle I love you [platonically] [idk if I spelt that write]

[I have to go now, I've been permanently banned from this ship by Foxy]

🏳️‍🌈: "Again sorry for not noticing ye there mate, was busy swabbin- oh an yer gone.."

[Ooc: srry for the late answer an lazy ahh drawing vro - 💜)

[majunju]

ghost pirate aventurine and deep sea mermaid stelle

[konoharfts]

YO! LOOK GUYS I’M NOT DEAD!!

Follower Event Doodle Dump Time!!

Just uhh pretend this isn’t two days late 😐

Also Bonus:

YIPPEEE!!! 🎉🎉🎉

Thank you to everyone who participated!!!!!

@kindatiredtho @stressed-sock @natsbatscats @haleingstorm @m1locer3al @baileythebean @clevertyranttidalwave and also whoever sent the anonymous ask <3

Thank y’all so so much for all the support for my silly little arts <<33 seriously y’all 300 is CRAZY!!! If someone told me 3 weeks ago that after posting on Tumblr not only will I gain all these followers in such a short time (and also get <2000 notes on a single post!!!!!!) but I’ll also find an amazing community with so many talented, creative, and funny people I would not have believed it. I am constantly so positively overwhelmed with all these gushy feelings for all of y’all that if I pour my heart out now I fear this post would be way too long :’) so for once I’m keeping it short and sweet hehehe :)

Love y’all <3 I’m so excited to continue posting art on here!! (What’s next? Idk, guess you’ll have to see 👀👀)

🫶🫶🫶🫶

Okie now I’m going to catch up on everything I’ve missed after putting myself in an art comma byeee~~~

[the-original-skipps]

|| Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine x Reader || Headcanons || Honkai Star Rail ||

you guys voted so here it is! I tried to write it without the yandere but I couldn’t lol also I got another yandere pirate aven where’s he’s alive if yall wanna check that out

HUMAN VER.

CW: slight sexual content. forced relations. major yandereness. ghost possession. non-consensual touching. mentions of death & the afterlife.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who feels himself standing by death's door but doesn’t want to actually die. He thought he’d be able to accept it or welcome it even - it’s what he’s always wanted; to be free from this cursed life but images of you flash through his mind as he takes his last breaths.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who before he completely loses himself to the beckoning darkness, silently pleads for death not to take him. There’s so many things he wants to see, to accomplish, that lost treasure he’s yet to find - but most of all he wants to remain beside you longer.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who realizes his luck somewhat saved him again as he’s now a ghost. He’s disappointed that he no longer has a mortal form, completely phasing through any physical object. He also no longer feels urges like hunger or sleep but one urge still remains within him. The urge to see you again.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who leaves the cold waters of the ocean to roam the mortal realm to try to find you again. He’s not sure how long it’s been since he died, he’s not sure if you’re even alive but he needs some closure. Maybe if you’ve died, he hopes that by gaining that knowledge there will be no more lingering regrets tying him to this world. He’d pass on, hopefully to see you in the afterlife. Though he doubts that sinners like him wouldn’t end up in the same place as you.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who has supposedly died but is somehow here in your very living room. After an excruciating long time, he manages to find you alive and well. He looks the same as the last time you’ve seen him except now his fingers have turned blue. Ghostly blue orbs floating around him as he smiles at you gleefully.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who decides to bind himself to you. It’s the whole reason he’s still alive right? The gods he never believed in - they’ve heard his pitiful last wish to remain by your side. They’ve granted it to him! He’ll remain by your side until death comes knocking at your door too. Then you’d be together forever right?

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who’s just as mischievous and teasing as when he was still alive but only this time you can’t do anything against him. He’d play countless pranks to scare you - delighting in your frightened expressions. He’ll randomly appear behind you, make objects float around you and purposely make sounds late into the night to frighten you into not sleeping. Don’t sleep, he’s awfully lonely when you do that.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who spends every single second attached to your side. Even if you’re at home or outside in town - he’s there floating around you. Not only is he always there, he also never stops talking. He can’t help it, he’s got no one else to talk to and you’re the only one who can see him.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who likes to whisper distracting and sometimes dirty things in your ear when you talk to other people. Making it hard to concentrate and for the other person to look at you weirdly. Because why are you glancing at something behind them? There’s nothing there right? Right?

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who asks - borderline pleading for you to let him possess you. It’s been awfully long since he’s done anything besides being glued to you. You don’t always respond to him either, choosing to ignore him, he needs something else to do. So he constantly asks you to the point of annoyance to give up your body for him. Which one day succeeds because you’re tired of listening to him - even when you’re trying to sleep he doesn’t leave you alone. A decision you’d come to regret.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who immediately breaks the rules you’ve set for him once he’s possessed your body. He can’t help it, there are just so many things he’s always wanted to see you do but you keep refusing to. So he uses this opportunity to make you pull different faces and say things you’d normally not say for his amusement. Is it weird to feel his heart fluttering when he makes you say things like you love him, that you only need him - even though he’s the one who’s controlling your body to do these things?

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine after being deprived of you for so long, wants to play with your body. He’s missed you deeply, the sight of your bare skin reflected in the mirror inducing excitement within him - your body. It’s a strange feeling he must admit as he runs your hands through your body, wanting to know what makes you tick. He can’t help it, he wants to know everything about you, especially what makes you feel good. As your hand inches closer to your most sensitive parts, Aventurine thinks to himself. You wouldn’t mind if he played a little right? Your body would definitely enjoy it.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who had to forcibly peel himself from the mirror finally heads into town to indulge himself. He doesn’t want to spend the money you painstakingly made so he has to earn some himself. Aventurine in your body hits up the largest tavern in town to gamble. It didn’t take long for him to sweep the table clean of riches, all for his taking. The usual accusations of cheating happens, and a fight breaks out. The last thing he wants to do is to get injuries on your precious body so he ends the fight quickly and cleanly. He has some shopping to do after.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who lays down beside you on your bed after enjoying a night out in town. As much as he enjoyed possessing you, he misses your actual presence. So, he lays there beside you until you wake up. When you do, you almost jump out of your skin with how close his face is to yours. You feel as if you’ve gone into the deepest sleep, not remembering anything after you gave Aventurine permission to possess you. You immediately ask him what happened and what he’s done while he controlled your body. Only for him to give you a teasing smile. Which makes you horrified and confused as to what he’s done. Also as to why your room is filled with ribboned boxes.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine as days goes by starts to become more possessive of you - wanting to monopolize you. He keeps track of the people in your life, who they are and what they mean to you. He wants to get rid of them one by one until you have him remaining. So, don’t be so surprised to hear that your friends want nothing to do with you anymore - or if the person who was seemingly interested in you disappears. Oh, they got into a tragic accident? How unfortunate! Don’t look at him like he didn’t do anything or so he wants you to believe.

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who’s starting to miss touching and holding you like he used to when he was still alive. At this point he’s starving for the feel of your skin on his hands again. He ponders if he should possess someone to make that happen but he doesn’t want anyone else’s hands to touch you even if he’s in control of it. He’ll just have to find some other way then. He’s heard rumors of a sea witch who supposedly grants people’s wishes. Maybe he’ll pay her a visit?

Yandere Ghost Pirate!Aventurine who contemplates every now and then when you’d die. If you died would you also become a ghost? He ponders this question a lot in his abundant free time. What if you just pass on? There are too many uncertainties, he needs to find the answer. When the time comes you’ll gladly join him right? No? Well, he has ways to make it happen whether you’re willing or not. Only then would you both be truly bound to each other, beyond life and death. 

[crowliphale]

Pride stuffs

+ orientations n whatnot for my blended gothfam au over on twt

[gothghostiie]

good morning im thinking about Pirate!Price and his crew sailing around the world and finding your little village by chance. they need a drink at the local tavern and its quickly 'taken over' by them, drinking as if its the last thing they'll do. only when they stagger back to their ship and see you leaning out of the window of your little hut they seem to sober up suddenly, all putting on their best charming smiles - then it's just a fight of who saw you first.

[kocherga-motyga]

WIP

I make a lot of different sketches on my AUs, I hope I'll be able to show finished pictures sooner or later...

while everyone is enjoying Perpetua, I'm still on my Secondo, lmao (not negative, I'm just addicted to Secondo... my pookybabygirlwoofwoof)

[rosesandalfazemas]

Mayuge Day (Monstertalia ed.)

Some wip I won't finish now but...

[betweenstorms]

The Tide That Binds Us (masterlist) (previous work) Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Siren!fem Reader

“The tide drags us together, lover and monster alike, until our reflections blur upon the water—now I cannot tell where your hunger ends and my surrender begins.”

Simon Riley knew that he had been raised by the sea herself.

His lungs had been shaped by her salted breath, his skin weathered by her touch, both cruel and kind, both lover and executioner. His hands bore the scars of her temperament, the rough callouses of a child she had never coddled, only forged.

He had seen all her faces, too, her serene hush, when the morning tide kissed the shore like a parting lover, whispering secrets in the language of shifting sands. He had also known her rage, the way she screamed in the throat of a storm, a wrathful goddess tearing at the sky, drowning the world in fury. She was treacherous and tender, devouring and divine.

And Simon knew better than most that the sea had no mercy.

She gave as much as she took, offered salvation in the same breath she whispered death. Men like him belonged to her in ways those bound to the land could never understand. She did not love, not in the way a mother should. But she kept him. She had taken men stronger than him, smarter than him, much more cunning than him, pulled them beneath her surface with greedy hands, but she had let him live.

Perhaps the sea had been merciful because he had always served her.

He was not like the others, those who fought against her, who defied her will, who prayed to false gods to spare them from her wrath. Simon had never begged her for favor, nor cursed her for cruelty. He had accepted her as she was, giver and taker, mother and monster, and she, maybe in return, had allowed him to stay, to bathe in her glory.

The lighthouse was his domain, his duty, the golden eye of its beacon sweeping across the darkened bay each night, a silent warning to those who dared trespass upon the inky waters. The men who sailed these shores, fishermen, drifters, wanderers with salt in their veins and wounds on their skin, depended on it. On him. On his care. They never saw his face, only the steady rhythm of his work, the light that cut through the darkness.

Simon’s days were predictable.

Ritualistic even.

He fished in the mornings, pulling silver offerings from the sea’s embrace, his hands deft and unthinking as he worked. He maintained the beacon, tended the building, ensuring the gears moved as they should, oiling the great lantern’s heart. When the skies were clear, he watched the stars, mapping the constellations that stretched above him like scars across the heavens.

The nearest town was miles away, across the bay, little more than a scattering of homes and shops clinging to the coastline. He rarely ventured there unless necessity demanded it—a new coil of rope, a crate of provisions—but even then, he lingered only long enough to make his purchases before returning to his solitary world.

Simon preferred it that way.

Isolation suited him.

The sea had always been his most faithful companion, the only one who knew the language of silence, who understood the weight of solitude without seeking to fill it. She never asked anything of him beyond his devotion, never demanded more than he could give. And yet, beneath her endless surface, beneath the lull of waves and foam, she harbored secrets.

Dark things. Forgotten things. 

Monsters.

One of those monsters haunted him that night.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Simon grunted as he closed a window due to the heavy wind. The sea was uneasy, restless in a way that only those who truly knew her could feel.

That day, sometime after dusk, the wind had shifted, rolling in from the east with an eerie stillness that pressed heavy against the world, the kind that foretold an oncoming storm. Above, the stars burned brighter than they should have, their cold, ancient light stark against the vast abyss. The moon hung low and swollen, full and watching, a silver god casting its glow over the churning water below. The waves lapped against the massive cliffs, carrying secrets meant for no human ear. Dark and murmuring.

They rose and fell like a monster’s sigh.

And then he heard it.

A siren.

He was a man nearing forty, and he knew well the witchery of the sea. The stories whispered in dockside taverns, the warnings etched into the faces of old sailors, the superstitions woven into every knot of a fisherman’s net—he had heard them all. The sea was no gentle mistress. She was a realm of monsters, of unholy things that ruled the waves with claws and teeth and songs that could drown men without a drop of water touching their skin.

He knew of krakens, their tentacles rising like black towers from the depths, wrapping around ships and pulling them into the darkness. He knew of beasts with too many eyes, blinking in eerie unison from the shadows beneath the waves, their gazes filled with unknowable intent. 

And he knew of sirens, too.

Their otherworldly voices were spun from the marrow of dead sailors, their songs as sweet as they were lethal, beckoning men toward ruin with the promise of something beautiful, eternal and inescapable. He had seen one once, when he was just a boy—too young to understand, but old enough to remember.

He could still recall the way his father’s harpoon tore through its body, the way it bled black, ink and brine spilling into the boat, staining his hands, his boots, his memories.

They were wretched things, their bodies tangled with moss and pearls, their scales slick as oil on water, shimmering and shifting, catching the light in unnatural hues of purple, blue, and silver. Their eyes were the worst of it—milky and hollow, pits of white that seemed to pierce and yet see nothing at all.

No pupils, no soul, no mercy.

And their teeth, too sharp and too many for his liking, gleaming like a reflection of the waves themselves, something meant for rending, for devouring, for dragging men into the deep and never letting go.

“Never trust what comes from the sea,” that was what his father had said as he carved into the corpse, his blade slicing through the slick flesh with the practiced ease of a man gutting a fish, stripping it bare from its makeshift jewelry. “Nothin’ that comes from it is ever yours, son. Not her pearls, not her beauty, not her mercy. You take what you need and leave the rest. If you don’t, she’ll take you instead.”

This was the only truly useful thing his father had ever said to him.

But this one—this siren wasn’t singing.

It was crying.

The sound was heartbreakingly beautiful, a sorrow spun from salt and wind that rose from the darkness and wrapped itself around him like a mother’s embrace. It wasn’t the seductive pull of their song, that honeyed, venomous promise of blissful destruction he had steeled himself against countless times before. No, this was different. It was raw, fractured, a sound that felt like it didn’t belong to the world of the living. It was haunting, the way it seemed to call for him and only him. The sound wasn’t human, couldn’t be, and yet it burrowed into his chest and made his heart tighten.

Because it was not a call.

It was pain.

And goddess help him, it was beautiful. It prickled his skin, sent a cold whisper down his spine, not with fear, but with something worse—recognition. As though the grief in that voice did not belong to the sea at all. As though, somehow, it belonged to him.

And Simon, against all reason, felt himself being drawn to it.

His first instinct was to shut the other windows, too. To bolt the lighthouse doors and to wait for the storm he knew would come crawling over the horizon by morning. The sea always changed before a tempest, the air thickening, the tides rising, tense and starved. Simon had learned long ago that no good ever came from listening too closely to what lurked beyond the shore.

And yet—he hesitated.

Something inside him rebelled, some nameless part of him that ached at the tempting sound, that tightened in his chest like an iron fist gripping his ribs. And against his better judgment, he picked up his lantern and left the lighthouse.

Unguarded.

The descent toward the shore was treacherous, even for a man who had known these cliffs all his life. The rocks jutted out like broken bones, slick with sea spray, the pathway winding and deceptive. He knew all too well that every footstep here mattered, knew how easy it would be to fall and disappear beneath the tide, swallowed whole. But he pressed on, lantern swinging in his grip, his breath harsh against the cold wind.

And then the crying stopped.

Simon slowed, heartbeat heavy in his ears. He scanned the shoreline, his keen eyes adjusting to the silver-washed darkness. The sea stretched before him, an endless mouth yawning wide beneath the moon, and the wind howled, but the sobs had ceased, leaving only silence.

He was being watched.

His grip on the lantern tightened.

Simon felt it before he saw it, the unmistakable sensation of something pressing against him from the inside out, an invisible weight that made his breath come shorter, his pulse pound against his freezing skin. He swept his gaze across the rocky shoreline, the lantern's glow flickering weakly against the dark. The tide rolled in sluggishly, dragging kelp and shattered shells and rubbish onto the sand, leaving behind gleaming trails of brine that shimmered like veins of liquid silver. The scent of salt and something faintly metallic filled his lungs.

Then he saw it.

Or more like her.

“Bloody hell,” was all he could muster.

Shimmering scales gleamed under the moonlight, their iridescence shifting, broken and glistening in the pale glow. Empty, sightless eyes stared at him, the gleam of too many teeth bared in silent warning. Her hair was woven from the night itself, strands of pure darkness clinging to her face, tangled in the glistening scales and skin. Braids coiled through the wild locks, adorned with shells and pearls that had long since lost their luster—just like the ones his father had torn from a creature like her.

At first, Simon thought she was nothing more than a trick of the light. A specter conjured by the approaching storm, a cruel illusion spun from shadow and tide, a barbaric joke of his goddess. But then—

She moved.

Not much, only the faintest shift of her webbed fingers against the sand, long nails digging in the grains, but it was enough. Enough to confirm that she was no mirage, no phantom rising from the sea’s depths to mock him.

A siren.

But something was wrong.

Her body lay sprawled on the shore, draped across the wet sand like a broken offering, her black blood pooling beneath her, seeping into the white foam that hissed and whispered as the waves lapped hungrily at her failing form. A ragged wound marred her tail, a savage, gaping bite that had torn deep into her flesh, revealing pale muscle and splintered bone. It was raw, violent, the kind of wound left by a predator—something larger, something hungrier.

As if something had tried to eat her.

Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, her translucent throat fluttering with each rattling gasp, as though she were drowning on land, suffocating in air that was never meant to sustain her. But she didn’t look like she was drowning. More like suffering.

Simon stood frozen, the chill of the night pressing into his skin, however, he felt nothing but the pull of her gaze. Those empty eyes, devoid of pupils, locked onto him with a stillness that could unmake a man. Misty and milky white, like pearls rolling in the tide, and yet—they saw him, he was sure of that. Saw through him, into the space where his soul should have been. A shudder coursed through him, sharp and biting, like the cold of the sea itself wrapping around his spine, threatening not to let him go.

He had seen her kind before, but not like this.

Never like this.

Because the sirens Simon knew were born from hunger, nightmares carved from the abyss, their beauty a deception, their cruelty boundless. They did not weep and they did not falter. They were the sea’s daughters, forged in the salt and blood of drowned men. They hunted in packs, gliding through water like living specters, their songs curling through the mist, laced with promise, soaked in death. They spared no one—unless they had need of them. When their numbers thinned, when their kind dwindled, they would let men live long enough to take something from them.

Daughters born with water in their lungs.

Nothing hunted sirens other than humans.

Nothing could.

And yet—

Black tears streamed down her pale, bloodied face, tracing paths across her scales, dripping onto the torn flesh of her body. They mingled with the ink of her, pooling in the sand like an oil slick. The sound she made was not the haunting melody that had drawn countless men to their deaths, not the sweet, treacherous song that pulled sailors into their waiting jaws. It was softer. Raw.

Eerily human.

A fractured sob, torn from something deep and ancient, something that should not have been capable of grief, spilling into the night like the last dying breath of a storm.

It was not meant for Simon to hear.

His feet moved without thought, his boots sinking into the wet sand as he stepped closer. She snarled weakly, her lips peeling back to reveal two sets of teeth, as sharp and long as broken glass. The sound was instinctive, a threadbare defense, but her strength was failing her. Her fingers scraped at the sand, pulling her body toward, or perhaps away from him.

He could not tell which.

Her fear wasn’t for him.

It was for something else.

Simon’s gaze flickered downward, to the wound carved into her tail, the jagged edges of torn scales and raw, glistening muscle. A bite. No clean cut, no wound from battle, but the ruinous mark of something that had devoured and been left unsatisfied. Whatever had done this had been merciless and ancient. It was a claim—one that had not yet been fulfilled.

And she had escaped from it.

Sirens did not flee. They did not beg, did not tremble, did not seek shelter on land, away from the dark cradle that had borne them. They belonged to the abyss, yet this one had crawled to shore. And the terror in her sightless eyes told him why.

She had not really escaped it.

She had only bought herself time.

Simon’s fingers twitched at his side. He should end it. He knew he should. Should put her out of her misery, should stop whatever this was before it became something. But his hand would not move, would not reach for the creature’s neck to kill her. The tide rose, licking at his boots, reaching for her broken body, and yet, she did not fight it. She just looked at him.

He should have ignored it.

Should have let the sea take her back.

But he didn’t.

Simon Riley had never been a man of mercy.

The sea had taught him that early. However, Simon slowly knelt in the sand, his knees pressing into the wet earth, water and blood creeping through fabric, sinking deep. The vastness whispered at his back, the wind curling through his dusty blonde hair like ghostly fingers, urging him away. Goddess, he knew better than to get close—knew what those claws could do, what those teeth had done to men who had come before him. And yet, his body betrayed him, moving against every instinct that screamed at him to turn back, to leave her to whatever fate awaited, to give her back to the sea.

Still, he lowered himself.

His hands rose, palms up—

—a gesture as ancient as the sea itself.

It was foolish, a reckless thing born of madness, a man bowing to the unknown. The sea did not deal in peace. She did not barter in mercy or forgiveness. The sea dealt in flesh and bone, in the sharp edge of hunger and the endless churn of fear.

Just like her daughters.

Simon knew this.

And still, he reached for her.

He spoke before he thought better of it. “You understand me, yeah?”

Her opalescent eyes narrowed.

A response, however weak. Her black tears continued to stream down her face, carving rivers through the salt caking her colorful scales. Her mouth parted, rows of jagged teeth meant for rending flesh stared back at him, but she did not lunge. Did not snap. Did not drag him into the abyss where she had surely taken so many before.

Simon licked his lips, tasting salt and blood. “Don’t want to hurt you.”

The siren bared her teeth again, but there was no strength behind it. Simon only nodded, taking that as an answer.

At least she understood him.

“Listen, creature,” he murmured, shifting his weight slightly, the sand scattering beneath his boots. “If I touch you, don’t want you bitin’ my fuckin’ fingers off, understood?”

She did not speak.

Only watched.

Those empty eyes fixed upon him, hollow as the moon yet brimming with something deeper, something more knowing than they had any right to be. It was unnerving, the way she beheld him, as if she could see past flesh, past bone, past the mortal entity that he was.

As if she already knew him.

But then again, the sea had always known him.

She had claimed Simon long before he had words to name her pull, long before he understood why he would always return to her, why the land had never been enough. He had been raised in the cradle of her bays, rocked by her violent lullabies, shaped by the call of distant waves. He was hers. Her son. More than his own mother’s, more than anyone’s.

And this monster before him?

She was part of that vast, unknowable force.

Another piece of the great and endless goddess. Perhaps this was her wish. The sea had never asked anything of him before. They had provided for each other, mother and son, bound by the quiet understanding that the sea would take as much as she gave.

But perhaps, at long last, she was calling in a debt.

Perhaps this was a favor, whispered in the language of droplets, carried by the hush between the waves—a mother asking her favored son to save her favourite daughter.

Perhaps that was why his hand did not shake as he reached for the siren laying before him.

“Bound by restless waves, I cannot tell if your touch drowns me in desire or devours me in ruin. Which of us wears the mask of the hunter, and which of us the prey?”

[pirates-ghost-au]

Foxy I'm back and I brought you some soup from the soup store ｡◕‿◕｡

[also don't ask what's in it ahahahahahahaha-]

🏴‍☠️:"....please get off my ship..NOW-"

[homeofthelonelywriter]

Poly!Pirate!141 x Reader

Fun fact: I write my fanfictions on Notion, where I have one database for ideas and then one for the entire fanfictions. Just got done writing down an idea for poly!pirate!141 x Reader, and this is how it ends. I'm excited ya'll.

[hiding-under-the-willow]

Is there anywhere I can watch BBC ghosts online in the US? I can’t seem to find it on demand, and your hermitcraft au made me want to check it out

All 5 seasons and all of their bonus content and also a bunch of the creators' other shows baby

Curtesy of @.patcaps, fandom hero

[pinkiexneomorph277]

For Pirate Submas Au .

Cause Roleplay Shenagians this is the result

[mintywolf]

A Light on the Horizon - Chapter 3

Imogen knelt before the trunk pushed up under the window of her bedroom and set aside the cushions she had placed on top of it so she didn’t have to think of it as anything but a window seat. Dragging it a few inches from the wall, she lifted the lid, leaning away slightly from the mingled mustiness of cedar, camphor, old wool, and time. A bundle of brittle, yellowed letters lay on top, and she carefully set it aside before digging through the stack of folded clothing underneath. Work shirts and canvas trousers. A nightgown with sprigs of lavender embroidered on the collar. Handkerchiefs. Suspenders. A single pale yellow sundress. After some thought she took out some underthings and stockings, a linen shirt that had once been red but which time and laundering had rendered a dusty rose color, and a long skirt of grey wool. Upon contemplation of the skirt’s waist in comparison to Laudna’s, she selected a pair of suspenders, too.

Behind a folding screen on the other side of the room she could hear her humming to herself in the bathtub, her thoughts a watery burble of perfect contentment. From the accompaniment of splashing and squawking, she guessed Pâté was getting a bath, too. She put everything else back in the trunk and slid it back into place against the wall. Taking the bundle of clothes, she crossed the room and hung them on the screen that sectioned off the tub and sink from the rest of the room.

“Brought you some fresh clothes.”

“Oh! How kind of you.”

“Might be a bit big, but the height should be about right.”

She reflected that the freshness of them was dubious owing to their long sojourn in storage, but decided not to say anything. She could overhear no objection to them from Laudna’s thoughts, anyway, when she emerged dressed a few minutes later. The warmth of the bath had not lent any life to her complexion, but the stark colorlessness of her skin was strangely fetching against the faded red of the blouse. There was almost a translucency to her, like bone china, so that the net of fine purple veins in the back of her hand showed through her skin as she lifted it to hook her forefinger shyly on her lower lip. Noticing Imogen looking at her, she ducked her head and looked up at her through the damp strands of her hair hanging over her face like wet seaweed, winsome as a mermaid watching a sailor from behind a rock.

“You look — nice,” Imogen fumbled, to explain why she was still looking.

Laudna smiled. Her teeth were endearingly uneven, and her dark eyes had an aquatic bulbousness to them, like the eyes of a deep sea creature that had not seen sunlight in generations. The peculiarity of it just added to her charm. “This is a good skirt,” she replied, “It has pockets.”

“Aye,” agreed Pâté from the front pocket in which he was muffled, with just his hind feet and his tail visible. “proper cozy berth in ‘ere.”

(Read more)

[selene131]

Silence is better together II

Chapter tags/warnings/themes: AU! pirate hunter!Simon, fem!reader, mythological symbolism, slow burn, introspection, angst, hurt/comfort, grief, emotional vulnerability, detailed mentions of violence/blood/death, panic attacks, physical injury and recovery, PTSD, flashbacks, trauma, past abuse, brief mention of animal death, survival elements, fluff, soft!Simon, pet names, domestic vibes

Word count: 5,3k

A/N: Hello everyone! 🌟 This part dives deeper into the characters’ pasts and shows how their relationship is slowly developing. I hope you enjoy this chapter! Let me know if you’d like me to create a taglist for updates 🥰

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Once he leaves you all by yourself, the realization hits you brutally. Overwhelmed by questions, fears, and swirling thoughts, you realize you need to escape - only for a while. You feel suffocated by your own mind and body; it makes your skin itch and burn and your vision is blurry. Quietly, with shaky steps, you are heading towards the door, trying so hard not to let the panic consume you whole. Once you're outside, you take deep breaths, inhaling and exhaling strongly as you work to regulate your emotions and calm your thoughts. Your heart is longing for a place you haven't been in years - a place that belongs only to you and only you. This place brought you so much peace in the past, before everything changed, it was your safe place, your refuge from every little or big thing that was plaguing your mind. You need to go there now.

Your feet guide you to your place, your body moving as if on its own. Even if you wanted to stop, you’d fail. You need to go there like you need air to survive. You must accept fate, the cruel and horrible outcome of what happened. Once you are closer to your destination, your mind is full of images from your past. You fight to keep your mind from playing tricks on you, struggling to hold onto your composure. You don't want to blend the two realities, the one from your past, especially that night, with your present. Your mind is stronger than you think. It gives you glimpses of scenes from the exact place, but from the past time. But no matter how hard you try, the only image burned into your mind is your mother’s cold eyes - once so warm and full of light. She took her final breath in the comfort of your safe place, being cradled by the wind and her skin being caressed by the rain.

Slowly, you approach this place - special and cursed - with careful steps, as if trying not to disturb the dead. In that moment, unexplainable emotions flood you - raw and overwhelming - making your body ache. You kneel in the soft grass - right where she was, right where your safe place used to be. You try to remember what made this place so unique, and then it comes back to you, the moments spent here: mornings, afternoons, and nights reading, watching the ocean, the moon, and the falling stars, wishing for a future that never came.

You sink into the pillowy grass bed, and you press your hands into the ground, digging and clawing at the dirt, craving your mother’s hug and presence. This ground was the last to feel her warm embrace. How foolish it is to envy the earth - a place that absorbed all of her essence: her warmth, her tears, her blood. Her voice, her last breath, her life. Your hands, fingers, and nails ache from clawing at the ground, as if trying to pull her back. You take a deep breath and settle onto the grassy bed, pulling your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around them in a feeble attempt to mirror her embrace. You stay in silence for a few moments, listening to the soft breeze, imagining it carrying her voice through the distance - a whisper that everything will be fine.

In the stillness, you break the silence and ask: “What would you say about what I’ve done? Would you be disappointed, reminding me you taught me better? Or would you praise me for carrying on your legacy - for being kind and helping those in need?

A small laugh escapes your lips as no one bothers to respond to your question - the cruel realization hits you: she is never coming back. Her absence has left a large hole in your heart and soul, yet you never allowed yourself to grieve your parents' loss. You did not have time for suffering; your mind was too preoccupied with thoughts of survival. You need to learn how to accept their absence; you need to allow yourself to be vulnerable and let your soul grieve.

As you slowly regain your composure from this overwhelming moment, your mind becomes much clearer. Everything makes sense now; your reaction was only natural - you are not alone anymore. His sudden appearance has turned your world upside down, and you no longer know how to function properly. Before this, you only had to worry about yourself; now, everything is different. You still hope you won’t regret this big change - allowing this stranger into your home and life.

While this place may evoke painful memories, it also offers you a sense of clarity. You recall vividly why it once brought you solace; it served as a sanctuary for your soul. You have longed for this sensation - the clarity in your mind, rather than the foggy thoughts. You’ll come back to this place more often; all you need is to summon your courage and endure a mental collapse.

As much as you would like to root yourself in this ground, the sun is harshly kissing your exposed skin, leaving behind a burning sensation. Besides, you need to focus on something different - such as dinner. Now, you have to feed another person, not just yourself. Usually, you take pleasure in cooking and occasionally baking, though it’s challenging to grow specific plants and grains for milling into flour. However, everything has changed - now you find yourself thinking about what to prepare for dinner and what ingredients you might need. Still, a sudden thought comes to you.

Instinctively, your hand reaches for the knife that always rests against your thigh. A small smirk appears on your face as your fingers find it exactly where it belongs. Your next mission is to find a sturdy branch. Rising from the ground, you set off to complete your task. As you move further from your safe place, you glance back into the distance, a sense of regret washing over you for leaving. Yet, your eyes soften, and a smile brightens your face - a tentative promise that you will return.

As you walk, you come across the perfect branch. Reaching for the knife in its leather holster, you begin sharpening one end - it takes time, but you’re satisfied with the result. An analogy comes to life in your mind as you feel a strange sense of power holding your makeshift weapon. You think of Artemis, the fierce goddess of the hunt, whose untamed and protective spirit shelters and guides young women. Artemis embodies a unique blend of strength, ferocity, and softness. With her bow, arrows, and golden spear, she is the ideal huntress, warrior, and guardian. You focus on her essence, seeking her wisdom and assistance - not for your so-called hunt, and certainly not to mock her in such a way. What you truly crave is her presence to ease your fears and grant you a taste of her strength

Suddenly, a clear image of a long-forgotten memory appears in your mind: playing and laughing on the beach with your friends while your father fished nearby. You never enjoyed fishing, no matter how hard your father tried to teach you. Instead, you preferred collecting seaweed for your mother to cook with. You really miss the seaweed soup she used to make - it always tasted better than yours. Your father's favorite fishing spot not only had an abundance of fish but also plenty of algae. Many times, you accompanied him, but he could never convince you to fish alongside him. Now, you regret not paying more attention to his lessons. But how hard could it be?

You regret asking yourself that question - it’s more difficult than you anticipated. You need to be patient, a skill you’ve always lacked. In your childhood, your parents often complained about your impatience. Your father’s words still echo in your mind: “Patience is the key to life!”

You focus on the surface of the water, waiting for the perfect moment to pierce a big fish with your makeshift spear. You watch as fish come and go, but they’re all too small. You refuse to waste a life for nothing. You hope for a bit of luck, not wanting to spend the rest of the day here waiting for a good catch. It seems your prayers are heard; a considerable-sized fish comes into view. Slowly, you rise from your crouched position, firmly grasping the branch as you aim with precision at your target.

You look at the now lifeless fish stuck on the sharp end of your stick and decide it’s enough to prepare two meals for your uninvited guest. Before heading home, you conclude it’s best to collect some seaweed for soup and salad - not only because it’s a versatile ingredient that can be used in many dishes, but also because it contains vitamins and minerals to help him heal faster. But two questions haunt your mind: “How long will the healing process take, and what will happen when he’s completely healed?” For now, you bury these thoughts in the back of your mind

Silently, you step inside the house, not wanting to disturb Simon’s rest. Your gaze drifts to the corner of the room, where his figure lies on the makeshift bed. His chest rises gently with each breath, and soft snores escape from his half-open lips, a clear sign of how deeply he’s sleeping.

As you begin to prepare dinner, your hands move rhythmically, creating a symphony of muffled sounds: the knife meeting the cutting board, the constant stirring of the old pot over the fire, and the herbs being crushed in the wooden bowl. You season the now boneless fish slices with salt and herbs, placing them over the burning wood and letting them cook evenly on each side. In the old pot, the improvised vegetable soup bubbles as colorful pieces of vegetable and seaweed dance beautifully in the boiling water. The pleasant aroma of the cooking food fills the small space of your house, wrapping it in a comforting and warm sensation.

As you finish setting the table for dinner, you hear small grunts and the sound of shifting and turning. You look toward the source of the noise and say, “Such perfect timing. Dinner is ready.”

Simon slowly raises his body, carefully propping himself up on his elbows as he looks toward you. “You can bet this is why I’m wide awake now,” he says with a pained smirk.

You know better than to respond to his remark. Instead, you simply offer a short “mhmm” and approach him with the intention of helping him out of bed. Your eyes meet once more, and you feel a palpable tension in the silence of the moment - a tension defined by unspoken words and thoughts. Yet you have to acknowledge it; you have to break it.

“How are you feeling?” you ask sincerely.

Simon contemplates his response before replying, “Like I nearly had a close call, but a mysterious girl saved my arse. Otherwise, fine. Just another day in life.”

You look at him with a deadpan expression, biting back a retort. You had hoped for an honest answer, but you realize Simon’s personality is full of sarcasm. You’ll just have to get used to it - or maybe find a way to break through this wall of his.

Finally, you ask him if he needs any help getting up. He hesitantly nods. You crouch down to his level and wrap your hand around his unwounded arm to support him. With a little bit of struggle, you manage to lift him. Once again, he rests his arm on your shoulder as you guide him toward the wooden table. He sits on the comically small chair compared to his size and looks at the food in front of him.

Simon’s gaze meets yours once more, and he says, “You made all this food in one hour?”

“One hour? You slept at least three”, you reply with a laugh in your voice.

Taken aback, he mutters, “That long? It can’t be.”

“Look outside - it’s almost night.”

“Don’t be too surprised. I’m amazed you woke up at all,” you confess.

“So you wanted me dead?” Simon asks, playfulness lacing his tone.

“If that were the case, I wouldn’t have bothered to help you, or even go fishing, since I despise it”, you retort.

“Easy, dear. You don’t have to take everything so seriously.”

If only he understood why you take life so seriously, he might not have said something like that. You treat your life and the lives of others with respect; you can’t bring yourself to joke about it, not even before that incident. You honor death and are still in the process of fully accepting it as an inevitable part of nature. Yet, you can’t speak about it as lightly as he does. Perhaps there is a reason for his easy approach to death, but you may learn about it later - or perhaps never.

After you both finish dinner in complete silence, having lost all motivation for small talk as those thoughts consumed your mind throughout the day, you begin cleaning up. You then tell him you need to take a look at his wounds.

“Your wounds are starting to look much better. I just need to change the bandage on the wound on your arm before you go back to sleep, as it bled a little bit through the fabric.”

“Also, do you want some tea? You need to stay hydrated, especially now.”

He looks at with a suspicious look and interjects: “The muddy water one? If yes, I would rather drink salt water.”

“Not that one. You will adore this tea blend, for sure. I discovered it by accident as I was playing around with different dried leaves and flowers,” you say in a happy tone.

You take the improvised teapot and pour some tea. The beautiful golden color fills the mug and its aroma is spreading through the steam of the warm liquid. He gently grabs the mug by its handle and brings it to his face level. Once again, Simon inspects the tea. He sniffs it and a surprised grunt leaves his throat. But he is not too quick to judge it, he needs to make sure it tastes good too. He takes a sip and he lets the tea sit in his mouth, savoring the strong, but pleasant taste.

“So, what do you think?”

“You want my honest answer?”

“Not that you’re not already straightforward, but yes, I want an honest answer.”

His eyes are searching for yours and he confesses: “Didn't expect it to be this good.”

You feel a sudden warmth rising to your face, but you try your best to keep your composure. “See? I told you it's good, especially because it's made by me,” you utter the last words in a false confident tone, just to mask your embarrassment.

“Very modest, also,” he adds with a smirk.

“Enough with this. The moon is already high in the sky and we both need plenty of rest.”

“Yes, dear,” Simon teases you again.

You roll your eyes at his behavior and at the sarcastic way he talks. “Very well, now I will change the bandage. Is that alright?”

He nods as he takes another sip of tea. Once again, your warm hands find their way on his wounded and bruised skin. You undo the knots of the layer that covers the stitches on his arm. As you peel the material from his arm, the wound comes into view. None of the stitches came off, but still, a little bit of blood leaked through. You carefully clean the dried blood with a damp cloth, avoiding the wound itself. Your eyes concentrate on the work you are doing, but his focus is only on you. Simon’s eyes trace the contours of your face before settling on your eyes.

He observes the subtle frown between your eyebrows, telling him how seriously you take what you are doing. He watches the flickering of the candle flame reflecting on your irises, making your eye color more vibrant. Still, there is something that doesn't go unnoticed by his sharp gaze - the sadness and emptiness in them. The deep, dark circles marking your appearance tell him so many stories: sleepless nights, unspoken thoughts, and worries. They say that the eyes are the mirror of the soul; yours narrate a history of a lost, forgotten soul that suffered at the hand of evil people. Yet, the spark of the candle in your eyes seems to accentuate something new - a glimpse of hope.

You break his contemplative state by saying in a playful tone : “Done! Good as new.”

“That fast?” he replies, still lost in his thoughts.

“Yes, I wonder why?” you keep teasing him. “Maybe, it's because you cooperated with me and stopped teasing me,” you continued.

Simon tries to give you a dirty look but fails miserably by responding: “That’s my charm, darling. Don't act like you don't enjoy it.”

“You are full of yourself, Simon,” you scoff at him.

“And you are…”

You interrupt him by raising your index finger in the air: “Enough for now, it's really late.”

You begin to make his bed again, and in the meantime, you explain to him that if he needs anything during the night, he should call for you without hesitation. He nods and stares at you, a subtle pleading evident in his gaze as you walk toward him. Just then, you started to slowly read his almost expressionless face - when he wasn’t wearing that stupid smirk, of course. His eyes speak the most.

“I know. You just need to learn how to ask for help.”

You approach Simon and snake your arm around his unwounded one to support him. He allows you to guide him to the bed. With care, you settle him on the surface of the makeshift bed. You let him get comfortable before you put a pillow under his leg, as it’s beneficial for blood circulation and less swelling.

“Is everything alright? Do you need anything?” you ask him.

“I’m fine, don’t need to waste more of your time on me.”

You let out a soft chuckle, and you allow him to rest, recognizing that you need it too. You prepare yourself for sleep by cleaning yourself with a damp rag, changing your clothes in a dark corner of the room, and bringing a mug of water for later. You don't want to make too much noise and eventually wake him up.

With careful steps, you climb the ladder that leads to your bed. You get under the covers, yet you don’t lay on your soft pillow. You look one more time at Selene that adorns the night sky with her enchanting presence. You always find comfort while watching her; it feels as though she is talking to you, consoling and reassuring you that everything is going to be fine. Still, there are so many thoughts and questions that are plaguing your mind, many about him. You know you should question your sanity for allowing this stranger - a man - to come into the comfort and intimacy of your house. You know it well. You should also consider questioning him as a person; perhaps he is the true villain here, rather than the victim of that devastating fire. But you can't help yourself from thinking about the way he reacts when you touch him. He reacts like a kid whose cheeks were caressed by his mother after he fell or had a nightmare. You recognize those subtle reactions so well - the responses of a touch-starved person who longs for warmth but is too afraid to ask for more. These are the reactions of someone who has not received enough warmth and care in their life.

Maybe you're wrong. Still, you saw the way he refuses to ask for help - except the one time when you found him on the beach, more dead than alive, when he knew he had to walk over his pride. Maybe he reacts like this because he thinks he is not worthy of such care. Yet, you also refuse to only see his exterior - rough, cold, unapproachable, dangerous. You see in him a hurt soul - vulnerable, scared, traumatised. Maybe you read too much into the little things you see in him. In the end, you are afraid that you will be disappointed in what you will learn about him. For now, you don't want to pay too much attention to these wandering thoughts.

Little did you know that he also is in a deep contemplative state while profoundly staring at the moon, thinking and replaying all the events of the past few days. He thinks about the long and tiring chase. He still had the remains of victory's taste on his tongue. But at what cost? There is no one left to celebrate, and everything that reminds him of them are burned and at the bottom of the ocean with the rest of his ship. He thinks about the way he thought he would die, knowing that he fought for those who no longer could - the victory was a bonus in this case. But out of nowhere, you appeared - staring at him with those mesmerising eyes, confused, anxious, but with a sharp tongue. He replays in his mind the way you insist on taking care of him and his wounds. Back then, he wanted to argue with you, but he knew better. With a strong attitude like yours, there was no way he could win the argument. You were the one that had the last word to say - surprisingly, he cooperated. Now, he regrets some of the remarks that he has made. That was just the way he was with people getting too close to him - unapologetic and cold. He needs to refrain himself from doing that to you. You only wanted to help him without wanting something in return. Not so many helped him because they just wished to help.

He remembers the soft touches with which you cleaned, stitched, and bandaged his wounds. But one thing he does not remember - when was the last time someone did that to him. He only knows the rough punches, kicks, and sharp sensations of the cold knife blade. Your touches were the opposite - delicate, warm, and kind. Even when you stitched his arm, an action that was supposed to hurt, he could sense your good intention. Your touches spoke a poem of apologies for the pain they inflicted; yet, he could only feel a cleansing sensation washing over his body. It’s intriguing to see the way you behave towards him, in compensation with how life treated you, if his assumptions are right. But there is still time to discover more about you; isn't that right?

And there you were - both in the same place, both gazing at the moon, both contemplating the near future, and both falling asleep thinking of each other.

The sun's rays welcome themself through the window, illuminating the interior of your house in a golden hue. Your closed eyes react to the light, and you slowly open them. You try to adjust your vision to the brightness, blinking multiple times. Your body aches and feels heavy. You are in a state of confusion, unsure why your bed feels so uncomfortable and solid. Then, the strong realization hits you as you feel the burning sensation of someone’s gaze focused on you. You lift your gaze, looking for the other person's eyes. You are met with Simon’s brown, tired eyes that soften when you acknowledge him. “So, it wasn’t a dream?”, you think to yourself.

“You are the one with a staring problem.”

“Good morning to you too. You look worn-out,” he replies with a smirk on his face.

“So do you,” you say with a matching smirk.

You spend a few more seconds staring at his brown eyes being bathed in the golden gleam of the morning sun. Finally, you raise with a sigh, stretching your sore body. When you are on your feet, you see the mess around you: a bowl of water, many pieces of cloth scattered all over the place, his makeshift bed that was once nicely arranged is a chaos and damped in perspiration. You remember now.

“Are you feeling better?”, you ask with concern in your voice.

“Yes, much better.”

“I will make some tea. Do you want some?”

Simon slightly nods, and with that you went to the kitchen area to prepare the tea and reheat some leftover bread from yesterday. While the tea leaves are infusing and the bread is cooling down for a bit, you decide to clean the mess. This was bringing you back to the event that occurred last night.

In your deep slumber, you heard various disturbances: the sounds of grunts and groans of discomfort, restless movements, and the persistent rustling of sheets. You got up to look over the commotion source - Simon. You called out his name multiple times, but there was no response. You thought that maybe he was having a nightmare, but his lack of awareness concerned you. You went fast to him. His skin was shining in the moonlight from the perspiration he emitted. You placed a hand over his forehead. He was having a fever. In a hurry, you gathered everything you needed. You’ve lost count how many times you've placed the cold, damp cloth over his forehead, arms, and chest. You knew from your mother that having a fever was good. It was the way the body was showing it was fighting against infections. But it was another thing when you lay almost unconscious. You were too anxious to even try to sleep on your own. You feared that he would lose this battle. You did not want to bury another person. Yet, your body gave up after countless moments spent trying to bring down his temperature. You fell asleep with worries on your mind.

The moment you were aware that Simon was alive, staring at you with compassion in his eyes, a wave of relief washed over you. You can’t lie to yourself. You were happy that he was well, and it seemed that his attitude wasn't affected at all.

Absently, you are washing some pieces of fabric and then squeezing the excess water. You hear sounds behind you as Simon is trying to lift his body from the bed. You close your eyes and take a deep breath in, and think: “This man is unbelievable.”

You let out multiple “tch” noises, indicating your disapproval of his actions and amplifying it more by adding: “You really need to learn how to ask for help.”

As a reply, you get a scoff, paired with an eye roll.

“What a child you are.”

“Not better than you,” he joins your game.

“Just let me help you. You don’t need more injuries than you already have.”

He accepts your help, more forced than willing. As you help him over to the chair, you notice that his clothes are still damp. You need to search in the clothes that you were able to save back then. You were certain that you had some men’s clothes that could fit him.

“Enjoy your tea as I am looking for something.”

With that, you begin to search into the wooden box hidden beneath the ladder that led up to your bed. As you rummage through it, you uncover fragments of your past - memories concealed into a container, out of sight. You know why you had placed them there a long time ago to shield yourself from suffering even more. Inside, you find tiny squares of fabric from your parents, friends, and people's clothes. Some are still covered in dust, dirt, and blood, serving as a reminder of your past. Tears are filling your eyes, but you wipe them away.

“Aha, I found them!” you say in a false cheerful tone.

He takes his eyes from looking at the ocean through the window, and looks at the pieces of clothing that you are holding while raising an eyebrow.

“I think these will fit you perfectly.” you say continuing with: “I will warm up more water so you can clean yourself and change into these. They are a little bit dusty, but they are better than the ones you are wearing”.

You do as you say. In a matter of minutes, you place a half basin of warm water, a piece of soap and a clean cloth in front of him.

Before you can say anything, he announces: “I will manage to do it myself.”

“Alright, I will be outside if you need anything.”

You lie on the chair placed on your little veranda. You hold the mug of tea between your hands, letting its warmth envelop you. The salty, chilly wind of the morning feels refreshing against your skin. You close your eyes and deeply inhale the fresh ocean air filling your lungs with a blend of melancholy and freedom. As you exhale, a sense of calm hugs your body. But your relaxed state is soon disturbed by the loud sound coming from the opening door.

And there is Simon in the doorway, one hand supporting himself up while the other holding his cup of tea.

“Enjoying the beautiful view, are we? And all alone, I see,” he banters.

“You are…I can’t even find a perfect word to describe you,” you add with surprise in your tone.

“Because they haven't invented words to describe me, not yet.”

“Not yet? Eventually, they will come up with one.”

He lets out a deep chuckle, and you just look at him in disbelief. You never meet someone so stubborn like him, not that you met many people, still. You just know that he will get hurt because of his stubbornness and pride.

You place your mug on the porch ledge as you approach him, taking his mug from his hand and setting it down next to yours.

“As you said, the view is beautiful. Join me. The fresh air will do you some good.”

With a low sigh, you help him settle into the wooden chair. He’s definitely a big guy, and your back and shoulders are already aching from all the times he’s leaned against you. Yet, you can’t complain; you agreed to offer him your help and hospitality.

As you look at your cup, an unrecognizable emotion begins to bubble in your chest. It’s something raw and painful - a fresh, open wound, bloody, and sensitive. It’s the cruel realization that you are not alone anymore. Beside your cup sits another - his. The cups mirror your current state - side by side, like you and Simon.

Finally, you snap out of your introspective mood and reach for both cups. You hand Simon his mug, and as he takes it, your fingers lightly brush against each other. You’re not sure why this simple gesture affects you so deeply. Heat rises to your cheeks, and a silly smile spreads across your face. This time, he doesn’t tease you. With a nod, he raises the mug in the air as if to offer a silent toast. You do the same thing and break eye contact. Deep down, Simon was also affected by this innocent gesture; a warm feeling is blooming in his chest, but he doesn't know what it may be.

Minutes pass by, yet you both remain completely silent. You both share this peaceful moment, admiring the painted sky of the morning. The soft song of the wind is accompanied by the smooth sound of the ocean waves hitting the shore in a rhythmic tempo. You begin to reflect on the situation and quickly reach a conclusion you never thought you’d embrace after everything that happened: Silence is better together.

[fnafceaseless]